According to the schedule we've been given, we have about three hours until dinner, then another hour of rest. It's not much, considering we have group work to do, clubs to attend, and our own laundry. There's little time left to do anything. Even if we could do something here, of course.
I see people at the far end of the garden doing yoga and Pilates. They seem very zen, and I consider joining in, although I'm too embarrassed. These people have sculpted bodies, thin and muscular, which make me very envious. I watch in amazement as one of them twists and positions herself in a position similar to that of the girl in The Exorcist.
"There's a library," Annia informs me, looking at a worn map on a sheet of paper I don't know where she got it from.
I'm not too interested, but between comparing myself to those with perfect bodies and looking at a couple of books to kill time, I'll take the latter.
"I'm sure they only have Kama Sutras," Silvia mocks.
It's an interesting idea, and it piques the rest of the girls' curiosity. I don't know why we're all still together; I guess we feel a little safer as a group. We head back inside and climb the stairs to the third floor. They're less crowded, with only a few people sitting on the steps making friends or making out in dark corners that the security cameras can't seem to reach. It's clear the classes have been a real hit for some of them; I don't blame them. Although we've been advised not to have sex during our training, I think it's going to be difficult for everyone to maintain that level of abstinence. I feel like Pavlov's dog, salivating at the scent of sexual pheromones suspended in the air.
In the library, we're suddenly greeted by the air conditioning, super pleasant. It's clear that the books are important and their preservation is a priority, unlike the students attending the classes. The library is much larger than I expected, and no, they don't just have Kama Sutra books. I look curiously at the different shelves: Philosophy, self-help, picture books, anatomy, romance studies. Although almost all of them have some kind of suggestive title, and I see that sexual themes are common to all of them, it's well stocked. It's clear they don't want us to forget for a moment the reason we're here: absolute immersion for the next three months, the absolute cult of pleasure and hedonism. It would be a vacation from the hustle and bustle of being an adult if it weren't for all those restrictions that would have violated human rights ten years ago.
There are long tables between the shelves and a large window that covers the entire right wing. The sun's rays filter through the curtains, much dimmer now that sunset is approaching.
"Do they have computers?" Annia asks aloud. Without waiting, she runs to the librarian's counter, where an intellectual-looking boy with horn-rimmed glasses and a white shirt is standing. The school logo is embroidered in green on his right pocket.
We lose Fidelia in front of the romance novel section. The kind whose covers are key to the story, with muscular, shirtless men showing off their best assets to the female readers. I kind of expected it; these are the novels my Aunt Luisa devours.
I keep wandering around, strolling without looking for anything in particular. I run my hand over the spines of the books at my height and lose myself in their soft touch. I see people sitting at the tables and look over their shoulders at the images of vaginas, breasts, and anatomical studies that I find so unexciting. In the far corner, on the top shelf, I see a bright pink volume that catches my eye: Latent Femininity. I try to reach for it, but I can't reach. This being small thing is a curse inherited from my grandmother. My mother, at five foot seven, is a woman incapable of treating me like an adult because of it. She can handle me, so I only see him a couple of times a year, on his birthday and at Christmas.
I look around for a stepladder or a stool, but nothing. I don't think those plastic chairs can support my weight, so I hop a little to see if I can reach it. Nope, close, but not close enough. I grab onto the nearest shelf—medieval studies on sexology—and perilously climb onto the bookshelf.
Shit! I lose my balance and stagger backward.
"Careful."
One hand pushes the wobbly bookshelf, and another catches me in midair. My savior pulls me to my feet, safe and sound, all my limbs intact. My heart is racing at the slip I just made, although, well, I don't think it would have hurt me much. To my dignity, anyway.
I look at my hero and I'm surprised because I don't know if he's a savior or a savior. He's a person, that's for sure. He has piercings in his eyebrows, ears, and lip, and plugs in his ears. He/she has short, spiky, platinum-blonde hair, and the uniform he's wearing marks him as library staff. Does he/she work at the library?
I stare directly at his/her chest, a little confused, trying to remember how it feels against the back of my neck. Because, gosh, it's long. Or long, I barely reach below his armpit. With the baggy T-shirt, it doesn't look like there are any breasts under there, but at this point in life, I don't take anything for granted. A quick glance at his package—or where one would be if he were a man—tells me the same as looking into his eyes.
He/she grins at me when notices me staring at him with my mouth open. Whatever it is, he/she's kind, and just saved me from public humiliation, so I twirl a finger in my hair and blush while I mumble a thank you.
"Did you want this book?" "He/she points out, casually picking up the pink spine above my head.
I blush more.
"Um, yeah, I just wanted to take a look, thanks."
"It's very interesting. I recommend you don't skip the chapter on mirror self-recognition; it's a little hard at first, but you'll love it."
I pick up the book, my ears completely red. There's something about that mischievous smile that has me hooked.
"If you want, when you're done with that one, I can recommend some more."
"I, um, sure, yeah, thanks."
"I'm always here in the afternoons, so ask for me when you get back. My name is JO."
Of course, a name that works for both boys and girls. Obviously, this person doesn't want to be labeled. But it's making me curious."
From her height, JO gives me another lopsided smile and leaves, picking up from the table a stack of books she/he must have brought with her when she caught me. For a vague moment, I fantasize about not being the coward I am, and I think of all those movie scenes where a girl is saved by a captivatingly handsome man. JO was certainly mysterious. If it were anyone else, I might have lifted his head and given him a thank-you kiss. Just to see if his lips smelled of cherry or cedar. I snort; maybe I've also inherited my Aunt Luisa's genetic defect.