The Halo Effect

22 | history

The third floor of Stokes Hall was nothing remarkable. I could appreciate the Collegiate Gothic architecture, and the facilities boasted of Boston College's academic prestige, but the building itself wasn't unique. Or maybe I was aggressively biased, having spent far too many hours of my life sitting on a bench across from Dr. John Lancelot England's office, waiting for him to wrap up his duties as chairperson of the History Department.

As I drew in the hallway's faint aroma of vanilla and pencil shavings into my lungs, I wished I had better plans for a Friday afternoon. I regretted informing Dad that Coach Mayer had scheduled lacrosse for earlier this morning, leaving me with a rare spell of free time following the final bell. So while my roommates and Gianna were shopping on Newbury Street, I was emotionally decaying on a bench, failing to be bitter about Dad's decision to sell our house on Nantucket.

I wouldn't lie to myself and pretend to act as though the decision had emerged out of the blue. Selling the house made perfect sense. I'd figured it was only a matter of time, but that didn't mean I was happy about it. My parents had bought the house together as newlyweds, and I couldn't remember a summer when I didn't spend at least a month on Nantucket. The house anchored countless sunny childhood memories featuring boogie boarding, ice cream cones, and sandcastles. But it was also the place where my parents had first told me that they were getting a divorce, and the rest was all too recent history.

My phone vibrated face down in my lap, reprieving me from my cloudy internal monologue. I turned it over, already knowing it wouldn't be Trip since his team still had afternoon practice.

KELSEY JACKMAN, 4:55 PM: are you spending the night in Beacon Hill?

An excellent question. Unfortunately, I didn't have an answer courtesy of Dad's spontaneous plan to scoop me from Cannondale so he could, as he'd so eloquently informed me in the Jaguar, whip up a home-cooked meal and discuss the Nantucket situation. But that was before he'd received a call from the dean summoning him - and consequently me - back to Boston College. I expelled a soft sigh and typed up my response.

CHANDLER ENGLAND, 4:56 PM: it's safe to assume we won't be eating dinner until 7:30, so probably 

As I pressed send, a pair of thundering footsteps disrupted the stillness of the hallway. A dark-haired boy donned in an argyle sweater rounded the nearest corner, borderline jogging as he examined the silver watch visible on his left wrist. I smothered a sigh when he launched himself onto another bench situated a short way down the hall from the one I'd occupied for the better part of the last hour. He unceremoniously dropped his overflowing leather messenger bag on the floor with a thud and heaved out a sigh.

Before silence could settle in once again, the boy cleared his throat.

"Are you here for Dr. England?"

"Unfortunately," I said dryly.

I wasn't concerned with Dad overhearing my comment. I could hear the faint sound of his voice from the other side of the door, indicating he was still engrossed in the meeting that had derailed our afternoon with two other tenured professors from the department.  

The boy gawked at me, his emerald eyes widening in apparent shock before realization set into his features. A relieved smile accompanied the breath he exhaled.  

"You're Chandler." He gestured to Dad's office door. "There's a photo on Dr. England's desk."

Despite my dour mood, my lips twitched into a faint smile. The photo he was referring to had sat on Dad's various desks for years now. It was of the two of us standing in front of Great Point Lighthouse on Nantucket at sunset. Mom used to tell me it was her favorite photo in the world.