wideeyedone
Baby did a bad, bad thing
- Joined
- Jan 5, 2007
- Posts
- 7,070
Charlotte's favorite place at the university was the library. As a foster child, she had gone to dozens of schools growing up and the one constant in any school was the library. It was the way she helped herself to feel at home. She would check out some books, and linger in the library taking comfort in the familiarity of the pages.
She was a scholarship student at a private university. It almost felt like being a visitor from another planet. She didn't know how to interact with the other girls, her room mate had spent the summer in Barbados and had a brand new Range Rover. Charlotte didn't know how to explain that her family had imploded when she was just seven years old, and she had spent the next eleven years bouncing between foster homes.
So, her job at the library was really a refuge. She felt at home in the stacks, and she would find books that interested her that she would have never found otherwise.
On the Friday night that she met James, she had been sitting at the check out desk reading about Forensic Ornithology. She hadn't even known the discipline existed. It had been pioneered by a female ornithologist at the Smithsonian. She had solved a murder by identifying microscopic feather fragments for the FBI. Charlotte was engrossed in her book. Her pencil was stuck in her auburn, loose bun. Her glasses were sliding down her nose. Her cheek was a little flushed where it had been resting against her hand. Her ivory skin marked easily.
She was a scholarship student at a private university. It almost felt like being a visitor from another planet. She didn't know how to interact with the other girls, her room mate had spent the summer in Barbados and had a brand new Range Rover. Charlotte didn't know how to explain that her family had imploded when she was just seven years old, and she had spent the next eleven years bouncing between foster homes.
So, her job at the library was really a refuge. She felt at home in the stacks, and she would find books that interested her that she would have never found otherwise.
On the Friday night that she met James, she had been sitting at the check out desk reading about Forensic Ornithology. She hadn't even known the discipline existed. It had been pioneered by a female ornithologist at the Smithsonian. She had solved a murder by identifying microscopic feather fragments for the FBI. Charlotte was engrossed in her book. Her pencil was stuck in her auburn, loose bun. Her glasses were sliding down her nose. Her cheek was a little flushed where it had been resting against her hand. Her ivory skin marked easily.