“Who?” I asked, though of course I knew who she was talking about. It’s not like Islington had gotten any fresh meat in the last twenty-four hours.
“Chris,” she said. “I can tell he likes you.”
“Oh yeah? What gives you that opinion?” Not that there was any doubt in my mind that he was crushing. I was just trying to play it cool.
“The way he looks at you. There’s chemistry between you.” There wasn’t a hint of her usual joking demeanor, and all color had left her—she was in all black, and the somber clothes reflected in her voice. The way she spoke . . . it didn’t sound like she was excited—it sounded like she was delivering another eulogy.
“What, are you psychic now?”
She shrugged and poked at her Caesar salad, not looking at me.
“It’s pretty obvious. You guys start leaning toward each other when no one’s watching.” She tapped the side of her head. “But Elisa is always watching. Elisa always knows.”
I shook my head and laughed, grateful for that one small crack in her dreary facade. I knew it was an act, but hey, that’s what she was good at. That’s what we both were good at.
“Wow, okay, I’m going to go talk to Maria about switching roommates now. Apparently mine just turned into a creeper.”
She giggled slightly and took a bite of salad.
“He is cute,” I admitted. That was the only admission she’d get, too.
“Mmhmmm.” I glanced at the clock and tried to think of an excuse to leave, but I felt bad leaving her there by herself.
And then, almost like clockwork, Cassie came over. She sat down with a mug of hot chocolate and a cookie and proceeded to cry on Elisa’s shoulder. I excused myself a few seconds later.
? ? ?
Islington had a lot of secrets. That’s what happens when you put four hundred teenagers in a small area with no real escape. It wasn’t just the students, though—the very grounds were steeped in their own histories. Cabins in the woods with unlocked doors where the potheads would go and smoke, practice rooms that were definitely used for more than practicing . . . come to think of it, most of Islington’s secrets had to do with getting wasted or getting laid, or, if we’re being honest, both at the same time. The campus was our prison, but it was also our secret benefactor: Ask nicely, and you might find your way around some of the administration’s more stifling rules.
It was little surprise, then, when—halfway through spring term last year—Ethan pulled me into a closet in the ceramics studio to show me a ladder leading up to the roof. We’d spent many late nights out there, bundled in thick coats and watching the stars turn. We’d even seen the aurora once, and in that moment I figured that if heaven existed, that’s what it looked like.
Chris and Ethan were already there when I arrived. With everyone at dinner, the studio was empty: Not a single throwing wheel was taken, and the silent air was chilled and smelled of clay. I tried to push down the idea of Mandy’s ghost lingering in the corners, working eternally on the project she never got to truly debut. It didn’t work.
“About time,” Ethan said, giving the splattered clock on the wall a knowing look. Everything in this room was coated with clay, some of it probably from the early days of Islington.
“I’m two minutes late,” I said. “Elisa was making small talk.”
“Whatever, boss,” Ethan replied. Chris just chuckled to himself, watching us with amusement.
“Shut up,” I told him, and pushed past them toward the back room.
The closet stored all the old equipment and clay: Potter’s wheels were stacked together beside rain barrels filled with water and hidden clay. A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling, but I didn’t bother clicking it on. Chris closed the door behind us and I flicked on my tiny keychain flashlight, a must-have when living in the woods.
There was a metal ladder in the far wall, hiding behind a few cardboard boxes. Ethan moved toward it and shuffled the boxes aside, trying to be quiet but ultimately failing.
“You sound like a drunk rat,” I muttered. I kept an ear near the door, straining to hear if anyone was coming in to finish work.
Ethan just grumbled something under his breath. Then, after another shuffle, said, “Got it.”
“Ladies first,” I said, gesturing to the now-clear ladder. Ethan rolled his eyes and began climbing. He pushed open the small door at the top and climbed the rest of the way out. Then he leaned over and whispered “clear,” before disappearing again.
I looked at Chris.
“He’s taking this Mission Impossible thing way too seriously,” I whispered. “Of course it’s clear. It’s the fucking roof.”
Chris chuckled, which made me feel warm; I shoved the feeling aside and gestured him toward the ladder.
“After you,” I said.
He winked.
“Enjoy the view,” he replied. I smacked him on the shoulder.