The Opening Sky Read Online Free Page A

Ellice Avenue. Christmas wreaths hang from the light poles, shreds of limp plastic, the colour of camouflage gear. Who thinks that sort of thing is a good idea?
Pine boughs
, Sylvie thinks as she walks swiftly along the slushy street, refreshed by her tiny nap on the toilet, and her mind veers to her botany project, her brilliant permaculture design – the globe artichokes and borage and Swiss chard and kale growing in free and happy collaboration, the strawberries for groundcover and the flowers to attract predator insects to keep the pests down, and no wasteful rigid rows like the garden she planted when she was young. A warm light fills her mind, the light of Dr. Hillsborough standing in his office doorway, saying, “I think you have a gift for this.” And then an ugly image snaps its jaws, a flash of recall from just before sleep swamped her this morning. The words “Replace Existing File,” and
herself clicking on them
. She’d opened a new window with her rough draft – her lame, pathetic rough draft – looking for a paragraph she’d deleted. Had she ever, once in the night, saved all the new work she had done?
    She’s just past Lockhart Hall. She wheels around, runs back, and dashes up the steps. On a bench in the wide, empty common area she yanks her laptop out of her pack, boots it, taps franticallyon the control pad.
Neglected_garden.doc
. She scans the first paragraph. “Oh god!” she gasps. UNDO, UNDO .
    Benedictor is where she hoped he’d be, working in a study carrel just outside the library.
    “Oh god, Benedictor,” Sylvie cries. “I’m so glad you’re here! I did something so, so stupid!” Her laptop is still on; she’s been running through Lockhart Hall with it open in front of her like an accident victim. She sets it on his desk. “Look. My botany paper. It’s due tomorrow. But look.” She scrolls down. “Oh my god, it should be twelve pages! My tables – where are my tables?”
    He gets it instantly. “You saved an old version on top of your new one.”
    “Oh god!” She weaves her fingers through her bangs, clenches them. Now she does feel like puking. “I did so much great work yesterday and in the night. Oh god. Oh, I’m so stupid! It’s like, I saw Replace and my brain was on drugs or something.”
    “That’s bad, Sylvie. That’s really bad.” He looks at her gravely.
    “I know, but it was six o’clock in the morning. I haven’t slept since, like, last week. Oh, Benedictor, can you get it back?”
    “I don’t know. I can try. Can you leave it here?”
    “Yes. Yes!”
    There’s a half-eaten egg sandwich on plastic wrap in front of him. He was probably up all night too. She can see his kindness in his face. She can see him wanting to reassure her, but he’s so honest he can’t. Instead he raises a hand to give her a high-five. When their two hands touch, they could be an Olympic symbol, his so black, hers so white. She loves him. She should date him. If she hadn’t found Noah, she would.
    At the clinic she asks for Dr. Rodham. He’s away, but she can see someone named Dr. Valdez if she’s prepared to wait an hour.She’s prepared – she can study anywhere. She finds a chair in the crowded waiting room and pulls out her Evolutionary Development handouts.
Evo-Devo, Evo-Devo
, her mind chants. It would make a great name. Or, like, Eva Diva.
    Dr. Roadster, she calls Dr. Rodham.
Of course
he’s away. He’ll be driving along the California coast in a convertible with a blond beside him. Sylvie’s seen him twice. The first time, last August, when she came to ask about going on the pill, the nurse put her in an examination room to wait. Through the wall she could hear a guy talking on the phone. He was trying to rent a car at LAX . “Honda Fit?” he said in a disgusted tone. “What do you have in the Porsche line? What about a BMW ? A Z4? You don’t have a single bloody roadster?” Finally he hung up and then the door opened, and he came in flashing a smile