AFTER MAKING SUCH A HUGE IMPRESSION ON HAYES MAJOR, STEVIE paced her room for a few moments and reviewed her introductory strategy. More confidence. That’s what she needed. When she joined the FBI, she was going to need to walk up to people and shake their hands, look them in the eye, ask questions. Hayes had just caught her by surprise.
Her next chance was already here, kicking a laundry basket brimming with sketchbooks, pencils, oil crayons, and paints sitting by the door. A girl, the presumed owner of the foot, followed it in.
She wore a faded, shrunken yellow T-shirt from an auto repair shop and an old cheerleading skirt in deep blue with red internal pleats. Her legs were covered with little bruises and nicks—nothing serious-looking, more like the kind you would get by trying to climb trees or other objects. Her feet were just about covered in a pair of scruffy red cloth Mary Jane slippers held together with safety pins. Her hair was the real statement piece; it looked unwashed and matted, and it had been gathered in little bunches around her head and tied into bundles with what looked like baby socks. Down her left arm was a long tattoo, one massive line of elaborate script. Down her right arm were notes and sketches in different colors of pen.
“It is hot as balls in here,” the girl said in greeting. “Balls. Seriously. When the hell are they going to get some AC?”
Stevie stepped forward, considered offering a hand for a handshake, and opted instead for a casual lean against one of the chairs.
“I’m Stevie,” she said. “Stevie Bell.”
“What’s up,” the girl said. “I’m Ellie.”
There was no Ellie on the list of Ellingham students, but there was an Element Walker. And this person looked like an Element. Ellie, or Element, kicked a box that contained feather boas, a ukulele, a bowler hat, and a lot of plastic storage bags full of used makeup, and spilled glitter across the floor.
“Can I help?” Stevie said.
Ellie shrugged, but seemed happy enough with the offer.
Ellie’s things were a lot scrappier than Hayes’s or Stevie’s—two old cardboard boxes, an oversized army duffel bag, a gold backpack, and a lumpen black laundry sack. It didn’t take long to deposit these items in Minerva Three, which was down by the turreted bathroom.
“Pix,” Ellie yelled as she dragged the last of her things into her room, then walked back to the common area. “Why is it hot as balls in here?”
(Note to self, Stevie thought, you could say balls to teachers here.)
“It’s summer,” Pix replied, coming into the common room. “Hey, Stevie. I left your parents out on the tour. They’ll be back soon. And Ellie, the heat won’t last long, and then you’ll be freezing. So you can look forward to that.”
“Why don’t they get air-conditioning?” Ellie said, dropping heavily into the hammock chair. She spun around and turned herself upside down, letting her head hang off the bottom, dusting the floor with her hair bunches.
“Because this is an old building with old wiring,” Pix replied. “Because fire. How was Paris?”
“Hot,” Ellie said. “We went to Nice for a while. My mom has a new boyfriend and he has a place there.”
Paris. Ellie had been in Paris. Obviously, Stevie knew that Paris was a real place that real people went to. Her school sponsored a French Club trip the last summer, and she knew three people who had gone on it. It was only a week long and the biggest story out of it was that Toby Davidson got hit by a bike and almost lost a finger. (Almost Lost a Finger: The Toby Davidson Story. Not a compelling read.)
There were shuffling noises by the door, and Stevie turned to see another person there. Though it was blazingly sunny, he had the look of someone caught in a rainstorm with a heavy backpack on. He wore a T-shirt that said IF YOU CAN READ THIS SHIRT, YOU ARE TOO CLOSE. His eyes were a strange pale gray. He had a shock of red-blond hair that had been cut by someone with more enthusiasm than skill.
“Nate!” she said. Out with the hand. Meet his eye. “I’m Stevie.”
Nate looked at her outstretched hand, and then at Stevie’s face, seemingly to check if this was a serious gesture. With a sigh that probably (probably?) wasn’t supposed to be audible, he shook it once and let it go quickly.
Stevie decided to drop the handshake move.
Pix greeted Nate and got out his key, while Ellie examined him from her upside-down position.
“Nate’s a writer,” Stevie offered. “He wrote a book. The Moonbright Chronicles.”
“Never read it,” Ellie replied. “But that’s cool. What about you?”
“I read it,” Stevie said.
“No,” Ellie said. “You. What do you do?”
“Oh, right,” Stevie said, brushing away her mistake. She borrowed her technique from one of her current favorite TV detectives—Sam Weatherfeld of Stormy Weather. Sam never got stuck on moments like that; she always moved with the flow of conversation and didn’t try to walk against the current. It was time to declare herself for what she was. She had considered many terms. It was too presumptuous and silly to say detective; she wasn’t any kind of law officer or private investigator, and she had never really solved a case. Crime buff just sounded like a weird hobbyist with a high gloss. Crime historian wasn’t quite right and was definitely too dull. Her solution was not to give herself a title, but to state an activity.
“I study crime,” she said.
“To do it or stop it?” Ellie said.
“To stop it,” Stevie said, “but it probably works either way.”
“So you came here because of the crimes?” Ellie said. “The murders?”
“Kind of,” Stevie said.
“That’s cool. Someone should. They’re good murders, right?”
She did half a backward somersault out of the chair. Her skirt stuck up in the back, revealing her butt.
Ellie had simply accepted her, just like that. For a moment it was all endorphins and rainbows in Stevie’s head. That was all it had taken—one nice, accepting word from another student and she realized it would all be okay.
And yes, they were good murders.
Then she caught something in her peripheral vision—her parents were coming down the path with another pair of parents, mostly likely Nate’s. Nate’s parents were very angular people, crisply dressed in near-matching polo shirts and long shorts. The colors were different, but the effect was the same. Stevie’s dad was talking and gesticulating, and her mom was nodding. Nate’s father was listening, and his mother was scanning the house and the middle distance.
The endorphins fled the scene and were replaced by cold sweat. What were her parents saying? Were they talking about their views on the media? That the government was trying to control the lives of decent Americans? The myth of climate change? Or was it something more fun, like the price of bulk toilet paper? These were all favorite topics and all equal possibilities.
Stevie looked to Nate, who was staring at the door like he was watching an approaching cloud of locusts. He was also feeling the strain of parents meeting parents. Ellie was now scratching her exposed butt. (Well, not the butt-butt, but the upper-leg part where it meets the butt zone. Technically thigh, but butt for all legal intents and purposes.)
Stevie gripped the chair and braced for impact.
“Did you see a moose?” she said to Nate, in an attempt to make some kind of conversation.
“What?” he said. Which was fair enough.
All of the parents arrived at the door in a knot and trickled through into the common room.
“. . . just avoiding the toll roads.” Stevie heard her dad say. The conversation had been about the trip, most likely. That was probably very dull but safe. Then eight parental eyes turned to the exposed butt on the floor. Ellie rolled into a seated position, just a few seconds too late. Her matted, baby-socked hair stood on end for a moment.
Nate’s parents showed no outward sign, but Stevie saw her parents take it in. Her father looked away. Her mom’s mouth twisted into a small, confused grin.
“Let me show you what I did to my room,” she said, hooking one parent by each arm and hustling them down the hall.
“What in God’s name was that girl wearing?” her mother asked, a little too loudly, as Stevie shut the door of her room behind them.
“I’ve never seen anything like that getup before,” her dad added.
Stevie’s parents labored under the belief that what a person was wearing had a direct correlation to their worth as a human being. There were normal clothes (good), and there were nice clothes (very good), and there was everything else. Ellie had just reset the limits on this last category.
“Did you like the campus?” Stevie said, smiling. “Isn’t it amazing?”
That the campus was amazing was undeniable, and her parents made a clear effort not to dwell on Ellie and instead focus on this mountain paradise of mansions and fountains and art and natural beauty.
“We’re going to have to head back soon,” her dad said. “Are you . . . set?”
On that, Stevie had an entirely unexpected emotional pang. Her parents were about to leave, which was something she had known about and frankly wanted, but now in the moment, there was a hot rush of feeling. She gulped hard.
“Okay,” her mother said. “You have your pills? Let’s just put eyes on the pills.”
Stevie’s plastic bag of medications was produced and examined.
“You have a hundred and twenty Lexapro and thirty Ativan, but only take the Ativan if you need it.”
“I know.”
“But if you need it, make sure . . .”
“Mom, I know . . .”
“I know you know. And you call us every day.”
“You be good,” her dad said, hugging her hard. “You need us, you call. Doesn’t matter the time.”
Her father looked genuinely on the verge of tears. This was the worst. Bells did not cry. Bells did not show feeling. This had to stop.
“Remember,” her mother said into her ear, “you can always come home. We’ll come up and get you.”
Her mother’s final little squeeze said, This isn’t the kind of place you belong. You’ll see. You’ll be back.