But this library, here, this main one is the hideous one just off the green, where I am gathering all my books for the fall semester.

My freshman year at college!

Can you believe it?

I know. I know what you are wondering and don’t think for a second I don’t.

You think I skipped.

But I didn’t skip. I’m getting to that.

The librarian at the front desk looks exactly like a librarian except that the tips of her hair are blue. Deep blue. Very chic.

It’s all a subtle kind of chicness here. No one is going all and all out to get their freak on. It’s more of an underplayed rebellion against the patriarchy. A pixie cut. Bangs. Purple hair. And definitely, never, perish the thought, definitely never ever any makeup.

Also, they seem to be spelling the word “woman” with a Y around here. Like “womyn.” I haven’t tried it yet but who knows. When in Rome.

I’ve been trying to piece together the moments since the entire house was set on fire in a fit of insane glee, to the moment of actually making it here to Bryn Mawr, collecting my things, finding my room, sauntering to the library.

There is one thing, very distinct.

The lady in the hat coming back. Penelope. Miss Penelope Persephone Crisp. I remember clearly, her voice. That royal pronunciation British accent and the soothing sound of her voice, a different kind of pitch for her. That is seared in my brain.

“I came as soon as I heard, my dear, girl. What a fright!”

I remember smiling to see her, feeling a kind of bliss just at her presence. A relief. Some kind of mother figure here to make it better. Here to make it all go away.

“Don’t you worry, dear. We’ll get this all sorted.” She patted my hand gently.

“Now rest, dear. We’ve many things to do. But fear not. I am here. Penelope is here. We are in this thing together, mind you. You’ll always have me.”

I can’t help smiling to myself when I think of it. How lucky I was to have met her. How much she has meant to me. How she soothed me. And, yes, a pang of guilt, too. For having sent her away.

And then it’s blank again. My memory—a long blank nothing.

But it’s no matter. Because now I’m here.

A very studious-looking woman scurries past me in wiry glasses, hunched over her textbooks. There must be at least four thick volumes, and I can’t decide if she’s bent over from the weight of the books or simply from being in a state of hyper-focused thought. I understand the feeling. See, I am with my people now!

Anyway, she hurries past me without a glance and somehow this fills me with glee. Others completely lost in thought! What a joy! What a wonder!

The sun is beginning to lower itself in the sky and I begin to panic about the coming week. Classes start tomorrow and I have so much to do. I can’t decide between the Ancient Babylonians or “The Poetics and Politics of the Sublime,” which is the actual name of the course, don’t make fun.