Chapter Text
The lecture hall at Boston University was a drafty cavern of mahogany and echoes, smelling faintly of the damp September rain that was currently slicking the streets of 1998 Commonwealth Ave.
Annie Dreadwell was not a creature of mahogany and echoes. She was a neon pink blur in a sea of beige, currently struggling to fit her oversized binder onto the tiny flip-up desk. She was wearing a vintage Hawaiian shirt featuring bright orange surfboards and palm trees, a choice that made her feel like a sunny day in the middle of a gloomy New England autumn. She hummed a tune she’d heard on the radio, something by the Cardigans, while she fished a handful of glittery pens out of her backpack.
The seat next to her was claimed by a sudden, sharp movement.
Annie looked up. A girl had sat down with the kind of deliberate precision usually reserved for surgery. She had dark brown hair tucked behind her ears, a pair of sharp, round glasses, and a charcoal colored turtleneck. She looked like she had been born in a library and intended to die in one.
“Hi!” Annie chirped, her upbeat energy bouncing off the other girl’s stony silence. “I’m Annie. Anthropology and Archaeology.”
The girl didn't look over. She opened a leather bound planner and wrote the date in ink that looked like it cost more than Annie’s shoes. “Agnes Mortenson. Classics & Religion, and Philosophy.” Her voice was a crisp British clip, every syllable landing like a gavel.
“Double double major?” Annie’s eyes widened. “Whoa. You’re going to be busy.”
Agnes finally turned her head. Her gaze was cool and direct. “Classics & Religion is a singular major. I’m only doing two. Same as you. And I am here for the curriculum, not for social pleasantries.”
Before Annie could respond, the side door slammed open.
Professor Tim Halloway marched in, his tall frame nearly hitting the doorframe. His bleach blond hair was a chaotic mess, and his Scottish accent filled the room. He dropped a heavy, dirt stained crate onto the table with a loud thud.
“Right then! Settle down!” Tim grinned, his blue eyes scanning the room. He spotted Annie and gave her a wink. “I’m Professor Halloway. This is Introduction to Archaeology. Now, I don’t believe in solitary confinement. Archaeology is a team sport. You’re going to look at the person sitting to your left or right, that is your partner for the semester-long site analysis project. No swaps, no trades!”
Annie froze. She slowly turned her head to the left. Agnes was staring at the podium with an expression of pure, unadulterated horror.
“Oh, brilliant,” Agnes muttered under her breath, her accent becoming even more clipped. “I’ve been paired with a tropical fruit.”
“Hey!” Annie whispered, leaning in. “I’m a very hardworking tropical fruit, for your information. And my dad, I mean, Professor Halloway, says I’m great at field notes.”
Agnes closed her eyes for a long, suffering moment. “Wonderful. I shall prepare the bibliography. Please try not to get glitter on the primary sources.”
Up at the front, the door at the back of the hall opened quietly. Professor Jones stepped in, her ginger hair pulled back in a sensible clip. She didn't say a word, but her blue eyes caught Tim’s. He immediately straightened his jacket and cleared his throat.
“Right! Yes. Stratigraphy!” Tim barked, looking at his wife with a sheepish grin. “As my brilliant colleague Professor Jones is silently reminding me, we have a timeline to keep. Partners, exchange contact info. If you can't find a way to work together, you'll end up like the Romans, fallen and covered in dirt!”
Annie grabbed a scrap of paper and wrote her dorm number and the name of the local coffee shop in bright pink ink. She slid it toward Agnes.
“See you after class, partner?” Annie grinned.
Agnes looked at the pink ink as if it were a biological hazard. She reached into her bag, pulled out a stark white card, and wrote a single time and location in black ink: Mugar Library. Tomorrow. 4:00 PM. Sharp.
“Do not be late, Annie,” Agnes said, standing up as the lecture began. “We have three thousand years of history to cover, and I don't intend to let your penchant for surfboards lower my GPA.”
Annie watched her sit back, watching the way the light caught Agnes's glasses. As Annie looked at the serious girl beside her, she felt the first tug of a very long, very complicated rope.
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The walk back to faculty housing was a short one, but Annie’s mind was moving faster than her feet. Usually, the first day of classes felt like a fresh start, but being paired with a human iceberg had made it feel more like a challenge.
The apartment was exactly as she’d left it, a cozy, cluttered collision of two academic worlds. The entryway was lined with Tim’s muddy field boots and Sally’s sensible loafers. As Annie kicked off her sneakers, the familiar scent of woodsmoke and expensive black tea wrapped around her.
"In here, Annie!" Tim’s voice drifted from the kitchen.
Annie pushed through the swinging door to find Tim standing over a bubbling pot of stew, his bleach blond hair sticking up in several directions as if he’d been struck by a bolt of inspiration. Sally was seated at the small kitchen table, her ginger hair pinned back perfectly, blue eyes focused on a stack of research papers.
"How was the maiden voyage?" Tim asked, waving a wooden spoon. "Did I dazzle them? Did I inspire the next generation of Schliemanns?"
"You talked about a badger for twelve minutes, Dad," Annie said, dropping into a chair across from her mother.
Sally didn't look up, but a small, knowing smile played on her lips. "Only twelve? He’s getting efficient in his old age."
"It was a very relevant badger, Sally!" Tim protested, though he looked delighted.
Annie rested her chin in her hands. "He did the partner thing, Mom. I got paired with a girl named Agnes Mortenson. She’s a Classics major with a British accent and a look that could probably turn a person into stone."
Sally finally looked up, her expression turning thoughtful. "Agnes Mortenson. I’ve seen her name on the enrollment lists. She’s supposed to be exceptionally bright, straight to the point, very focused on primary sources. She’s already requested special access to the rare books room."
"She called me a 'tropical fruit,'" Annie sighed, plucking at the sleeve of her hibiscus shirt. "And she told me my glitter pens were 'loud.' I don’t think she likes me very much."
Tim chuckled, leaning against the counter. "Ah, don't let the armor fool you, Annie. Some of the most interesting history is buried under the thickest layers of clay. She’s just a bit of a fortress, that’s all. Probably hasn’t had enough sunlight in those dusty libraries."
"She’s serious, Annie," Sally added, her tone gentle but honest. "But you’re a double major for a reason. You have the heart for this. Just show her that your 'loud' pens can take better notes than anyone else in that room."
"I guess," Annie murmured. She thought back to the way Agnes had written the date in her planner, so perfect, so cold. It made Annie want to shake her just a little, just to see if a laugh would fall out.
Tim clapped his hands together. "That’s the spirit! Now, eat up. We need to discuss the stratigraphy of this beef stew before it gets cold."
That night, Annie lay in bed with her window cracked, listening to the muffled sounds of the Green Line trolley humming in the distance. The syllabus was open on her duvet, the name Agnes Mortenson staring back at her in her own messy, looping script.
Tomorrow at four. She decided, right then and there, that she would wear her brightest shirt, the one with the yellow pineapples.
If Agnes wanted a partner, she was going to get the whole tropical fruit.