Calliope’s voice rings inside my head: The special trips home to see you.
An uncomfortable question lodges itself in the pit of my stomach. And what am I doing right now? Making a special trip to see him.
Oh, no—
I stop dead in my tracks. The Foothill Student Housing is TWO dormitories, on opposite sides of the street. I’d been expecting a high-rise. And I thought I’d be able to waltz in to some kind of . . . help desk. But I don’t see anything resembling a help desk, and not only are there TWO dormitories, but each is made up of a series of labyrinth-like buildings shaped like Swiss chalets. Evil, evil Swiss chalets surrounded by tall gates.
WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?
Okay, calm down, Dolores.There’s probably an easy solution. You can figure this out. No biggie.You’ve made it this far.
I try one of the gates. Locked.
ARRRRGHHHHHH.
Wait. Someone’s coming! I pull out my cell and start chatting like crazy. “Ohmygod, I know. Did you see those spurs that urban cowboy was wearing at the gas station?” I pretend to reach for the gate just as the girl on the other side exits. She holds it open, and I give her a wave of thanks as I keep walking and chatting to no one.
I’m inside. I’M INSIDE.
Lindsey would be so proud! Okay, what would she do next? I examine the courtyard, and I’m dismayed to find the situation looks even worse from in here—endless buildings, floors, and hallways. Locks everywhere. On everything. It’s a freaking fortress.
This was such a stupid idea. This was the stupidest idea of all of the stupid ideas I have ever had in my entire stupid life. I should go home. I’m still not even sure what I’d say to Cricket when I saw him. But I hate that I’ve already come this far. I crumple onto a bench and call Lindsey. “I need help.”
“What kind of help?” She’s suspicious.
“How do I find Cricket’s building and room number?”
“And you need that information why?”
My voice grows tiny. “Because I’m in Berkeley?”
A long pause. “Oh, Lola.” And then a sigh. “You want me to call him?”
“No!”
“So you’re just gonna show up? What if he’s not there?”
Crud. I hadn’t thought about that.
“Forget it,” Lindsey says. “Okay, call what’s-his-name. St. Clair.”
“Too embarrassing. Don’t you have access to school records or something?”
“If I had access to something like that, don’t you think I would have used it by now? No, you have to use a source. Your source is St. Clair.”
“It’s not you?”
“Bye, Lola.”
“Wait! If my parents call, tell them I’m in the bathroom. We’re eating pizza and watching Pushing Daisies.”
“I hate you.”
“I love you.”
She hangs up.
“All right,” an English accent says to me. “(A) You’re not in the toilets, (B) You’re not eating pizza, and (C) Whom do you love?”
I jump up and throw my arms around him. “I don’t believe it!”
St. Clair hugs me back before prying me off. “What are you doing at my dormitory?”
“I chose the right one?You live here? Which building?” I look around wildly as if it were about to light up.
“I don’t know. Should I trust a lying girl wearing a yellow raincoat on a sunny day?”
I smile. “Why are you always in the right place at the right time?”
“It’s a particular talent of mine.” He shrugs. “Are you looking for Cricket?”
“Will you show me where he lives?”
“Does he know you’re coming?” he asks.
I don’t answer.
“Ah,” he says.
“Do you think he’ll mind?”
St. Clair shakes his head. “You’re right. I sincerely doubt it. Come along, then.” He leads me across the courtyard to a brown-shingled building in the back. We climb a set of stairs, and he unlocks another door, which puts us inside the building’s second floor, in an ugly, battered hallway. He struts ahead of me, but his scuffed boots make heavy clomping noises on the carpet. Cricket doesn’t make any noise when he moves.
Does Max make noise?
“Here’s my room.” St. Clair nods to a cheap-looking wooden door, and I laugh when I see the worn drawing taped to it. It’s him wearing a Napoleon hat. “And here . . .” We walk down four more doors. “. . . is Monsieur Bell’s room.” There’s also something taped to his door. It’s an illustrated miniposter of a woman thrusting a battle-ax toward the heavens and straddling a white tiger. Naked.
St. Clair grins.
“Are you . . . sure this is his room?”
“Oh, I’m quite sure.”
I stare at the naked tiger lady. She’s skinny and blond and doesn’t look anything like me. Not that it matters. Not that I should care for the opinion of someone who’d hang that on his door. But still. “And now I have a train to catch,” St. Clair says. “Best of luck.” He darts out the building.
If he’s screwing with me, I’ll kill him.
I take a deep breath. And then another.
And then I knock.
chapter twenty