Remembrandt

By Robin M. King

Alexandra Stewart doesn't just walk down memory lane, she lives on it. Her eidetic memory records and plays back her experiences like a movie. It's great when she aces a test, but not so great when she topples over a cute guy and the experience plays back on an endless loop of humiliation.

After her Russian professor at Brown U

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robin M. King
• Release date: Feb 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9781088100424

Robin M. King

Robin M. King is the author of sweet and clean romance for adults and young adults that are fun and always end happy. Her bestselling teen spy series, The Art of Espionage, includes Remembrandt, Van Gogh Gone, and Memory of Monet.

Book preview

1

NEWTON’S LAW

Moisture from the recently watered lawn permeated my clothes as I lay face down on the ground, motionless. Blades of grass tickled at my cheek, the haylike aroma reminding me of summers back home. My chest rose and fell rapidly from the sprint up the hill, but I tried to breathe as quietly as possible. I couldn’t get caught.

I waited, counting in my head, knowing that even moving to glance at the time could give me away. One, one thousand. Two, one thousand. Three, one thousand. A myriad of footfalls echoed to my left, barely ten feet from my position. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying my borrowed black attire would hide me—that, and the rhododendron bush hovering over my back, poking its leaves into my neck.

She should be right here, a gruff male voice said. The jangle of keys nearly stopped my heart. Security guards—several, from the chorus of labored breathing. I held my own breath.

There’s no way she could have run that fast. Maybe she went inside, a quiet voice answered.

All the doors are locked. We made sure of that hours ago.

Thirty-two, one thousand. Thirty-three, one thousand. Thirty-four, one thousand.

My mind spun. This was way more serious than I could have imagined. It was just supposed to be an in-and-out job—a simple one. How did I get here? I exhaled slowly.

What was that? a panicked voice asked.

I stifled a gasp. Did they hear me?

I let my eyes open just a crack. The semi-darkness flickered once, then twice, before the entire courtyard fell black. A smile played at my lips. Somehow the team had come through.

What happened to the lights? a guard asked.

Well, they didn’t all go out on their own, another man said after several seconds. Even the emergency lights are out in the buildings. Something serious is going on.

Well, I’m not going to wait around in the pitch black all night, the first guard declared. Let’s get back to the office and see what we can figure out.

He’s right. There’s nothing we can do if we can’t see.

My mind’s eye could almost see the men’s angry faces as I heard feet shuffling away.

Sixty-three, one thousand. Sixty-four, one thousand. Sixty-five, one thousand.

I kept still until I reached one hundred. Then I tightened my grip on the black satchel and popped out from under the foliage to sprint for the statue. I didn’t have to see to know where I was going. The statue had disappeared in the darkness, but I knew exactly where the ten-foot bronze emperor stood. A few weeks of walking that courtyard had engrained the location of every bench and tree blocking my beeline to Caesar Augustus, though just one time seeing it would have been enough.

It took me only a handful of seconds to arrive at the large stone base. I almost felt guilty as I stepped on the patina of Cupid that clung to the bronze skirt of Caesar. With one black running shoe on Cupid’s head and the other on Caesar’s knee, I hoisted myself up the historic icon until my legs straddled his neck. Despite the darkness, I shook my head at the embarrassing and precarious position I had allowed myself to be put in.

Sorry, Augustus, I whispered in his ear before I carefully slid my body to one of his shoulders. With my back against the side of the Roman’s head, I wrapped my legs Indian style around his shoulder and under his armpit. Maybe you’ll even thank me later.

I reached into the satchel with my free hand and got to work. After about ten minutes, I dismounted the statue and headed back the same way I came. The lights began to flicker on just as I rounded the courtyard and I sped up, glad the satchel weighed significantly less on my sprint home.

Alexandra? Alexandra? My Russian professor’s voice interrupted my slumber. Can you translate the sentence using the subjunctive?

Uh . . . I slid down in my seat and tried to ignore the students’ eyes boring into the back of my head. If only I had slept a little the night before instead of sneaking around campus and climbing on top of a statue in the middle of the courtyard.

On the bottom of page 63? Professor Golkov clasped his wrinkled hands in front of him, making a steeple with his index fingers and rested them on his graying beard.

I translated the sentence in question without looking down at the textbook. He eyed me curiously. That is correct.

I stayed awake for the rest of the lesson. My first semester at Brown University was already in motion, and though I knew it was where I should be, I still felt like an outsider, an interruption to a perfectly planned symphony, a violin out of tune. Dozing in class wasn’t helping, either.

Alexandra, can I see you in my office? Professor Golkov asked as I put away my textbook and notes at the end of class. I raised my head to see a few curious students look at me sympathetically and then walk out of the room. 

Uh, yeah. I wracked my brain, trying to figure out if there was any way he knew about my mission the previous night. No, I told myself. He probably just wants to make sure I stay awake in class.

I will be there in just a few moments, he said. He began piling papers and books into his briefcase while a few stragglers gathered around the podium, asking him questions.

No matter what I told myself, I couldn’t help but panic. I raced out the doorway and down the hallway of the old Marston building, passing Golkov’s office, and ran down the stairs to burst into the nearest bathroom. I already felt I didn’t belong at Brown, and now my favorite professor was singling me out. This couldn’t be good.

Standing inside an open stall, I gripped the faded beige walls and took a few deep breaths. The aroma of artificial wildflowers trying to mask the stench didn’t help. I missed the fresh valley air of my hometown, Wenatchee, Washington. I wanted to jump into the brisk Columbia River waters and float away my anxieties. I wanted to hike to the top of Mount St. Helens and feel the cool mountain air against my skin. Instead, I forced myself from the bathroom and climbed the stairs to Golkov’s office.

Hello, Professor, I said as I entered, using my best Russian pronunciation. I tried to keep my voice cool and steady, the opposite of what I felt inside.

Professor Golkov looked up from his mahogany desk. His silver-speckled hair was longer than that of most Brown professors, and his wrinkled face had a youthful exuberance that made me forget he was at least three times my age.

I want to discuss something with you, he said in Russian. His voice flowed out like warm syrup, easing some of my apprehension.

Sorry, uh, about class today, I replied, speaking in Russian as well. It . . . it won’t happen again.

To keep my hands from shaking, I picked up the first thing I saw on the edge of his desk. A Rubix cube. I played with it while he spoke, glad my eyes had somewhere to focus other than his gaze.

That isn’t exactly why I asked you to come to my office today. One of my hands slipped on the Rubix cube. Oh, no. He knows. Somehow, he knows.

Golkov cleared his throat. I wanted to ask if you would be interested in some private tutoring. I glanced up, trying not to let my shock show on my face. 

This is what he wanted to talk to me about? My pronunciation must be worse than I thought.

Sure. I know I need more practice. A nervous laugh of relief escaped my lips. I didn’t mind admitting I needed help especially now, knowing the reason I’d been called to his office. I set the cube back on his desk, finally letting my shoulders relax.

Golkov stared at me and then back at the cube, and back at me again. He raised a gray eyebrow. How did you . . . you just solved that in less than a minute.

What?

The puzzle. He pointed at the cube.

I looked down at it. Sure enough, he was right. All of the colored columns and rows stared back at me in perfect alignment. I hadn’t even realized I had done it.

I wasn’t a genius. I had once seen a documentary on the Hungarian inventor Erno Rubik. Part of the documentary showed the inventor himself solving the Rubix puzzle in a matter of minutes. Of course this one had been arranged differently, but the principles were the same. I chided myself for letting my brain recall the documentary. Why couldn’t I just turn this thing off?

Guess I was lucky, huh? I pulled the strap of my backpack higher onto my shoulder, hoping Professor Golkov believed me.

Hmm. He rubbed his bearded chin. I’m free before our class each morning. Would eight o’clock work for you? He picked up the cube and turned it over in his hands.

Yeah, that sounds great. I turned to leave his office, ready to rush out before I made another mistake.

And Alexandra?

Uh-huh? I stopped my quick exit and faced him, avoiding direct eye contact by keeping my eyes on the Rembrandt painting on his back wall. Something about it seemed wrong, but from where I stood, I couldn’t tell what.

I expect that your extracurricular activities won’t get in the way of proper rest in the future?

My stomach flipped. He knows.

I finally met Golkov’s gaze. Standing there with my mouth hanging open, I realized he knew about the prank but wasn’t going to do anything about it. 

Yes, Professor, I choked out, then turned before he could see the confusion and humiliation displayed on my face in what had to be a deep red flush. My feet carried me from his office even quicker than they had moved the previous night.

Twenty-nine days. That’s how long I had been at Brown. Twenty-nine days since leaving Washington, the only place I had known in all my seventeen years. If my father hadn’t been offered the position as an American History professor at Brown, I would still be in Wenatchee. Still be there smelling the sweet aroma of freshly picked apples—apples my mom would bake into a pie with just the right amount of cinnamon and nutmeg. Not even a month had passed, and yet Providence was supposed to be my new home. I’d tried to make it feel that way, which was what last night had been all about. I had wanted to be a part of something at Brown besides Russian and Calculus.

I stared down at the outdoor walkway on my way to the Barus-Holley Building. If I didn’t hurry, I would be late for Physics. Arms and elbows jostled me as I swam through the sea of students. I glanced at a few of the faces around me. I recognized everyone I saw, though none of the students knew me.

The large, brick columned buildings towered over my five-and a-half-foot frame. Brown was certainly a step up from Eastmont High School with regards to education and campus. It seemed like years had passed since I had walked the cracked-pavement sidewalks of EHS and squeezed into buildings stitched together with each new expansion.

As I walked down the crowded corridor on my way to my next class, I tried not to think about my morning faux pas or last night’s escapade. That was hard to do with slide shows and movies constantly playing in my head. At times like this when I needed a distraction, I tried to picture the ocean. There was something soothing about the rush of the waves.

I could see the scene in my head in perfect detail, right down to the chipped hot-pink nail polish on my toes. It was the yearly family trek to Cannon Beach. I stood right where the salty water washed up to my ankles. The sand around my feet began to fade away as the cool water rushed back from the beach. Tanner stood up shore about fifty feet away, wearing his WSU sweatshirt. My brother loved the university and always wore that old, baggy gray thing. He smiled at me before football-sprinting into the freezing-cold water. Then he dove in, fully clothed, and the faded cougar on the back of his sweatshirt disappeared under a wave. He resurfaced and tried to outrun the waves back to shore.

I glanced behind me at my mom and dad, who were reclining on their beach chairs. Their laughter seemed to harmonize with the waves. I’m sure my dad was relating something Benjamin Franklin had said, and my mom was enjoying his historical humor. My eyes again focused on the Pacific Ocean. It may not have been the clearest water or the whitest sand, but the Cannon Beach waves had to be the greatest sound on earth. I closed my eyes, took a deep, ocean-laced breath . . . and slammed right into the person in front of me. 

Ow! I heard as I tumbled right on top of another student in the middle of the Barus-Holley corridor. The maple hardwood echoed as we collided with the floor. More accurately, the person hit the floor, and I landed on his back. Luckily, he was much larger than me and broke the brunt of my fall. We were only a few feet from the door to my class.

I’m so sorry! I frantically pushed myself off the stranger. When I reached out my hand to help pull him up, he turned around. And he was . . . smiling? Or should I say smirking?

I’m just glad I could catch your fall. He reached out to grab my extended hand. He was much taller than me, but I did my best to help him up. His shoulder bag lay at his feet. He picked it up and inspected his clothes. Still smiling, he tucked his dress shirt back into his khaki pants and dusted off his vest. It’s not every day you get knocked off your feet by someone. He laughed and brushed some of his wavy brown hair out of his eyes.

I don’t think my face could have flushed any harder. I tried to smooth down my hair. Once I was assured it wasn’t sticking up funny and that my skirt and shirt were still presentable, I looked up. The student still had a grin on his face. His gaze focused on me for several seconds—really focused on me like he actually cared who I was and what I was thinking. After weeks of passing by thousands of students who hardly noticed me, his deep blue eyes felt like the refreshing waves of the ocean. The noise of footsteps and chatter broke the moment. All eyes in the hallway were fixed on us. I turned toward the wall to hide my face and darted into my class. I took the first empty desk I could find. A few people in class had seen my collision and were quietly laughing to themselves. I was beginning to wish my father had been hired by a university with larger classes, or that I hadn’t inherited his clumsiness, when the professor began speaking in his monotone voice.

Every object in a state of uniform motion tends to remain in that state of motion unless an external force is applied to it. A few snickers erupted from the back of the room. Apparently, I was a perfect example of Newton’s First Law of Motion. Exhausted by all this negative attention, I put my head down in my arms and wished I could make myself invisible as easily as I could be socially awkward.

As usual, I had read the chapter and done my assignment, so when I raised my head at the end of class, I knew I hadn’t missed anything. The professor’s drawings on the board weren’t as good as the ones I already had in my brain from the textbook. At least there was something about this day to smile about.

After a long day of classes, I rushed back to the dorm. The Wayland House didn’t have the five-star accommodations I had hoped for in an Ivy League school, but I had made the small space my own with items from home. Photos of my parents and brother dotted the wall by my bed—a skiing trip in the Cascades, the Apple Blossom 5K race where I had beaten my brother, my sweet-sixteen birthday party with the lopsided cake my mom had made. The ugly yet comfy forest-green fur blanket my grandmother had given me covered my bed.

Despite the fact that I had a lot of homework, I threw my bag on the twin bed and changed into my running clothes. I laced my Sauconys tightly and pulled my long strands of ash-blond hair up in a high ponytail at the back of my head.

The bedroom door swung open just as I reached out for the knob. I halted before I collided with my roommate, Casey. She stood in the doorway with her hands on her tiny hips and a smile that lit up her almond-shaped eyes. She was one of those people you just had to like. I was glad campus rules required me to live my first six semesters on campus and not with my dad. Casey was the best thing that had happened to me since moving three thousand miles across the country. She was the older sister I always wanted.

Hey, girl! Where you off to this late? She tossed her shiny black hair. It smoothly fell back into place below her earlobes. Her eyes surveyed my clothing choice. She raised one eyebrow. Her own outfit reflected her quirky style. Hanging from her ears were a pair of her famous handmade hoop earrings. She had layered a black fur-like vest over a turquoise tunic and black leggings. The outfit was accented by a five-inch-wide leather belt, accentuating her slender waist. A vintage necklace hung from Casey’s neck, tying the whole outfit together. A twinge of jealousy ran through me. Why had I been given the fashion sense of a five-year-old?

I stared down at my old, baggy T-shirt and ragged running shorts and sighed. Even though I was going running, back home this would have been my usual attire.

Just going on a run.

It’s going to be dark soon. Want me to join you?

We had run a few times together, and while she meant well, I didn’t want to go on a stroll, stopping and chatting with friends and cute boys. I had to run.

Thanks, Case, but I need to clear my head.

Rough day, huh?

When I didn’t respond, she just gave me a quick hug and plopped down on her unmade bed. That was one thing about her that I loved. She had this uncanny ability to know when words couldn’t help and when to give someone her space.

I won’t be gone long, I said at the door.

Good, ’cause we have to talk about last night. The whole campus is buzzing. If they only knew—

I waved her off. Be back soon. The door swung shut and I walked down the hallway, letting my hand trace along the cinder-block walls. I tried to ignore the girls and guys loitering in the lobby as I headed outside.

My feet began to pound the pavement at an easy pace until I reached the edge of campus. I ran north along Hope Street. Hope. The irony of it all hit me hard. I could see the Webster’s Dictionary page in my mind: hope \hōp\ n. a feeling of expectation and desire for a certain thing to happen.

The tears started to come, blurring the road in