Page 9

E VEN IF I DIDN’T KNOW Isabel lived in Hillman House, I would’ve known she lived in Hillman House. Tucked away in a lush green corner of the campus that is going to be next-level stunning when the leaves change, it’s a stately Victorian with a glorious wraparound porch and room for only twelve girls. Of course, it costs twice as much as living in Lockwood or Ewing, so it wasn’t even on my radar of possibilities, but there’s still enough competition for it that they have to host a lottery for residency.

How incredibly lucky that somehow Isabel, Jenna, Ashleigh, and Priya have managed to win spots every year for three years. What are the odds, et cetera et cetera.

Unsurprisingly, the inside is as beautiful as the outside, and as soon as I enter I’m hit with the scents of fresh flowers and lemony wood polish. I could not feel farther right now from the locker-room smell of Rumson. The bedroom doors also don’t have the same whiteboards that hang on the doors of every other dorm—presumably so they won’t destroy the painted wood—so I have to check the polished brass boxes in the mail room to find that Isabel’s single is upstairs, room 204.

At least the dorm doesn’t sound any different from Lockwood—roaring blow-dryers competing with Beyoncé and Harry Styles—and I use that to center myself as I take a deep breath and knock.

The door swings open almost immediately, as if Isabel had been on her way out at the same time, but if I’ve interrupted something, it doesn’t show in the broad smile that sweeps across her face. “Evie! What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to ask you about something.” God, I hear the nervousness in my voice, and it’s so pathetic. We may not be besties, but we definitely count as friends, right? I mean, she took me to the mall so recently that my hair’s still straight.

“Ooh, I’m intrigued.” She steps aside to let me in, and I take a few more breaths as I enter, trying to remind myself for the millionth time that this is not Greentree, I am not “Sierra’s little sister” or “Craig’s girlfriend” or “the weird girl who hangs out with that other weird girl who draws all the time,” and all my good-girl spinelessness should be as far in my rearview as the life I left behind.

By the time I turn around, my gaze is steady and firm, and I settle into the cozy armchair in the corner as if I’ve been there a thousand times. “Do you guys have any plans for the talent show that might need an extremely charming fifth person?” I flutter my newly mascaraed lashes.

Isabel breaks out into a hearty laugh, and instantly I know I’ve made a mistake. “You think this is like one of those old rom-coms where the hot girls have a hot routine they break out at every talent show?”

Do not shrink. Do not shrink. Do not shrink. I shrug casually, as if my ridiculous naivete is whatever, and try to think of an answer that wouldn’t make Salem roll his eyes. “Well, a girl can hope.”

Isabel drops onto her bed and folds her legs seamlessly into a lotus position on her pastel bedspread without even using her hands. “Unfortunately, I am utterly devoid of talent. Ashleigh does hip-hop with her team, Priya has the voice of an angel, and Jenna—well, Jenna is a classically trained pianist, but she’d enter a talent show over her dead body. Sorry to disappoint.”

“No worries,” I say as brightly as I can, which ends up coming out way too brightly. Dial it down, Skeevy, I hear in Salem’s obnoxious voice. “I, too, am utterly devoid of talent. Just thought it might be fun to do something.”

“You’re not utterly devoid of talent, though,” Isabel says with a wicked grin. “I watched you slay at that poker night.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s a ‘talent show’ kind of talent.”

“Okay, but do you have any other talents with cards? Something that could be a talent-show talent?”

“I mean, I do card tricks, some really basic cardistry—”

“Perfect!” Isabel lights up. “Who cares if it’s basic? You can be a magician and I can be your assistant. It’ll be fun.”

“I don’t actually do any tricks other than card tricks.”

“So? You’ll brand yourself as a card magician. I mean, if you really wanna do something.”

“I do,” I say firmly.

She snorts. “Did you lose a bet or something?”

“Ha, not exactly.” How to put this… “I’d like for some people to know me as something other than the Rumson Girl, even if it’s the Talent Show Dork.”

“Ah. Well. Don’t you worry about that,” she says, sashaying over to her closet to pull out a sleek black pantsuit that would probably be perfect if Isabel wasn’t at least half a foot taller than me. “We’re going to make you the hottest magician Camden has ever seen.”

I smile and put the pantsuit in front of me to get an idea of the general look, and yeah, I could make something in the right size look good. “I’m counting on it.”

With my next phase of planning in the works, I spend a couple of days pondering exactly how to make being a card-trick expert look cool. Unfortunately, my partner in crime does not seem to realize that when you enter into a pact with someone, you are expected to be at their beck and call at all times for brainstorm sessions, which is how I end up banging on Salem’s door on Tuesday evening.

I’d let myself in, but I have already twice learned my lesson in Rumson about barging into a room of boys without first alerting them. Then again, Salem’s already plenty alert to my presence, which I know because, well, the sound of a shoe hitting the door is pretty distinct.

“I’m studying, Skeeveball!” His voice is just loud enough over his omnipresent blasting music to penetrate through the door that he still has yet to open. “You know, like you reminded me to do fifteen times today? I’m being good. You should be proud.”

“I’d be prouder if you opened your damn door like a gentleman.” Finally, I decide it’s time to drop my ticket in. “Plus, I come bearing baked goods.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then finally, “You may enter.”

Inside, the music is twice as loud but every bit as incomprehensible as it was on the other side of the door. “What is this,” I ask, gesturing to where his phone is hooked up to a speaker, “and how the hell are you studying with it on?”

“It’s Rage Against the Machine, and it is extremely on topic for studying revolutions, thank you very much.” Still, he turns it down a little. “Anyway, I was promised baked goods?”

“Actually, all I said was that I had baked goods,” I correct, just to be annoying. Still, I hand over a couple of chocolate chip cookies I made in my first meeting of Baking Club the day before, keeping one for myself. “Now, I am very proud of you for studying, but we also need to work on these music choices. There is no way this does not make your parents cringe themselves into the ground, and there’s also no way any girl in her right mind would wanna come back here and make out to this.”

He takes a bite of his cookie and silently says “I have made out to this song a million times” with his arched eyebrow.

“Liar,” I mutter as I take a seat at his desk, and he just shrugs, which is extra annoying because there is no way Salem has actually ever tolerated someone’s presence (and vice versa) long enough to make out with them, let alone to this soundtrack. I can’t even physically imagine him kissing someone. Like, where would he put his hands? Everywhere seems too gentle and intimate for someone who uses pocket knives as fidget spinners and listens to metal loud enough to wake the dead, though I admit he is pretty dexterous with a basketball, and— Wait, why am I imagining Salem’s lips and hands exploring anyone, anyway?

I take a sanity-preserving bite of cookie before continuing my thought. “Anyway, only listening to old music makes you seem like you’re not open to new things and experiences. There’s something so dreary about acting like nothing new can be cool. You don’t wanna be that guy.”

“I am absolutely happy to be that guy.”

“Hey, you asked for my help,” I can’t resist reminding him, even though he’s clearly been sorry about that fact every single minute of every single day since.

“Stick with providing sustenance.” He swallows down the last chocolatey bite. “I might need to join Baking Club.”

Okay, that might be even harder to picture than—

Nope, still harder to picture Salem with his tongue in a girl’s mouth.

Again, not picturing Salem with his tongue in a girl’s mouth.

What was I here to talk about again?

Oh right. Me.

“Anyway, no thanks to you, I locked in a talent-show idea I think you’re going to like very much.” At least if Isabel wears the kind of outfit she’s planning to. “But it’s kind of cheesy and I need you to help me make it cool.”

“I’m really starting to think there’s not one thing I could do to make you cool. Where did you even get the idea that being in the talent show was somehow a badass thing to do?”

“I had a different initial vision,” I admit, “but it went off the rails kind of quickly when I was talking to Isabel. Who, by the way, will be my partner for this, so you may actually want to be nice to me.”

“You know you entirely invented my interest in her, right?”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, okay. Like you don’t literally improve your posture in her presence.”

“It’s instinct!”

“I’ll bet it is. Anyway, you’re supposed to want to help me, the way I want to help you. I’m starting to think I’ve gotten the rotten end of this deal.”

“ You? ” He snorts. “I’m the one who has my phone going off fifty times a day with reminders to brush my teeth or call home.”

“Yeah, and your breath smells better and your mom is happier!”

“My breath smelled fine before!”

It did—he pops Tic Tacs pretty constantly, I suspect to annoy people with the noise—but that isn’t the point. “Well, I bet your dental hygiene is better now, and you’re welcome for that.”

“You also took my weed and lighter, didn’t you.”

I did in fact sneak it out of his room on Saturday night; I’ve been wondering how long it would take him to figure that out. “I’m doing you a favor—now you can’t smoke and you won’t accidentally burn down the entire dorm because you were bored one night.”

I can’t make out any words in his grumbling of a response, but given there’s no fight about it, he seems to agree.

Or has more stashed somewhere.

“You can’t make me sound like some uptight pain in the ass when you asked for this,” I remind him firmly.

“Technically, I asked for someone to cover for me to keep me out of trouble. It was your idea to just… keep me out of trouble. And it’s making things very boring.”

“Boring is good when your idea of exciting is getting high in your principal’s office,” I counter as I hop up from the chair and head to the door, “but you don’t want my help? That’s fine. Something tells me I’ll be just fine without yours.” The whole idea was stupid anyway. It might’ve worked with Matt, but Salem was never gonna care about anyone other than himself.

Seems I suck just as much as ever at figuring out who actually deserves my cookies.

To his credit, the next morning, Salem seems to realize he’s being a dick. Fine, says the note that lands on my desk in English. I’ll help you.

Shortly after, a follow-up lands. Do you know how to do laundry?

I flash back to that first moment of Rumson orientation, that dickbag Duncan implying I was there to clean up after his loser ass. Do your own fucking laundry, I write in firm block letters before tossing it back.

He snorts, loudly enough that a couple of kids in front of us turn around, and then there’s the sound of a new paper tearing and a scratching as he ekes out another barely legible note.

I’m not asking you to do my laundry. I’m asking you to teach me how to do laundry.

I glance up to see him watching for my response, and raise an eyebrow.

More tearing. More scrawling. Even with him bent over the paper I can see his lips curving up as he writes and then tosses the paper on my desk like a Frisbee. Teach me how to be good, Peach.

Mrs. Frank calls on Salem then, and while I would’ve been completely lost, he, annoyingly, gets the answer right and earns a nod of approval. As soon as she’s moved on, he starts writing another note. Teach me laundry and you get to go shopping in my stuff.

Okay, that actually is a pretty decent deal, even with Salem being a foot taller than me. There’s plenty I could do to crop one of his T-shirts, which on him look grungy but on me would look cute AF and definitely edgier than anything I own, and I do love that leather jacket…

I turn the last note over and pick up my pen. Deal. Be ready for me after dinner on Friday. I’ll be the one knocking like a banshee.

I would’ve chosen a card-game club if there’d been one, but since there wasn’t, I figured I could probably like other games as much if I gave them a chance. It was true for Board Games Club, where I played Codenames with a bunch of other sophomores and had a solid time despite losing miserably, but as I stare at the collection of black and white plastic pieces in front of me, I fear both my partner and I have sorely miscalculated.

“Do you know how to play chess?” Sabrina whispers to me from across the board.

“No clue,” I admit as I glance around, watching other people set up their pieces in a way that suggests there is very much a right way and a wrong way. “Do you?”

“I know the queen has the most power,” she says, touching a chipped black fingertip to the top of a crowned piece I assume is the royalty in question. “But it’s killing the king that wins the game.”

“Okay, yes, I know the king part. But I kind of thought they’d be teaching us how to play.” I glance around at the duos who’ve already begun their games, and am more than a little disappointed that we don’t get those clock things to press when our turns are over. “Or that it’d be easy to figure out.”

“You thought chess would be easy to figure out.”

“Well why are you here, if you knew you wouldn’t know what you’re doing?”

“I signed up for the GSA on Wednesdays, but apparently I was the only one, so they shuttered it for lack of interest,” she says with a tinge of annoyance. “There weren’t a lot of choices left by then, so I just picked something chill where no one would bug me for an hour.”

“That sucks,” I say, and I mean it. “Is it open to allies? I am such a good friend that I would totally bail on chess if it’ll help get the group started.”

“I think that ship has sailed, but—”

“Ladies, do you two need help?”

We look up to see Brian, who can’t be more than a couple years older than we are but is trying his hardest to project Elderly Grandfather with his wardrobe, standing over us. The eyes of the club admin are displeased but trying to stay mild behind their wire-framed glasses. Judging by the book in his hand currently bookmarked by his index finger, he was hoping to be able to simply ignore us for the entire hour, and we are now a disruption of that plan.

Here’s where Old Evie would’ve made herself small and polite and pretended she didn’t need anything so he could get back to Elbow Patches for Dummies, or whatever he was reading.

But I am not Old Evie, and I’m pretty sure he is supposed to be providing instruction to those of us who need it. And chess may not be a “cool girl” game, but I’ve always wanted to learn. “Yes, actually!” I say sunnily, even as Sabrina kicks me under the table. “Could you teach us how to play?”

“You… want me to teach you how to play chess?” He pushes his glasses farther up on his nose. “Right now? Like, from the beginning?”

“That’d be a great place to start!”

He stares at me for a few more seconds, as if he’s trying to confirm I’m not kidding, and then he sighs, pulls up a seat, and shows us how to arrange the pieces, ending with the line of pawns in front. He’s starting to explain how they all move when someone else calls for his attention—a chess emergency, I guess—and he tells us to look up the rest on our phones.

“I don’t have my phone here, do you?” Sabrina asks me.

“Nope.” We’re not supposed to have our phones on us until after cocurrics, and I haven’t quite broken all my rule-following habits just yet.

“So I suppose we can just guess?” Sabrina picks up her queen and places it in the center of the board. “I feel like she should be able to do whatever she wants, including skipping over these loser pawns.”

“Agreed.” I consider my own pieces. “Bishop probably can’t go anywhere, being a very serious man of the cloth, right? But look at this little horsey! He can definitely jump over pieces and probably go anywhere on the board.” I pick up the horse and place it right in front of the pawn blocking the king.

“So, your whole skilled-with-games thing, that’s specifically a card thing, huh?”

“A hundred percent.” I glance up at Brian, who’s moderating an argument between two guys who clearly do know chess. “Think he’d mind if I whipped out a deck of cards?”

“Do you have a deck of cards?”

“Literally always. But he did just teach us half the game, so I feel like we should play.” In my head I can hear Salem mocking me for being a softie, but I can also see myself giving him the finger, so I feel like it all evens out.

“Fine, then. I’m gonna take one of your pawns with my queen.”

“That’s fair,” I say with a nod as Sabrina sweeps her queen across the board and knocks off one of my defenseless little guys. “And I’m gonna do the same with my horsey.” I take off the pawn in the adjacent square and move in my piece, just as a girl from the table next to us says, “It’s called a knight. And it moves in an L shape only. ”

I’m about to open my mouth to thank her for the information, even if she’s being a little B about how she imparts it, when Sabrina says, “Not in our version.”

The other girl rolls her eyes but returns to her game to mind her own business, and I make a mental note that maybe I’m channeling the wrong Grayson twin in my endeavors.

And also to stop calling it a “horsey,” maybe.

We settle into our game, making up rules as we go along and talking about our other cocurricular choices. I hadn’t even known there’s a tarot club on Mondays, or that Sabrina’s signed up for Book Club tomorrow, same as I am. “Guess we’re going to spend the entire first meeting fighting about what book to read,” she says as she takes another of my pawns with her queen. She’s done that every move so far, leaving me with one left.

“Can’t wait.” I actually kind of can’t. I used to only read books with happy romances and happier endings, but these days I feel like I could stand to be introduced to books with revenge and murder. Or at least dragons.

But speaking of happy romances and happier endings, it occurs to me that I know very, very little about Sabrina’s once-happy romance and its very unhappy ending. I know it isn’t any of my business, per se, but, well, I’m trying to get my shit together so I can have a normal relationship someday, and maybe Sabrina would like to come along for that ride.

“Can I ask you an incredibly invasive question?”

“What better time is there to be incredibly invasive than over a chessboard?”

“That’s shockingly open of you,” I say as I jump my other knight around on the board, taking him on a little sightseeing tour of the black and white squares.

She shrugs. “If it’s none of your business, I’ll tell you it’s none of your business.”

“Oh, I already know it’s none of my business.”

“Great, then you’re prepared for my answer. But I’m warning you that if your question is anything like ‘How can two girls do that?’ I’m going to be extremely graphic.” She takes my last pawn with a flourish.

“Jesus, no, obviously not.” I survey the board, and decide that a king can definitely move as many squares as he wants. I move it toward the queen, but I’m not sure whether he can take her; Sabrina did say the queen was the most powerful piece. “I was just wondering about Molly. Why the two of you broke up, I mean. And whether you think you’re ready to date again. Or is it one of those things where it’s not really over?”

“No, it’s definitely over,” she says flatly. “She thought we were getting too serious, and wanted to date other people. I can’t even hate her, because sure, it’s valid. But I was serious, and it came out of nowhere, and it just really fucked with me. How one person can think things are literally perfect while the other one is writing a breakup speech.”

“Makes you feel like you can’t trust anything, including your own instincts,” I mutter. “ Especially your own instincts. And how can you not hate the person that now permanently makes you doubt yourself?”

I’d kind of forgotten I was speaking aloud until Sabrina says, “ Yes, exactly. That’s exactly it. Everything feels shaky now.”

“Yeah.”

Sabrina and I stare at the board, and then she uses her queen to kick my king in the nuts.

Or where I assume his nuts would be if he were not a piece of plastic with a cross on top.

“I think I won,” she says with the faintest of smiles. “Start again?”