Locked In

Locked In

The cursor on my computer laughs at me, almost in a taunting “you’re no good” kind of way. It’s like it knows I’m unfit to write a story about romance. I let out an exhausted sigh, put my laptop down, and check my phone for the second time in less than a minute. Still nothing, and I’m still procrastinating. My eyes wander over to other students, shamefully hoping there are others who share my sense of failure. A pair of girls sit together chatting and giggling as they jot something down in their notebooks. One swings her feet under the desk while the other twirls her thick hair. From across the library floor, I can hear their butchered Italian and laughter. I think back to my similar struggles in my freshman-year class. It was a miracle I ended with an A. Not too far from them, a lanky boy looks down intently at his notebook, his bushy eyebrows are furrowed and pink lips pursed. Although he’s not swaying or fidgeting, he does have on a pair of headphones. I never understood how people can focus while listening to music. He unlocks his phone and I watch him skip over a few songs until he lands on one he’s satisfied with. He goes back to his work. Maybe I should too. I pick up my laptop, determined to finish a few pages. I can do this. My fingertips rest along the keyboard in the standard position, something I learned in middle school, and I prepare for a rush of inspiration to strike. But instead, I just stare. And stare. And stare some more. A crinkling noise comes from behind me, like a wasp invading my personal space. I look up from the screen and slowly turn to look for the source. I meet eyes with a stout-looking boy holding a partly opened granola bar. For a few seconds, the noises pause. Until he starts to peel back the wrapper once again while holding my gaze. I blink at him and turn back towards my screen somewhat annoyed but also partly impressed he didn’t seem phased by my irritation. My foot taps anxiously as my document remains empty. I check my phone again. No notifications. I decide to shut it off and just stuff it in my bag. Quietly, of course. I finally type, and my confidence starts to pick up. A satisfactory smile appears on my face as I reach the end of the paragraph, but once I reread it, I instantly grimace. My pinky slams on the ‘delete’ button and I hold it there for a while as I debate just starting my script from scratch. No, I’m almost there. After a few months of writing, I’ve actually made it to the final act of my film. For some reason,

I just can’t seem to think of an ending that fits. It’s infuriating. A sniffle and a soft sob bounce off the high ceiling. I glance around and find a girl who’s crying into her sleeve. People nearby offer her looks of concern as she packs up her stuff and leaves with her head down.

“Poor thing,” I whisper. That was me after my religion professor wrote me a rude comment on the eight-page paper I spent two full days writing. He had left multiple notes, but the one I will never forget was “to say that this is adequate would be an error.” I thank God every day that class is over. I look towards my bag with a sense of longing, tempted to reclaim my phone, but I tear myself away and put my energy back into my screenplay. I decide that it might be best just to word vomit, and so I do. I type. I type furiously, faster than I have ever typed before. My fingers keep the intense pace even though my wrists and abs start to ache due to the intense, unintentional flexing. Finally, a cramp shoots up my right arm and I consequently break. Somehow, I managed to write 15 pages. I sit back and admire the rows of new dialogue and descriptions that are probably (definitely) in need of a rewrite. Nevertheless, it feels rewarding to have at least added a good portion to it tonight. I inhale a deep, extended breath and look up to take in any other sight besides my laptop for the first time in who knows how long. But as I glance around the room, I discover that there’s no one near me. I instantly turn back to check on granola boy. All of his things, including him, are gone–except for a pile of crumbs. The pair of girls and slender boy who were camped out shortly before are nowhere to be seen. I survey the room and realize that I’m entirely alone. Quickly, I touch my mousepad and see that it’s 1:03 a.m. A shiver shoots up my neck. I shove my laptop into my bag and exchange it for my phone. As I pack up, my cell wakes to a surprisingly (actually very predictable) empty lock screen. Still no messages. I roll my eyes, which is followed by an extensive yawn, and trot down the stairs to the main floor of the building. While the library is always silent, it’s almost eerie now that it’s completely empty. Nearing the front doors, my pace falls short and I pause. On the outside of the entrance, a thick chain is wrapped around the door handles. “What the–,” I mutter to myself. I slowly walk towards the front of the building and attempt to pull the handles. On the opposite side, a hefty lock remains in place. I pull harder, trying multiple times on different sections. None of them budge.

My chest begins to rise and fall faster and faster. “Hello,” I scream as I push at the doors once more. “Is anyone out there?” I implore.

I swing around and rush back into the main lobby hoping to find an employee. The lights are dim but I can see that there isn’t anyone in sight. The front desk, ITS department, and other offices are all closed. I scurry around the perimeter of the library, scouting for any doors that could possibly be open. Most rooms lead to dead ends, but after a few hallways, I find a single exit in the back. It’s lit up with a bright red sign and I smile with relief as I extend my arm and yank the handle. Although there’s no chain, the door still doesn’t move an inch. I pull harder for good measure. Nothing. “Come on!” I yell. I slide to the ground and let my body rest on the aged carpet. A long sigh escapes my body and I drop my head in the palms of my hands, closing my eyes. I widely consider my options. Should I smash the door and hope I don’t have to pay for it? I could attempt to call the police, but then would I get in trouble? What would happen if I just fell asleep right here, right now? I groan as I use my backpack as a pillow and stare up at the ceiling. In the distance, I hear a soft rumble but I dismiss it as a possible far-off car engine. No. I rise from the ground and swing my bag on my shoulder. Not an engine. I follow the sound which grows louder with each step I take. In the maze of desks and chairs, I find a boy slouched over a table in a deep sleep, drooling all over his arm and snoring. Without a second thought, I shake his shoulder. “Hello?” I continue to push his upper body. “Wake up,” I plead. He opens his eyes with a lack of urgency and moans with a sense of annoyance. Then, his eyes close. I push him harder. “Hello, do you work here?” Like a statue, he’s fixed in the same position but he responds with a simple, “No.” He slumps back onto the tabletop, determined to sleep despite my questions. “Well, I would really appreciate it if you helped me.” I tap my phone and sigh. “Please. I thought the library was open for 24 hours but I guess it isn’t. Who knew? Anyway, I just want to go back to my room.” “It closes at midnight,” he barks with a scratchy voice. “They changed it after someone stole those computers.” “Well, no one told me!” I argue back in defense. “How do I leave

now?”

I scoff. “Yeah, well the front door’s locked, smart ass.” I turn to walk away, but the boy jolts up behind me. “What time is it?” he asks. I face him and tap my phone. “Almost two.” “Shit.” He slides his textbooks into his bag and throws on his jacket. I follow his quick pace. He stops abruptly at the front door and stares at the lock for himself. “I told you,” I say smugly. He ignores me and tries to pull the door open. “I already did that. It’s locked.” “They’re supposed to do rounds before they lock up,” he states. “Are you sure there’s no one else here?” “Yep,” I smirk. “Did you check the other exits?” “Mhm.” His eyes meet mine through his shaggy blonde hair. “Did you call for help?” I stand there, dumbfounded. “I–, well. No, but–” He shakes his head and pulls out his phone. “Mine’s dead,” he shares as he stuffs his phone back into his pocket. He holds out his hand towards me, raising his left eyebrow. I reluctantly unlock my phone and hand it to him. “Who are you calling?” “The campus police,” he responds and he punches in the memorized number. The phone rings. And rings some more. And goes to voicemail. “Are you serious?” “That is so wrong in so many ways,” I say under my breath. After the beep, he calmly explains the situation and hangs up. “So what now?” I ask. He looks around the room, planning out his strategy for however long we’re set to stay. “I guess we just go back and find a more comfortable spot. We’ll probably be here a while,” he suggests. I nod my head and we walk to the back corner together where there are beanbags. Our bags and coats drop in unison as we both sink into the cushions. He yawns. “I’m Nate by the way.” “Sam,” I offer a weak smile. I roll around the bean bag, trying to get comfortable. The beads make it hard to settle in. “What year are you?” I figure it might work in my favor if I distract myself with stupid questions. Then I might be able to fall asleep. “Sophomore. You?” “Junior,” I respond. I wait for him to ask me a question back,

but only the hum of the heater can be heard. “Good thing they don’t turn off the heat when they close,” I say jokingly. He groans and I take it he doesn’t want to talk to a strange girl. What a nice boy. I turn over, attempting to find a cozy position while also shying away from someone who appears uninterested in getting to know me. As I settle in and look at my cell, my stomach roars angrily and a trail of gurgles follows. “Are you okay?” Nate asks in disgust. That’s embarrassing. “Yeah. I planned on eating when I got back to my room,” I say. “I’ll survive.” I hear him search in his bag, pushing around papers and heavy books. He sighs and lays back. A few seconds later, he sits up and rustles again. This time, he picks something out. “I’ve got a dollar,” he proudly reveals. I roll over to face him and we share eye contact. “For the vending machine.” “You don’t have to do that,” I say bashfully. Internally, however, my organs are screaming at me to take the money. I didn’t realize my intense need for food up until my lower belly sang–and now that it has, I feel as ravenous as a starved hyena. “It’s just a dollar.” He stands up waiting for me to rise with him and we walk to the side of the library where the snack machine sits. A case full of pretzels, M&M’s, and Fritos lights up. “Do you want to split something?” I offer. It seems only right since I am the recipient of his last single. “No, it’s okay,” he says. I continue scanning the endless options. “I wouldn’t be mad if you got the cool ranch Doritos, though.” We laugh together and I insert the dollar into the machine. After I press the button, the claw lowers our chemical dinner, and we walk back to the rough bean bags with our prize. I open the package, the overwhelming seasonings causing immediate salivation. “Thank you, Nate,” I say with obvious gratitude. He shrugs. I take a handful of chips out and tilt the bag toward him. He smiles and grabs a few. “You can have the rest,” he notes while chomping on his chips. Flakes fly everywhere, similar to the granola boy, causing me to sneer. We both chew in silence. I tap my phone, checking for messages I know won’t come, and decide to distract myself. “So you’re studying law,” I ask. He squints his eyes cocking his head. “How did you know that?” “I saw your textbooks earlier,” I gesture toward his backpack. Nate sighs with relief. “Oh, that’s right. Yeah, I’m Pre-Law. It’s riveting,” he says sarcastically and tosses out a weak chuckle. “You don’t like it?”

“Absolutely not. But my parents are both lawyers–they actually met here. So, you know,” he fidgets with his fingers exposing his chewed-up nails. “It was just kind of always going to lead to this.” I nod in my response. I don’t need to tell him that if I was forced to go into my mom’s profession I would fake my death, change my name, and flee the country. “Let me guess, you’re nursing? Or Pre-med?” Nate theorizes. I laugh hard enough to feel it in my stomach. “Oh God, no. What makes you think that?” He shrugs. “Why else would you be in the library so late?” “Okay. Understandable,” I attempt to piece back together his ego. “I’m a film major. I was trying to finish my movie script but I’ve kind of hit a wall though so it wasn’t much use.” His icy blue eyes lock with mine, holding an intense stare filled with curiosity and envy. My chest flutters and I feel my heart drop as I wait for him to speak. “What’s it like?” he asks. “What’s what like? Writer’s block?” “No,” Nate says firmly. “What’s it like to pursue your passion?” My face softens a bit. “Oh, I mean it’s great. I love it. The professors rock and my classes are super interesting.” He looks down. “I hate my classes,” he responds. “Oh. Well, did you say that to your parents?” Nate groans. “Of course I did. They say that learning isn’t supposed to be fun. It’s hard work and perseverance.” He goes quiet, continuing to stare at his feet. “I always wanted to do journalism but they say it’s a dying career.” “That’s not true,” I roll my eyes. “It’s just turning more digital. We’ll always need people to inform us about what’s going on in the world. Don’t they watch the news?” “That’s what I say!” Nate laughs. “At this point, I’m just going to switch my major without them knowing. I’m failing all my classes. I don’t like anything about what my professors are teaching. The only court case I found remotely interesting was when a reporter was sued for invasion of privacy.” “So do it then,” I say. He meets my gaze. “What? Oh no, I couldn’t. I just–” “Why not? Don’t let them force you into a miserable life. They might be mad at first, sure, but if they truly care about you they’ll be happy for you.” Nate stays quiet and I recall back to when I declared my major. “My parents may not have been the most excited when I said I

wanted to do film, it’s justified to be worried about whether or not your kid is going to get a good-paying job after graduation. But my mom is my biggest supporter, and I’m sure your parents will be too. You know, after a few months.” I slide out my laptop from my backpack and go on the school’s website. Typing in “major declaration,” I push the screen toward Nate. He looks at the screen and then up at me. “I don’t know, Sam,” his voice shakes. “Why don’t you just apply for Digital Journalism while keeping your Pre-law track? Next semester you’ll be allowed to take news writing courses and if you hate them, then you still have all of your law credits and can go back to what you’re doing now. But if you love it …” He sighs and grazes his fingers along the laptop. His eyes fill with a mix of fear and longing, and ultimately, he pulls the computer onto his lap. A smile starts to spread on both of our faces. Nate types in silence for a few minutes. Finally, he takes a deep breath and does one last click on the mousepad. “I did it,” he whispers, “I did it.” His eyes close, as a long sigh emerges and he leans back for a moment in silence. “Thank you,” he hands back the computer. I shove the start of his new life back into my bag and tap my phone’s lock screen. “So does that mean I should help you with your problems now?” Nate asks. I chuckle, “I don’t have any problems.” “Oh yeah? What’s up with your constant need to check your cell

then?”

My eyes move to the barren device glued to my hand while Nate tilts his head impatiently. “I don’t,” I argue back. “Please. You’ve been stuck to that thing all night long,” Nate scoffs. “Who is it?” “What? It’s no one.” He turns over on his beanbag and sighs. “Okay, fine.” I flip over on mine in response. “Fine,” I echo. I stare off into the dark hallway nearby and listen to the blow of the heater once again. As an instinct, I turn my phone over to see if there are any new messages. Blank. Frustrated, I throw it off to the side. “It’s this guy,” I groan. I hear him rustle behind me but I stay put, embarrassed to show my face. “I thought that he liked me but ever since I brought up the ‘b-word’ he stopped talking to me.” “The ‘b-word’?” Nate asks.

“Boyfriend.” I flip over and see his emphatic lip tuck and eyebrow raise. “Yeah, I know. I’m lame,” I say. “Screw him. Why are you pining over someone who doesn’t think you’re worthy of a stupid title? From the past couple of hours, I can already tell you’re caring and smart,” Nate comforts me. “There are so many other guys here that won’t drive you crazy to see if they texted or not. I actually have a friend that would probably really dig you.” I burst into a hearty laugh, “I’m okay, thank you though.” “Okay, yeah maybe just take this time for yourself. But seriously. Don’t waste your energy on someone that can’t see what an amazing person you are,” his voice softens. “I went through the same thing last year. I get it, it sucks and it takes time. In a few months from now though, you’ll be thankful you dodged a bullet.” I let out a long sigh. “Yeah, I know.” I look toward my phone and grab it. “What are you doing?” he asks. I scroll through my screen and find the contacts app. “Deleting his number. I don’t need it anymore,” I reply. He grins, impressed. For the first time in weeks, I completely shut my phone down. “Thank you,” I say to Nate. We finally settle in side by side, allowing our exhaustion to fully take over. No more law textbooks and no more emotionally unavailable crushes clouding our minds. Nate begins to snore, just as he did when I found him a few hours before. I smile to myself and somehow manage to doze off at the sounds of his sputters.

I wake to someone shaking my shoulder, leaning over my body. “Sam wake up.” I open my eyes to see Nate and a library employee behind him. I bolt up, taking his rough, calloused hands for support. “It’s unlocked. We can leave now.” We both laugh as the worker’s eyes bulge in horror knowing that she failed to adequately do her rounds. “It’s okay, I won’t report you,” I reassure her. Nate looks at me and we howl together once again. He bends over, grabs my backpack and coat, and hands it to me. Almost in a skipping, awkward race, we find ourselves bursting through the front doors.

“Fresh air!” Nate screams. “That was definitely the weirdest thing to ever happen to me,” I

“Just more material for your movies,” Nate suggests. “Yeah,” I nod. “It is.” I stand there picturing just that. “I’m going to grab some breakfast in the dining hall if you want to join.” I look up at him, “I think I should probably go sleep in my own bed. But thank you.” Nate nods. “Maybe another time? You can tell me about your journalism classes,” I smirk. He beams, “Yeah, totally. Thank you again, for that,” he says sincerely. “I’ll see you around then.” Nate and I part ways before I could also thank him, and for the entire walk back to my apartment, I think about our night together. Once I arrive at my building, I unlock my doorway, rush to my bedroom, toss my stuff on the floor, and joyfully jump into my bed. I sink into the softness of my mattress which feels even more luxurious after spending the night on a lumpy library bean bag. But instead of easily falling back asleep, my mind continues to race. Just more material for your movies. Within moments, I throw off my covers, grab my computer, and effortlessly start typing.

MEET THE AUTHOR

Brooke is currently a junior at Fairfield University, studying English Creative Writing and Digital Journalism, with minor concentrations in Film, Television & Media, as well as Editing & Publishing. She is the Head Entertainment Editor and writer for her university’s newspaper, The Fairfield Mirror, where she has published over 100 articles. Brooke also works as an intern reviewing scripts for The Robb Company and serves as an Assistant Editor for the literary journal Dogwood. She hopes to pursue a career in screenwriting and other opportunities that involve writing.

Brooke created the plot of Locked In as she was drifting in and out of sleep at two in the morning. Thankfully, with her handy, dandy voice memo app, she was able to get down her thoughts and execute them on paper in the following weeks. She hopes that you find the story as inspiration to follow your dreams, just as she pursues hers.