The Overload

Elara crept along the bookshelves in a darkened, dusty corner of Pembroke’s library, frantically skimming the surnames on each spine.

Easton, Ellis, Ellsworth…

She had to squint in order to read them. A few warming lights dotted the stone walls, along with the gentle glow of lamps stationed at every table, but the dimness of the library made the spines nearly indecipherable.

Each time her shoes hit the polished wooden floors, she winced. Every step, every page turn, every furious scribble of a pen could be heard as each student studied for Pembroke University’s final exams.

At last, Elara’s eyes locked on a singular surname:

Emerich.

Nestled in the center of the top shelf was a dark blue book, its corners tattered and spine etched with golden letters. “The Life and Studies of Osric Brown” by Tobias Emerich. Elara sighed, sending a silent prayer of thanks to the gods before she reached for it.

“Come on,” she huffed as her fingers barely grazed the spine. She rose onto her toes and stretched her arm as far as it allowed.

A snicker cleaved through the library’s silence. Elara turned to see a small group of boys walking past her, snickering as they watched her struggle. Her cheeks burned as red as her hair.

Just one more week, she thought, staring daggers in their direction. Then we’ll see who’s laughing.

She waited for the boys to turn the corner before reaching for the book again, making progress as her fingers brushed the worn spine.

Before she could grasp it, another hand appeared above her own, easily plucking the book off the shelf. Elara sensed the towering figure behind her, which served to make her angrier.

“I didn’t need any help,” Elara snapped, turning to face the person who surely deemed her too weak to retrieve a book on her own.

“Oh, I wasn’t helping you,” a familiar, infuriating voice responded. Elara craned her neck to meet his eyes.

Nathan was dressed in his usual buttoned shirt and coat, both devoid of wrinkles. His dark waves draped across his forehead like curtains, and his school bag was unceremoniously strapped to his shoulder. Elara played with the sleeves of her old blouse as she studied him, holding the book—her book. “I needed this.” Before she could say anything, Nathan was walking away from her.

“Hey!” Elara’s voice echoed through the library like a clap of thunder. Multiple heads in the library snapped in her direction. She winced at their glares, quieting her voice as she followed Nathan. “Hey. I saw that book first. I need it for the final.”

“So do I,” he answered, keeping his head forward as he continued walking towards the front desk. “Why don’t you get another one on him?”

“There’s only one biography written on Osric Brown, and it’s that one.”

“Pick another topic for the final, then.”

“I just—I really wanted to write about him, that’s all,” the sound of her heartbeat pounded in her ears. “It’s one topic, I’m sure you could think of something else.”

Nathan finally stopped. He sighed, turning around to look at her with a bored expression. “I’m not naive. We both know Osric is the least known of the university’s founders, and Professor Marlowe’s favorite. Whoever writes about him–”

“—and writes well—”

“—will win her favor. I also know, as of today, we’re both tied for valedictorian.”

Elara knew it, too. Professor Marlowe informed her, just minutes before, that she might not win. Fear engulfed her like a chilling wave on the shores of Harlow, and it had driven her to the library to search for the book.

Osric Brown, besides co-founding the university with the other ancient historians, had an affinity for the gods. He dedicated his studies to their divine yet ominous existence in the world, and Professor Marlowe made her respect for his achievements known to all her students. Elara thought herself clever for deciding to write her final paper with the professor’s interests in mind, as this was the final grade that would determine who won valedictorian, but she was apparently not clever enough.

Elara shrugged. “It must be a coincidence.”

“Hmm. Why is that?”

“Why is it a coincidence?”

“Why are we tied?” Nathan asked. “You were ahead of me in grades last week. What changed?” He waited for her response, but she kept her mouth stubbornly shut. Finally, he sighed. “I’m sure you’ll do fine after graduation, even without winning valedictorian.”

“I could say the same for you.” She took a defiant step forward, holding her hand out. “Why don’t you give me the book and we’ll see if it’s true?”

He raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think I’ll just give it to you?”

She truly did not know. She tried to think, searching for a clue that might help her.

A group of students clumped together at a table, their low voices whispering furiously to each other. Sculptures of the university’s founders, standing on their own individual podiums. The grandfather clock on the wall, ticking rhythmically as time slipped away. The only thing that caught her eye was a lone table next to them, with a chess board sitting upon it.

“Why don’t we play for it?” She offered, motioning to the board. “Winner gets the book, and the loser has to find another topic for the final.”

He glanced at the table, as if considering the offer. “No, I think I’ll just keep it.”

Elara’s anger bubbled inside her as he turned to leave again. “Of course,” she muttered. “You just get everything you want, like always.” At her words, Nathan stopped. Her breath caught as he turned to face her with a clenched jaw. He’d only ever looked like that when she beat him on a test.

“Fine,” he told her. “Let’s play.”

Elara wordlessly took two of the pawns, shuffling them between her hands and holding them out for Nathan to pick. He tapped one of her closed fists to reveal the white piece. He would have the advantage. It was a disappointment, but Elara had won playing black before. She would do it again.

Elara sat behind a wall of black pieces, a battlefield of black and white opposite to that of the book, which Nathan had placed safely next to his left elbow.

They began the game, trading opening moves slowly. Elara promptly started writing her moves on a sheet of paper.

Nathan’s eyes darted to the paper as he moved another piece. “Have you been playing for a while?”

“Since I was eight.” They began making moves between their words, like a dance.

“I was five when I started.”

That surprised her. “Who taught you?”

“My dad. You?”

“I taught myself.”

“Really?” He had not made his next move yet.

She shrugged. “I liked the competition. The strategies.” She waited for him to continue the game, but he made no effort to do so.

“Impressive. Where did you grow up?”

Crashing waves and the smell of salt flashed in her mind. For a moment, her heart stilled. “Harlow. It's your turn.”

She motioned her head toward the board. He got the hint, moving one of his bishops. She quickly moved one of her rooks in response.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“Do you mind?”

“Sorry.” Without warning, Nathan captured her rook in one easy move. She stared numbly at the board.

“Damn it,” she breathed.

“You were overloading,” he explained, not unkindly. “You were putting too much pressure on your rook.”

She said nothing.

“Why is this so important to you?” He sounded almost concerned.

Her eyes burned, refusing to look at him. “I—I need this. More than you do.”

“Why?”

“I’m barely taken seriously here,” she snapped her head up to face him. Her stare could have punctured his eyes. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

She didn’t have to explain. All around them, groups of boys crowded every table. Any time she raised her hand in class, snickers arose. Whenever class assignments required groups, she was always left alone. She had been stared at in the hallways more times than she cared to admit, as if she didn’t belong at a prestigious school such as Pembroke. Elara had tried to make connections with the other women who attended the university, smiling at them in passing, but they all kept their heads down. It was as if by making themselves smaller, they might finally be left alone.

But Elara did not want to be timid, or shrink herself into nonexistence. She had wanted to win, to prove everyone wrong. But now that the possibility of her winning was threatened, all she wanted was to disappear.

Her last words were quiet. Raw. “I always feel like I’m drowning.”

Moments of silence passed before Nathan spoke again. “My Dad expects me to be the best at everything, especially grades.” Elara could remember all the times she’d beaten him on a test, seeing his jaw clench after grades were released. “I don’t want to think of what he’ll say if I don’t win. You’re not the only one who feels like they’re drowning.”

It was his turn to avoid the other’s stare. An unexpected wave of comfort washed over her, to know she was not alone. Her gaze dropped to his school bag on the floor, and the papers protruding out of the top. Sheet music littered with markings.

“Do you play piano?”

He looked at his bag, a deep shade of pink melting into his cheeks. “In my free time.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “How much are you getting nowadays?”

“Not nearly enough.”

She gave him a sad smile. “I don’t think it’s worth winning if you don’t get to do what you enjoy.”

“Or if you’re destroying yourself over it.”

“I visited my family in Harlow this weekend,” Elara admitted. “I didn’t study at all. That’s why my grades slipped.” She had barely been home in the past four years, each weekend usually spent holed up in her room, completing schoolwork. But amidst the trenches of studying this last week, she found herself so homesick she stowed away to Harlow before she could .

“Do you regret going?” Nathan asked.

Elara thought of her family. The lingering scent of cinnamon on her mother’s hands after kneading her favorite bread dough, holding her face gently as she kissed her cheek. Her father’s soft, pensive stare as he looked over an essay she’d written, or deciding which move to make in a game of chess. The feeling of her sister’s quick, steady fingers weaving her hair into a braid before bed, where they might stay up for hours reading by the candlelight. “No.”

“You shouldn’t.”

They played the rest of the game in silence, trading moves until they were staring at a nearly empty board.

“Stalemate,” Elara murmured.

“We could keep playing.”

“It would just go on forever.”

Nathan looked up at her. “What do we do, then?”

As the sun began to set in Pembroke’s library, students still filled every table, studying for finals in the light of the lonely lamps. Only one was empty.

The chairs were pushed in, the chessboard abandoned and emptied of nearly all its pieces. A single blue book with a tattered cover rested in the center of the table, next to it.