The Tutor

Confused, I turned around and headed for the main lobby. After passing the studying students, I found the information desk and stood before the withered old man. "Excuse me?"

He peered over the computer monitor and smiled, the expression spreading wrinkles over his face like a broken windshield. "What can I do for you?"

"I was just wondering if Libby's working today."

His smile fell as he stood from his chair. "Who?"

"Libby, Libby Lange?" She was always at our table when she said she would be. Maybe she'd forgotten to tell me she'd be late, or maybe was caught up in another errand. But, where was the table?

He glanced down at the desk, shuffled a few papers, and then met my gaze again. "I'm sorry but no one by that name works here."

"Are you sure? I've been coming here for the last few weeks and she's been tutoring me. She's a librarian."

"I'm certain you're mistaken. Perhaps you're thinking of Agatha, she is another librarian here."

No, it wasn't a mistake; Agatha was as old as the man in front of me. I took a step back, baffled. Had Libby lied to me about working here? A sickening sensation filled my belly and I wrung my hands. "I'm sorry. Maybe Ihave made a mistake." After an awkward thank you, I walked off toward the front doors.

What the fuck? Had Libby lied to me the entire time, told me she was a librarian and maybe she was simply a student? Why lie?

Now what?

I didn't have her cell phone number, didn't know where she lived, and if she had lied about working here, I essentially knew nothing about her. I decided to head home, determined to figure out where I could find her, hopeful my roommate would have an idea.

A sliver of red caught my eye and when I turned, I caught Libby ducking around the corner down the hall. I ran, following her path. When I rounded the corner, she was gone, save her red cardigan slung over a display case against the wall. Photographs of the university lined the hall, from the first round of faculty during the class of 1912 to present staff members. Pictures of the original building were positioned beside these; a squat building no larger than a shack housed the university's original library. According to the next batch of photos, the new structure wasn't established and built until 1939. The three-story structure resembled what it was today.

I finally reached the display with Libby's cardigan and as I plucked it up, I glanced down, through the glass. A group photograph of the library staff, taken in 1974, was in the next frame. Four women and two men, all in the era's heteronormative dress, suit jackets, pleated skirts, and nylons. One face stuck out from the rest, with her long, dark curls daintily framing her pale face, a red cardigan slung over one shoulder. The same red cardigan I held in my hands. Her scent wafted over me, as exquisite as a midsummer breeze laden with promise, and I swallowed hard as an icy chill filled me.

There was no way. I inched closer to the photo, squinting. Those lips had been on me only a few nights before, kissing me, loving my body. I shook my head and stepped back.

This isn't possible.

Perhaps it was Libby's mother. I knew next to nothing about Libby; for all I knew, Libby could come from a long line of librarians. That happened with teachers, doctors, police officers, following the family tradition.

But, the receptionist told me there wasn't a Libby Lang employed at the library. I leaned forward, trying to make out the names scrawled at the bottom of the photograph. Liberty Lang.

It couldn't be real.

I ripped my gaze from the photo and headed toward the main lobby again, past the receptionist, through the tables, and into the maze of bookshelves. A left, a right, another right, then a slight left.

The table was back and so was Libby.

I scratched my head, unsure what to say. "Libby," I managed to whisper.

"Hello, Chrissy," she said, her expression grim.

Dumbfounded, I held up my scored test. "I-I got a 95%, which brings my grade...um... to passing."

She smiled, nodding. "That's wonderful. Congratulations." She stared at me as if she knew, as if she witnessed me seeing the photos, witnessed me coming to the impossible conclusion. She probably had.

"The photos...Did you want me to know?" I murmured.

She nodded, her curls falling around her face. "I did."

"But, you don't even believe in ghosts..." I trailed off.

She drew a long breath and glanced at her hands.

"The story...the one you made up, was it—" I started but she cut me off.

"It was fact, not fiction."

I blinked and chewed my lower lip to prevent it from trembling. Tears peaked over my eyelids, spilling down my cheeks. What a horrible way to go...her anguish, her sadness, washed over me anew, and it all made sense. I offered her the red cardigan, my fingers trembling as she took it from me.

Libby stood, tucking the crimson material under her arm, and she reached for my hand. "Care for a walk?"

I took it without thinking and it was as warm as it had been on Halloween. How could a ghost not be chilled? But then I recalled the ghosts from my childhood—my grandmother's tender, toasty hugs still remained as warm as they were when she was alive.

We walked down the aisle of books in silence, and I couldn't help but wonder how I hadn't realized it before. Libby let go of my hand and quickly placed it around my waist in an almost possessive gesture.

"So, now that you've met a ghost, what do you think?" Her thumb caressed my knuckles, sending a flurry of emotions through me.

"To tell you the truth, I've met ghosts before, but it's been so long, I always assumed it was my childhood imagination. But, I have to say, I'm wondering if this ghost in particular will tutor me for the rest of the semester. I hear Professor Englewood for English is brutal toward the end and I think Ms. Ghost knows a hell of a lot more than I do about poetry and classical literature."

Libby's addictive laughter lifted through the space around us but somehow, I knew I was the only one on the receiving end of her decadent happiness.

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