English Students Wooing
an excerpt

Chapter One

It’s literary manna. It’s my ticket to fortune, fame, and a golden pass to any Phd program in the country- or, hey, why set my sights low, the world.
“Are you seeing this?” I whisper to Jill. “I mean, really, are you seeing this?”
“Yeah,” she whispers back. It’s not just the library setting hushing our tones- it’s pure awe.
We have been working on the most boring project imaginable, as research assistants to Professor Vivian Crane, a Victorian who focuses on the private writings of everyday women. Private writings of everyday women sound really interesting, until you are spending fifteen hours a week flipping through old journals and diaries that dwell mostly of recipes and neighbors you’ve never met and history has long forgotten.
But here, right here, we have struck gold, or at least a sizeable vein of silver.
“EB sent these lines in her latest correspondence from Italy.” And, following this, a sonnet- an entire sonnet. EB isn’t my specialty- I’m a prose girl, myself, I prefer novels- but I’ve read enough of her work to recognize a similar resonance.
“This is it,” Jill says. She is actually breathing heavily- though, now that I pay attention to my own vitals, it seems I am, too.
The journal is dated 1852. Good old Mare, as I’ve come to think of Marian Hayesworth after seven of her extremely detailed diaries, was a childhood friend of Elizabeth Barrett. Who happened to be in Italy at this time. A possibly undiscovered Barrett poem. This is the sort of thing scholars search for their entire lives- it’s an unexpected Love’s Labour’s Won, and I’ve found it, by accident, in the second year of my MA. I’m about to become a literary superstar.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Jill. I practically sprint out of the Special Collections wing and up to fiction. I grab every Elizabeth Barrett Browning book off the shelf and start back- slower this time, as EB was quite prolific. I round the corner out of fiction at an even totter, trying to keep the pile of books steady, and- of course- smash right into someone. Shit.
A large hand on my back and another on my stack of books steadies me.
“Thanks,” I say and look up into the amused eyes of Ash Cooper. “Oh. Hi.”
“Hey, Leah. Need a hand?” he asks with an easy smile.
Everything about Ash Cooper is big and easy-going. He’s like if Shaggy from the Scooby Gang came to life, got kind of hot, and decided- almost on a whim- to study literature. He talks all the time in class, and it comes so easy to him. I’ll think he isn’t even paying attention to the discussion and then he’ll come out with the most brilliant thing I’ve heard all day. It’s annoying.
“Oh, no. Thanks. I got these.”
“Yeah, got ‘em like a deadly weapon.” Assured I am properly steadied, Ash let’s go of me and stands up straight and oh-so-tall. “What, you decided to take the afternoon to devour Browning’s collected works?”
“Barrett,” I correct automatically. I can’t help it. Last semester I had a professor who insisted on calling her Elizabeth Barrett, leaving the surname of Browning for her husband. It’s not a crazy feminist thing- the professor was male.
“Right. Barret.”
I know he expects me to ask what brings him to the library- it is the usual formula of exchange for colleagues meeting in the bustling halls. But I’m itching to get back to my future glory in the Special Collections Reading Room.
“Well, I’ll see you later, I guess. Thanks for catching me.”
“No prob. Anytime.”
I’ve almost escaped when he calls after me, “Hey, you going to Charlie’s party this weekend?”
I roll my eyes, “Like I have a choice.” If I didn’t help Charlie out with his many get-togethers, he’d be sure to forget something vital- like cups, ice, or guests. “I’ll be there.”
“Alright, see you then.” Ash nods and continues down the hall, his head bobbing above most of the anxious undergrads. I’m free to return to my research.
Back at our table, Jill is waiting with barely concealed excitement, tapping her foot against the carpet in a muffled stampede that earns a few annoyed looks from those working around her. I quietly dump my pile of books beside her and we eagerly set to work, flipping through pages, reading one poem after another, searching for a match and praying we don’t find it.
By seven we are almost finished and the sonnet is still unmatched.
“Even if we don’t find anything, it doesn’t mean this is a new Browning,” Jill whispers.
“Barrett,” I correct, but I nod. No point in getting our hopes up. Old Mare could have known plenty of EBs chilling in Italy in 1852. We could research this poem for the remainder of our MA careers- even our Phd careers- and still not be sure.
“And I don’t think we should tell Professor Crain yet- not until we’ve gone through the rest of the poems and are sure there’s not a match. Maybe we should even go through twice.”
“Good idea.”
Jill grabs me in an impromptu hug. I try to swallow my shock and hug her back. I am not a hugger and Jill and I are colleagues, not friends. We hang out with a lot of the same people- the department is small, after all- but we’ve never really connected on a personal level. Still, this is a big moment. Exciting. I suppose it deserves a commemorative hug.
“We’re closing,” a library aid announces, frowning disapprovingly at our library PDA.
I want to tell him “Buddy, I’m with you on that- no hugging in the stacks” but instead I laugh quietly at Jill’s eye roll. We have a connection now. We’re in this together, and our futures and names are about to become intertwined. Scholars will write about “the 2007 Cather and Stone discovery.” I allow myself a brief moment to revel in the thought before pushing it aside. It’s like Jill said- it might not mean anything. No point in getting our hopes up.
“Any fun plans for tonight?” Jill asks as we exit the library together. We have an unspoken ban on discussing the mysterious EB poem, but it still vibrates in the air between us.
“I’m going to catch a movie with Maya and Maggie, I think.” Maya and Maggie are two other girls from our department. Sisters, actually. “You?”
She smiles and fluffs her hair. “I have a date.”
Now that I know, she looks like a girl set for a date. She’s way too overdressed for library research- a black skirt and tight red top with a black cardigan sweater over it. And heels- no one wears heels to the library! Her blonde hair is bouncy and her lips are shiny. I look positively hellish in comparison in jeans and a ratty green sweater, with my hair pulled back. Ah well. The books don’t judge, and neither do the Acosta sisters.
“Have fun.”
“You too,” she gives me a sweet smile. “I’ll see you at Charlie’s tomorrow?”
I nod, “Definitely.”
We lock gazes for a moment and the EB poems hangs there. It wants to be fully discovered and displayed before the world. I shake it off, say a cheery “See you tomorrow” and head for the subway. The Special Collections wing isn’t open on the weekends, so we have to wait until Monday to keep working. Monday seems ages away, and I’ve never been less excited about a weekend. It’s going to drag, I know it. Even one of Charlie’s wild parties seems infinitely less exciting than the prospect of hours spent in the stacks with Victorian poetry.