Calculations

Jillian has never broken a rule. Not intentionally of course. She has proudly tattled on every potential friend and ratted out every likely enemy from kindergarten to her current literature college courses. Who needs playmates when teachers adore you? Today, however, Jillian was very close to breaking a rule and she couldn’t shrug the heavy blanket of guilt that came with knowing it was her own fault. Jillian was about to be in possession of an overdue book.

She had very good reasons for the three renewals of the thick book filled with children’s fairy tales and an annotated history of each one of course. Her thesis, her precious baby, was due in one week and although she had completed the final draft last weekend, she just had to double-check her references.

Jillian was confident that her theory of ‘A Calculated Composition of Storytelling’ would be praised by her professor and acclaimed by authors everywhere. Of course. She had combed through every famous piece of fictional fantasy from the oral histories of indigenous tribes to the current YA novels on the New York Time’s best-sellers list. Jillian had mapped out plot diagrams and cross-referenced character development and she was confident she had compiled a flawless writing formula for the perfect fairy tale. People were predictable, sheep really, and by applying her calculative writing structure she could guarantee authors would be able to regularly produce exceptional and well-received novels. How hard was writing anyway? Jillian had found that nothing is that difficult if you approach it with a color-coded to-do list and a rigid schedule, of course.

But self-congratulations would come later, today, Jillian had until noon to return her book to the campus library and was currently sitting on a bus stuck in traffic. She had read a final footnote before leaving her apartment exactly five minutes before the public bus would stop down the street from her complex. With two minutes to spare until the bus arrived Jillian sat on a bench and began to reread the author’s commentary on the consistency of story arcs among children’s fables. Three minutes later the bus had still not arrived…five minutes…fifteen.

At twenty minutes past the bus’s scheduled arrival time, Jillian boarded, swiped her student transit card, and gave the driver a very disapproving glare made all the more intense by her large, round glasses and bangs cut with exact precision across her furrowed brow. No matter, she had allowed a buffer, as always, to ensure she was early to every occasion, class, or errand. Of course. Jillian still had fifteen minutes before she would be breaking a rule and the bus only took ten minutes to reach campus.

But now she was trapped in traffic and wondering if despite her planning she would still be responsible for preventing some other scholar from their ability to utilize the book she had selfishly retained. She watched the second hand maliciously speed up its rotation around her wristwatch before deciding to exit the bus and walk the remaining five blocks. The bus driver was happy to see her go and clutching the ticking time bomb to her chest Jillian quick-stepped her way toward the library.

She made it all of one block before she neared the health food store and the eight clipboards awaiting her signature. Usually, Jillian was happy to stop and chat with the advocates dedicating their time to noble causes. She always added her signature to worthy petitions and generously corrected those with misleading information, of course. Today, however, Jillian bobbed through the hemp-smelling world-changers and hustled through the second block.

Five minutes to go and three blocks left. Jillian tapped her foot in a staccato of impatience as she waited for the walk signal to change. No cars were coming, but jaywalking was a gateway crime she made sure to avoid. Of course. Finally, the lights clicked in her favor and she sped along her way.

One more block and two minutes left! She was perspiring heavily, her straight, shoulder-length hair a frizzy mess, but Jillian would make it. The crosswalk was clear and the library within sight. She took one step off the curb and was almost flattened by a dark car that screeched to a halt in an attempt to avoid manslaughter. In a very un-Jillian moment of frustration, she slapped the car’s hood and used her middle finger to express her anger to the driver…of a hearse. Of course.

All of the blood drained from Jillian’s face as she stepped back onto the curb and let the funeral proceed. Each driver seemed obligated to shame her with the glares and by the time the final vehicle passed Jillian wished she had been the one in the casket.

After taking a moment to compose herself and carefully checking both ways. Jillian crossed the street and ascended the library steps. She knew she was late. By five minutes at least. She couldn’t bring herself to check her watch and hung her head as she approached the doors. The locked doors. Of course.

After a third attempt to yank the doors open Jillian peered through the glass at a dark and empty space filled with ghostly stacks and inaccessible books. She backed up and finally noticed the flyer taped to each door:

Please excuse our dust!

The campus library will be closed this weekend for some much-needed remodeling.

Thank you for your understanding!

Please return books to the book drop.

All late fees will be waived.

Of course! Jillian was trapped in that frantic space between sobbing uncontrollably and laughing historically. She opted to sit quietly on the library steps and stare into space. The amount of energy she had poured into not being late hadn’t mattered, on any level. The random chaos of the world didn’t care for her plans or intentions. A tickling thought began to take shape in her mind, a sickening revelation that this might mean her writing calculation, her entire thesis, was incorrect.

With a shake of her head, Jillian banished the forming thought like a wisp of smoke, unraveling her opportunity to grow and develop as a person in favor of recementing her own belief that structure and hard work could solve any problem. Of course. She checked her watch: 12:15. Time to meet her boyfriend for coffee. He wasn’t her boyfriend yet, but if she followed her checklist he would ask her out in approximately two weeks.

Jillian let her book slide into the book drop along with any lingering doubts about her way of life and walked away. Of course.