“How Berkeley politically correct of you. I’d feel better if I believed you.” I watch as he fixes his focus back on his work. “I’ve seen the newspapers,” he continues, not bothering even to look at me. “Your father is a great man. He stands for something. What a disappointment you must be to him.”

I can’t believe he just said that. I can no longer prevent the shaking from being visible on my body.  Even if I could think of a suitable comeback, I could never have gotten the words out of me. My throat is clogged with tears.

I head toward the door.

“Prove me wrong, Miss Parker. Figure out why you’re here, and then make the most of it,” Professor Lambert calls out and I continue out of the classroom.

I let the heavy wood door slam behind me. Running down the hall I crash into a janitor, who steadies me with quick hands, and sets me safely back onto my feet again. Without a word to him, I race out of the building.

I find vacant my favorite spot with a view of the Berkeley Campanelli: the giant concrete slabs with the sculpture of bears atop them in a grassy and shaded area of the campus.  I sink down, curl into a ball hugging my knees, and fight to stop the tears.

I can’t believe I chose this over marrying Alan…

“Here, you look like you could use this,” says a quiet, male voice above me.

I look up only far enough to see the carry-size pack of tissue held out to me in long, tan fingers. I take one and anxiously dab at my tears. On the concrete walkway below there’s a pair of some kind of work shoe and dark blue pant legs that look like they belong to a jump suit or something. Oh God, it’s the janitor I barreled into. How humiliating is this? To be the girl alone on a concrete slab, crying, and being consoled by the janitor.

I don’t look up, praying he’ll go away.

“Can I sit on your bench?” he asks politely.

“It’s not my bench and it’s a free country.”

I cringe. That sounded childish and snooty. No wonder I haven’t made a single friend here.

“I’m sorry,” I add.

“No problem. You’re upset. I get it. I just want to eat my lunch. No harm. No foul.”

He makes a small laugh over his own comments. I avoid looking straight at him, inhale another sniffle, and touch my nose with the tissue.

“Thank you. You’ve been very nice,” I whisper.

He settles near me, copying my posture; feet on bench, his legs bent, and facing me.

“You know, Lambert will only bully you if you let him,” he advises kindly. “And he only bullies the students he thinks have potential.”

How would you know? You’re the janitor, I say to myself, and then, “Thanks. I’ll try to remember that. He doesn’t hate me. I have potential.”

He laughs and, from a pack on the ground, he takes a brown lunch bag and sets it beside him. So he really did just come out here to eat his lunch. The janitor suddenly popping up here has nothing to do with the sorry sight I must have been running out of Lambert’s classroom. A small measure of calm returns to me.

“Rough year?” He’s carefully unwrapping some kind of minimart precooked burrito thing.

Jeez, is he going to eat that cold?

He holds it out to me. “Do you want a bite? It isn’t as terrible as it looks.”

I start to laugh, even though I really don’t want to. “Thanks, but no thanks!”

“Come on. What’s not to love? Week old beans. Week old rice and I’m not even sure what the sauce is. Be bold. Be brave. Eat a minimart burrito from yesterday.”

OK, that was funny. I look at him then, locking onto his green eyes. There’s a really sweet, teasing glint in them. His eyes are large, brightly colored, and filled with a smile. Shoulder length blond-streaked brown hair peeks out from beneath an army green bandana and the face of the janitor is tanned, really good looking…and really familiar.

Why does it feel like I know him?

“Are you homesick? Is that why you mope around campus all day?”

I lift my chin. “I don’t mope. And how would you know what I do all day?”

He takes the keys hanging from his belt and shakes them. “There’s not much to do when you push a broom in the music department except listen and watch everything.” He takes a bite of his burrito. “You have Lambert’s class from 10 until 11. You sit on this bench until noon. You have a practice room from 1 until 2. You sit on this bench until 3. You have your lab with Jared the TA—who’s hot for you, would really like to date you, and is afraid to ask—that’s at 3:30. And then sometimes you do another hour in a practice room, but most of the time you disappear from campus. You’re back at 7 for symphony. That’s your Tuesday/Thursday schedule.”

My eyes round and I tense. Jeez, maybe he’s not just the janitor. Maybe he’s a stalker or something.

“How do you know all that?” I ask anxiously.

“I push a broom, remember?” he replies casually.

I start to gather my things.

“Hey,” he says, putting his hand on my arm. “You don’t have to run for security, Chrissie. I would never hurt a hometown girl. The rest of the girls I stalk are in big trouble, but you’re pretty much safe from me. We’ve got that whole SB thing going on. We’re hometown bonded.”

His boyish eyes start to twinkle above an endearing smile. I stare at him. Chrissie: he knows my name. SB thing? He’s from Santa Barbara too. I study him more closely and I just can’t place the face. I know the face, but I’m not connecting the dots, and I’m not tapping into that instinct thing telling me if I used to like him or if I should run.

He frowns. “Now I’m hurt.”

Crap, he can see I’m not remembering him.

He tosses his unfinished burrito into the bag. “Do you forget every really, really cool guy who does you a really, really big favor?”

I feel my heart drop to my knees. Really, really cool guy….Oh crap! This day just keeps getting worse. Neil Stanton. Yep, I definitely remember him. The jerk from that night Rene and I went clubbing at Peppers before leaving for spring break in Manhattan. The guy who thought he needed to give me life advice after making a fool out of me. In my memory I can hear him say Didn’t Daddy teach you anything about how the world works?

I do my best imitation Rene rich-girl-put-down face. “Sorry! It’s just that Daddy taught me not to speak to the janitor.”

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “And here I was just trying to be nice to you. Why is it girls only remember the parts of everything you don’t want them to? Never the nice parts. Just the parts you want them to forget.”

He crunches up his lunch bag and sinks it into the trashcan five feet away. “And I’m not a janitor. I’m a facilities technician one.”

OK, the way he said that was kind of cute and our evening at Peppers was fun… well, right up to the point of his parting lecture. He’s incredibly good looking. I struggle not to let down my guard just yet. I’m not sure why he’s here or why he would want to meet up with me again.

I arch a brow. “Do you push a broom? Do you mop floors? Do you empty trashcans?”

“Yep.”

“Then you’re a janitor,” I counter, but I can feel myself smiling against my will.

He shrugs. “That’s what my dad calls me, too. Hey, do you want to go grab something to eat? That burrito just didn’t do it for me. Or did Daddy teach you not to have coffee with the janitor?”

Have I really just been asked out by Neil Stanton, former musician turned janitor? Does this count as being asked out? I stare at him, not really sure what this is.

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can. You can miss your practice room one time and you don’t have your lab with Jared until 3:30.”

Well, he’s right about that. Missing my practice time won’t hurt me. I don’t really practice in the rooms and I never study. I book the practice rooms just for someplace to go, someplace easier to be all alone on campus.