and it suddenly appeared. It was like magic. My father was a modern-day Merlin. The next day I hung the birdhouse from the maple tree in our front yard, where it stayed for many years.
From then on I spent a lot of time with my father in his basement workshop, watching him build tables and chairs and more shelves for my mom, and learning to identify the tools of the trade: Standard and Phillips head screwdrivers. Straight and curved claw hammers. Pincers and chisels and carpenter’s squares. The various grits of sandpaper. Circular saws and table saws and reciprocating saws and band saws. A million different sizes of drill bits.
I figured my father the magician needed a trusty assistant, and since I wanted to know it all and I wanted to learn from the master, who better to fill the role? Considering my size and my clumsy little fingers, I was never much help to him, though, but my memorization skills enabled me to hand him most any tool he needed. And I did succeed in keeping my father company. I think that’s all he really wanted anyway.
I rolled my eyes at my mom when she whipped out the word rad during the walk back to the car after our tour of Kilmore University. I hadn’t the patience for her annoyingly cute ways at the moment. I was still mad that she said nothing when I mentioned getting my license. But that was soon overshadowed by the excitement of telling my boyfriend Bobby all about Kilmore University.
As I got in the car and strapped myself in, I thought about how cool it would be if Bobby went to Kilmore too.
CHAPTER 3
I.
The front door was locked so I sat down on the curb and waited.
I was early, as usual. I am always early for everything.
The moon was low in the darkening sky and a nippy autumnal breeze whistled in my ear.
I looked up at Kentmore Hall, its brick exterior, its large, dark windows, the clock tower that pointed up towards the sky like an arrow. A bronze plaque mounted next to the large wooden front door declared the building was built in 1874.
I didn’t know much about this building, other than it must be one of the oldest buildings, if not the oldest, on campus. I didn’t remember touring it that day with my parents more than a year ago, but we might have. We saw so much that day, had received so much information. The tour guide might’ve mentioned something about it in passing, but at the moment I couldn’t recall.
Moments later, a young man rushed up to the door. I watched as he dug a hand deep into the front pocket of his jeans. He noticed me, smiled quickly, and then looked away to unlock the door with the keys he had pulled from his pocket.
“Waiting for someone?” he asked.
After several tries the lock clicked and he shoved the keys back into his pocket.
“Matthew Levine,” I said.
He gazed at me in surprise. His eyes were deep green and reminded me of pond water: dark and dull, yet alluring. He had a thick heap of almond-brown hair and a pale face flushed pink with cold. Sitting there watching him from ten feet away, I decided that he was beautiful.
“I’m Matthew Levine,” he said.
…
The first few weeks of college were hard. I got lost on campus. I had trouble sleeping. I worried no one would like me. The food took some getting used to. So did sharing a room.
At times like those, when I was anxious or scared or embarrassed, I thought about Dr. Cramer. He would tell me to give no mercy to my negative emotions, face them head on, and send them packing. Then he would tell me to get a hobby.
I decided that’s what I needed to do: take up a hobby.
But there were so many student organizations and activities on campus. How could I possibly choose?
The answer hit me unexpectedly.
I was in Psych 101, sitting in a cavernous lecture hall, waiting for class to begin. This girl named Heather two seats to my left was bragging to two other girls about how her boyfriend played in the university orchestra. She was spouting loudly for
From then on I spent a lot of time with my father in his basement workshop, watching him build tables and chairs and more shelves for my mom, and learning to identify the tools of the trade: Standard and Phillips head screwdrivers. Straight and curved claw hammers. Pincers and chisels and carpenter’s squares. The various grits of sandpaper. Circular saws and table saws and reciprocating saws and band saws. A million different sizes of drill bits.
I figured my father the magician needed a trusty assistant, and since I wanted to know it all and I wanted to learn from the master, who better to fill the role? Considering my size and my clumsy little fingers, I was never much help to him, though, but my memorization skills enabled me to hand him most any tool he needed. And I did succeed in keeping my father company. I think that’s all he really wanted anyway.
I rolled my eyes at my mom when she whipped out the word rad during the walk back to the car after our tour of Kilmore University. I hadn’t the patience for her annoyingly cute ways at the moment. I was still mad that she said nothing when I mentioned getting my license. But that was soon overshadowed by the excitement of telling my boyfriend Bobby all about Kilmore University.
As I got in the car and strapped myself in, I thought about how cool it would be if Bobby went to Kilmore too.
CHAPTER 3
I.
The front door was locked so I sat down on the curb and waited.
I was early, as usual. I am always early for everything.
The moon was low in the darkening sky and a nippy autumnal breeze whistled in my ear.
I looked up at Kentmore Hall, its brick exterior, its large, dark windows, the clock tower that pointed up towards the sky like an arrow. A bronze plaque mounted next to the large wooden front door declared the building was built in 1874.
I didn’t know much about this building, other than it must be one of the oldest buildings, if not the oldest, on campus. I didn’t remember touring it that day with my parents more than a year ago, but we might have. We saw so much that day, had received so much information. The tour guide might’ve mentioned something about it in passing, but at the moment I couldn’t recall.
Moments later, a young man rushed up to the door. I watched as he dug a hand deep into the front pocket of his jeans. He noticed me, smiled quickly, and then looked away to unlock the door with the keys he had pulled from his pocket.
“Waiting for someone?” he asked.
After several tries the lock clicked and he shoved the keys back into his pocket.
“Matthew Levine,” I said.
He gazed at me in surprise. His eyes were deep green and reminded me of pond water: dark and dull, yet alluring. He had a thick heap of almond-brown hair and a pale face flushed pink with cold. Sitting there watching him from ten feet away, I decided that he was beautiful.
“I’m Matthew Levine,” he said.
…
The first few weeks of college were hard. I got lost on campus. I had trouble sleeping. I worried no one would like me. The food took some getting used to. So did sharing a room.
At times like those, when I was anxious or scared or embarrassed, I thought about Dr. Cramer. He would tell me to give no mercy to my negative emotions, face them head on, and send them packing. Then he would tell me to get a hobby.
I decided that’s what I needed to do: take up a hobby.
But there were so many student organizations and activities on campus. How could I possibly choose?
The answer hit me unexpectedly.
I was in Psych 101, sitting in a cavernous lecture hall, waiting for class to begin. This girl named Heather two seats to my left was bragging to two other girls about how her boyfriend played in the university orchestra. She was spouting loudly for
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