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  “Oh, you precious snowflakes,” Cara heard someone mutter. She looked back and saw that it was Christie, her RA. Cara didn’t think one way or the other about sensitivity or microaggressions. She’d heard they were a hot topic on college campuses, but she didn’t care enough to research the topic.

  Cara approached Christie and whispered, “Snowflakes?”

  Christie shrugged. “With all the problems facing humanity, we’ve dug in on this one. Making sure we don’t hurt anyone’s feelings, accidentally or intentionally. This has gotten worse each year I’ve been here.”

  Focusing on one thing you could control while everything else descends into chaos? Sounded like Cara’s calorie-counting while her life went nuts. Made sense. But she asked, “Is it like this everywhere?”

  “Yeah. At least until you get in the real world. No one cares about your feelings there. I’m working at my uncle’s engineering firm this summer, and I assure you—sensitivity is not a thing out there.”

  “I thought you were a history major?”

  Christie looked at Cara with surprise. “You pay attention, huh? I like that. Yes, history is my passion. But I like to eat. So I do programming in my spare time.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “It’s getting to the point that you can’t even quote Jefferson around here.”

  “You can’t quote the person who founded this University?”

  “He was a slaveholder. People here get offended and start petitions when you use a slaveholder for moral guidance.”

  “But everyone owned slaves back then.”

  “And you’re not allowed to use any of them as moral guideposts anymore.”

  “Huh. Are people okay with that?”

  “It’s controversial.”

  “What about you?”

  “I have mixed feelings about it. I think a lot of what Jefferson did was abhorrent, but as far as things he actually said—Woodrow Wilson was way more offensive and racist. Plus, he said those things a century after TJ.”

  “Huh.” Cara knew nothing about Woodrow Wilson.

  “This town’s living in interesting times, too. Politics is crazy everywhere. But here in the semi-South…we still have statues of Confederate generals from the Civil War.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah, also controversial.”

  Cara tried to think of an intelligent-sounding question. “People around here don’t say ‘War of Northern Aggression’ or ‘War Between the States,’ do they?”

  “No, it’s not that bad. Like I said—we’re in the semi-South. And Charlottesville is a bastion of liberality in the midst of some blood-red conservative counties. You step outside the city, and it gets real hick, real quick.”

  Cara nodded. That sounded really snotty and elitist. She wished she had the courage to stand up and say that was offensive.

  All she could manage was, “Did you have to take the sensitivity training during your first year?”

  “No, it wasn’t required yet back then.”

  Maybe it would have done you some good, Cara thought, but couldn’t quite manage to say.

  “Almost none of this matters, by the way,” Christie said, pointing to the tour guide.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah, I could give you an awesome tour of this place. Full of neat facts that are also of no use, but are at least interesting.”

  Cara was intrigued.

  As they neared the Rotunda, she tuned back in to the tour guide. “…and in Chapter 136 of Virginia’s Acts of Assembly, they approved funding to repair the Rotunda after the fire. A $200,000 loan approved on January 23, 1896, was the—”

  “Lots of random fires in this town,” muttered Christie. “The Rotunda is the tip of the iceberg.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “I should do my dissertation on it. Most topics have been researched to death, but this one is fertile soil. I also want to do a book on Charlottesville’s movie theaters.”

  Cara had no interest in either of those topics, so she said, “Interesting!”

  The tour guide continued. “—and after the more recent years-long renovation process, it opened again to the public in—”

  “Where’s the Anatomical Theatre?” asked an interrupting voice that Cara recognized.

  The tour guide stopped cold, confidence momentarily waning. Not deer in the headlights, but at the very least, a moose in the headlights. “Yes,” she said, “The Anatomical Theatre was built in 1826. It stood a short walk from where we currently stand and is the only building designed by Jefferson that was ever demolished.”

  “Aw, it’s gone?” asked the voice that Cara now saw belonged to Bill.

  “Yes, for almost a century now.”

  “Why was it demolished? I read somewhere that it was the first medical building on grounds. Isn’t that historic, or something?”

  “Yes, but…” She looked to a nearby adult Cara hadn’t noticed before. Probably a supervisor. She felt bad for the tour guide, nothing worse than having your boss breathe down your neck while you fumble on the job. But then the tour guide picked up the ball. “The story of that building is something that wasn’t discussed much in our community for a long time.”

  “Why?”

  “Unfortunate treatment of African Americans. It’s not the University’s proudest hour. Cadavers were illegally obtained via grave robbing until the legalization of medical dissection in 1884. Thus in our area here, the bodies of enslaved and free people of color were predominantly used.”

  “Get out.”

  “No, it’s true. Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize to me. It wasn’t my ancestors. My family’s originally from Pennsylvania.”

  “Right, sorry. The facility was burned and rebuilt in 1886—”

  “Another local fire,” muttered Christie.

  “—but after several years of complaints regarding the smell of the place, it was declared unsafe in 1924 and finally demolished in 1936 to make room for new construction.”

  “Well, okay then. Sorry to interrupt.”

  “And we are truly sorry, not to you, but to all persons of color.”

  Cara caught Bill’s eye at that phrase. He looked at her and smirked.

  The tour guide continued, “It is true that during that time in history, grave-robbing was common practice for doctors wishing to advance their medical knowledge. But much like slavery, its acceptability at the time does not mean that it was right. And it’s our duty to respect the knowledge gained from those cadavers but to remember and denounce the manner in which that knowledge was earned.”

  “Hate the teacher, love the lesson?”

  “Exactly. And the University has taken steps in recent years to more publicly discuss this issue and acknowledge and atone for it.”

  Bill nodded. “Thanks. Please go on with the stuff about the Rotunda!”

  The tour guide smiled, and did so.

  Cara made her way over to Bill. “Were you trying to troll that poor girl?”

  “No, I really was curious. Though I get a mild thrill out of making white people squirm every now and then.”

  “So you’re planning to make me squirm at some point?”

  “Time will tell.”

  “Ha. So, you enjoying this tour ironically?”

  “No, I’m actually having fun for a change.”

  “What’s that like?”

  “Beyond words,” Bill said, making hand gestures around his head. “Simply mind-blowing.”

  The tour guide was wrapping up the tour with a joke about all the frats on Rugby Road right behind them. Something lame about frats being the place where men become boys and then become men again.

  Bill looked uneasy once more. Cara didn’t probe.

  The tour guide said something about how great the students were and how she hoped they had fun, and she got a nice round of applause from the crowd.

  The day had been pretty smooth so far, but Cara
felt deeply uneasy as they were directed to Newcomb Hall for lunch.

  Chapter 7

  Newcomb’s dining hall, the Fresh Food Company, had an amazing, overwhelming array of foods. The things that grabbed her eye most were sushi, salmon, sea salt chocolate chip cookies, an elegant mix of sweet and salty. Cara nervously grabbed a bunch of food, calculating the calories as she went, keeping in mind the number of calories she’d had for breakfast, making an estimate for how many calories she’d need to allow herself for dinner. She didn’t expect to be able to work out that evening, so there were no bonus calories to be had that day.

  She wanted to sit alone so she could keep the numbers straight without getting distracted by conversation, especially after already being info-dumped-upon by all the orientation activities so far.

  She got her wish!

  Bill was sitting with a group of four guys, seemed to be hitting it off with them. Christie was sitting with a group of fellow orange-shirted RAs. Cara’s stoner roommate was nowhere in sight.

  Cara looked through the schedule for the rest of the day’s activities, and found it looked pretty lame, except for the AFC party later that night.

  She wondered if anyone would care if she sneaked off to explore the place on her own.

  And then—leaving every item on her plate half-eaten, thus letting her cut the calorie count for that meal in half—she took her tray to the drop-off conveyer belt mechanism and walked right out without asking permission.

  Feeling particularly bold and proud of herself, she walked out, up a set of stairs, and toward the Lawn again. She wanted to explore every nook and cranny of the place. The architecture was enchanting. She approached an imposing-looking pillared building that said ALDERMAN LIBRARY up front.

  She walked in, then felt like she was entering a ballroom. The ceiling was forty feet high, with rings of bulbs hanging from a variety of chandeliers. A misty, hissing coffee shop off to her left, a crowded computer lab to her right. A narrow entryway ahead stretched back to an elevator.

  It’s a library. Where are the books?

  “Hi, can we help you?” asked someone from behind the desk.

  Cara, jaw still slightly agape, approached. “Yes, I’m just, uh…”

  “First time here, huh? You have first-timer face.”

  “Common disease here?”

  “Very common,” said the man whose lanyard identified him as “Tim.” “I’ll go ahead and tell you that you want to see the McGregor Room while you’re here.”

  “Is that the ‘Harry Potter room’ I heard about?”

  “One and the same. Interested in the Scholars’ Lab? Reference room? Stacks?”

  “All of the above, yes.”

  Tim pulled out a brochure with a map, made several notes, and explained where everything was to be found.

  “Make sure you walk down the hallway outside the McGregor Room. We have original antique printing presses on display near the Preservation offices.”

  “Wow.”

  “Enjoy!”

  She did. She self-guided her way through a library tour, stopped and smelled the antique air of the McGregor Room, enjoyed wandering through the endless shelves of books. She went up and down several floors, drifting between the doors on every level that separated one room of books from another. It was a staggering number of books.

  She got lost but didn’t mind at all. She knew her way around the Library of Congress call number system, so she tracked down their Faulkner books. This place had an astonishing array of books by and about Faulkner. Some nice older editions, too. She opened a couple of the 1940s hardcover editions, brought them up to her nose, and savored the antique smell.

  She eventually found her way back to the front desk. Tim was there, checking out books to a couple of students. Cara approached him.

  “Quite a place, huh?” he asked.

  “This is easily like…a dozen public libraries’ worth of books.”

  “Or even two dozens’ worth! Plus, this is only one of our libraries.”

  “There are more?”

  “Oh yeah. Alderman, Clemons, Fine Arts, Music, Science and Engineering, and Health Sciences are the big ones. We also have a Physics and a Math Library, along with a number of unofficial departmental libraries sprinkled all through grounds. Philosophy and Gender Studies, for example.”

  “Wow.” She wanted to explore them all. “What are…Do you have library orientation classes?”

  “Yep, we hold sessions at the beginning of each year to help you gain familiarity with the library system.”

  “I’m there.”

  “Oh, I forgot to mention Special Collections.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s where we keep all our rare and most valuable items. They have rotating exhibits by the front entryway. They had a Faulkner exhibit recently that—”

  “Sold. Where is this place?”

  “Right next door.”

  “I must see it now.”

  “Go right ahead!” He pointed to the building. “Walk right in, check it out!”

  Cara zipped her way down the brick path and went into Special Collections. There was a life-size William Faulkner standee facing her as she entered the lobby.

  I’m home.

  She looked to her right, saw there was a Hemingway exhibit currently on display. Papa Hemingway never did much for her, so she asked the attendant in the lobby where she should go. The suited gentleman pointed to the basement, explaining that most exhibits and collections were downstairs.

  “Anything on display from the old Faulkner exhibit?”

  “Oh, yes. There’s—”

  But Cara was already on her way downstairs. “Thanks!”

  She descended the well-lit spiral staircase down to the lower level and felt like she’d entered a museum. The walls and tables were covered with glass-cased items. There was a display about a local Civil War battle Cara had never heard of—the Battle of Rio Hill. Hey, it wasn’t labeled as a “War of Northern Aggression” exhibit!

  A table was dedicated to an early UVA faculty member who wrote science fiction novels under the pen name George Tucker. He apparently beat H. G. Wells and Jules Verne to the punch on writing books in that genre.

  There was a display of original H. P. Lovecraft Arkham House hardcovers, along with a paperback edition of his stories made especially for World War II soldiers. Cara had read a couple stories by him—her eleventh-grade English teacher was a fan—and liked him well enough. But Lovecraft for World War II soldiers? Was cosmic, existentialist horror really something healthy for them to be reading in the trenches?

  Of course, there was a Poe room. Cara knew Poe had been a student at UVA who apparently gambled and drank his way out of the place. Manuscripts, paintings, early print editions.

  It was all delightful. She wanted to take a slow tour and read every description, but then she forgot all about them because she found her destination—a room dedicated to Faulkner.

  First edition hardcovers of every one of his books. Photos and paintings of the author, including several with him hanging around UVA as a Writer-in-Residence. Then—original handwritten manuscript pages! The first page of As I Lay Dying was under a glass case, with handwritten deletions and corrections. She’d never seen the man’s handwriting. It was perfect. Looked like a computer-generated font.

  She could barely keep from drooling as she skimmed over the other handwritten pages on display.

  Walking back upstairs, she was overjoyed with her decision to ditch the orientation group.

  She looked at the Faulkner standee again.

  She’d promised herself she’d stay off social media during this trip, but she couldn’t resist at least snapping a pic. She got out her phone, turned it on, and took a ridiculous selfie with the standee. She sent it to her parents and Lawrence, but that was all.

  She was looking forward to posting this—along with bragging about all the amazing things
she’d seen—as soon as this visit was over.

  After visiting the libraries, she decided anything else she did on this trip would just be a happy bonus.

  Chapter 8

  Cara wandered through and around the academic buildings, taking a couple wrong turns, but eventually finding her way back to her temporary dorm. It would have been harder to find if it weren’t for the fact it was right across from the enormous football stadium.

  Bri was in their room, looking at her cautiously. “Where’d you go?” she asked.

  Cara smiled. “I visited the library!”

  “Wow,” said Bri in a deadpan voice. “That’s awesome.”

  “It was! What did I miss on the tour?”

  Bri shrugged. “Dunno. I snuck off and smoked up.”

  “That’s awesome,” Cara fired back, deadpan.

  “So you ready for the pool party?”

  “Pool party? I thought it was just a get-together at the AFC.”

  “Yeah—Aquatic Fitness Center. It’s aquatic. They have a pool.”

  “Oh. That’s…” Cara hadn’t packed a swimsuit. If she had known this was in the plan, she still wouldn’t have packed a swimsuit.

  “Pretty cool, actually. They’ve got hundreds of rafts set up with a big screen so they can show Jaws by the pool.”

  “That is pretty fun. I might sit by the poolside, watch people swim around, maybe grab people during the shark attack scenes.”

  “Totally.”

  “You gonna come out?”

  “Nope. I don’t swim while I’m high.” She waited a moment. “I never swim is what I’m getting at here.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Cara wandered over to the AFC, which was only about a block from their dorm.

  Passing through the enormous front hallway, she turned a corner and saw an elegant workout space. Two stories high, with overlooking balconies, it looked nearly as nice as The Gym, where her parents were members back home.

  She realized this was where she’d be coming to burn off any calories above her 1,500 limit. She hoped she wouldn’t need to spend too much time here. But she probably would.