That weekend, Isaac and I took a Sharpie to a map of campus, locating the buildings that might not have heating—the ones that were never used. That meant one of two options: the defunct single-screen cinema near the film dorm, or the old greenhouse behind McKnight. We agreed to stake them out. Isaac, the cinema; me, the greenhouse.
Every night, after check-in, I crept out through my window and snuck up-campus to lurk in the woods by the greenhouse, whose doors were boarded up. As I waited, I studied by flashlight against the bole of a tree that was slightly less smothered in ants than the others. I didn’t retreat to Burgess until 1:00 a.m. It got to the point where I couldn’t remember the last good night’s sleep I’d had, but I wasn’t about to let these guys slip by. They were going to pay.
The end of October crept up, and with it, the Daylight Dance. The Kensington administration knew how terrible an idea it would be to unleash a bunch of arts kids on Halloween. (Imagine the costumes.) Instead, they’d placed a semiformal dance a week into November, on Daylight Savings. The Sharpshooters and the Precautionary Measures performed at the Daylight Dance every year, two songs each; for a week and a half, we broke from our competition set to learn the pieces, but the time we lost wasn’t an issue. We’d already memorized half the competition set, and if Trav still wasn’t satisfied, knocking out the performance at the Spirit Rally had at least mollified him.
He never seemed to leave Prince Library anymore. Any time of day, we could find him in the lounge area, headphones on and a MIDI keyboard plugged into his laptop, transcribing. The ghost of his fight with Isaac still drifted over rehearsals every so often, but what the Minuets had done had glued us back together, left us twice as determined to triumph in December.
Then, one Saturday afternoon, Isaac texted me: Hey, swing by my room. Got news. I’m in Wingate 420, insert obligatory weed joke here.
I booked it to Wingate and took the elevator to the fourth floor. The sour light of the hallway made my hands look green. I passed a bulletin board plastered with hall rules—check-in schedule, lights out, living agreements—and knocked on Isaac’s door.
The sound of feet bounded toward the door. It flew open. “Hey.” He waved me in.
The Wingate corner rooms had four windows, showering them in natural light. This room might have benefited from a little less visibility. Sci-fi paperbacks, well-worn fantasy hardbacks, and thick textbooks had been chucked at random onto the shelves. Pads of staff paper featured prominently on both desks, balled-up wads of paper littering their edges. Jackets and jeans dangled off bed frames; shorts and socks lay in trails on the mottled carpet.
“Wow,” I managed.
Isaac grimaced. “We’re gonna clean this weekend.”
“No sweat. I’ve seen worse.” I eyed the walls, which were plastered with posters. Isaac’s walls wore a spread of angry-looking rock bands, a rainbow of electric guitars clutched in their front men’s hands. His roommate’s side advertised an array of blood-splattered movie titles, as well as a vaguely pornographic-looking video game. The animated lady’s spandex-clad boobs didn’t follow any laws of gravity I’d ever encountered.
“Where’s your roommate?” I asked.
“He lives in the Arlington practice rooms. Like, there’s definitely a pillow down there.”
“Who is he?”
“His name’s Harry. He’s a cellist from Arkansas.” Isaac saw where my eyes were fixed and glanced at the video game poster. “Um, he just genuinely likes the game.”
“Sure he does.”
Isaac leaned over his bed. A silvery microphone in a foot-tall stand sat cushioned by his comforter, set up beside his laptop. The equipment looked spotless, heavy, professional. “Wanna shut that?” He waved at the door.
“Right.” I shouldered it shut, feeling awkward. We weren’t allowed to be in boys’ rooms unless the door was wide open and it was before 6:00 p.m. “So,” I said. “What’s up?”
Isaac moved his recording setup to his desk with a heavy thunk of the mic stand. “I saw Oscar and Furman and Caskey skulking around the cinema last night. We got ’em.”
“Oh, thank God. No more lurking in the woods until one in the morning.”
“Yeah, stakeouts are surprisingly boring, is my takeaway from this.”
“Seriously.” I navigated through the ocean of discarded clothes to his desk. “Nice job, by the way.”
“Thanks. I’m a legend.” He gazed into the middle distance. “I am destined for a future in espionage.”
I couldn’t help a laugh. “’Cause subtlety is your middle name.”
“I’m the subtlest person I’ve ever met. I’m basically James Bond.”
“Right. James Bond is really well-trained in—” I glanced at the worksheets on his desk. “Identifying imitative polyphony.”
He gave me a catlike grin. “Imitative polyphony is how you beat the Russians.”
I failed to suppress a smile. He brightened, rubbing his hands together. “So, anyway, when do you want to do this thing? We could wait until after Daylight Dance, if—”
“A whole week? Nah, forget that.”
“Sweet. I didn’t want to wait either.” He turned to his desk and flipped a couple of pages. “I’ve got a test Thursday, so I’d rather not sneak out Wednesday. How about Thursday night? That work for you?”
“Sure. We could meet around midnight? One?”
“One sounds good. I’ll—” A knock interrupted him. I wound through the maze of discarded clothes and pulled the door open.
Nihal stood in the threshold. His turban was dark blue today, matching his stiff felt coat. His brown eyes met mine with unshakable calm.
I slipped a smile on. He hadn’t heard anything, had he? If Nihal found out we were going ahead with retaliation, even after the vote, he would . . .
I wasn’t sure, actually. What, would he get mad? The most negative thing I’d seen from him was stress irritation, and even then, hardly any, compared to the rest of us. I wondered what Nihal looked like angry.
“Julian,” he said, looking between me and Isaac. “How are things?”
“Going fine,” I said, standing back. “Come on in.”
As I shut the door, I shot Isaac an urgent glance. He cleared his throat. “We were just, uh. Talking about the retreat. Julian wanted to know what it’s like.”
Nihal smiled, leaning his backpack against Isaac’s desk. He took a seat. “It’s the best.”
“We’re staying at Jon Cox’s mountain house,” Isaac said.
Of course Jon Cox had a mountain house.
“His mom was there last year,” Isaac said, “but I think his grandparents are flying in to Boston for all of Thanksgiving Break this year, so we’re on our own.”
“We’ve been specifically instructed to leave the place in one piece,” Nihal said.
“You’ve been instructed,” Isaac said. He gave me a knowing look. “Jon Cox’s mom loves Nihal.”
Nihal shrugged. “I’m good with moms.”