“—but Trav found out, so nothing happened.” I glanced at Nihal. “I’ve been thinking, though. What if this whole thing is because of, you know, what happened after the other weekend? I mean, Isaac seemed fine before he found out I’m . . .”
Mama shook his head. “No, don’t worry. It’s not that.”
“How do you know? It—”
Jon Cox waved his hand. “Because he’s been rooming with that cello kid for three years. Harry whatever. And cello kid is pretty much the gayest person this side of the Mississippi.”
“Oh.” I fell quiet. The theory evaporated, landing me back on square one with a thud, and with an unexpected rush of relief.
At my elbow, Nihal let out a breath, and I knew he’d been wondering the same thing.
Another lapse. Brows stayed furrowed. Lips buttoned shut.
“What if he doesn’t want to do the retreat?” Jon Cox said. “Who’s going to drive?”
Nihal nudged me. “Do you have your license, Julian?”
“Yeah, but I can’t drive more than one person. And I’m not allowed to have anyone younger than twenty in the car until March.” I frowned. “Actually . . . Jon, how are you allowed to drive more than one person?”
A guilty look crept over Jon Cox’s face. He threaded his fingers through his golden hair.
Mama jumped in, just like at the Dollar Sale. “It’s, uh, different in Massachusetts. The—”
Jon Cox sighed. “Leave it, Mama.” He glanced at me, his blue eyes guarded. “I turned eighteen in August.”
“What? How are you a sophomore?”
“I got held back. Twice.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but nothing came to mind. Sure, some Kensington kids couldn’t have cared less about core classes, but they’d still tested into this place. The whole point of this school was excellence.
After a second, I wiped the surprise from my face. Stop. God. I hated getting snobby about grades. None of my friends back home got good grades, and I didn’t judge them for it; it was dumb to hold Kensington kids to a different standard.
“Jon’s dyslexic,” Mama explained. “It was worse in elementary school.”
“Oh.” I looked back at Jon Cox, who was shrinking back into the sofa. Tiny things fell into place—the way Trav always taught Jon’s parts last, and with uncharacteristic patience. Jon Cox’s deeply smothered insecurity. The way he was always reading the same book for weeks at a go. “I mean,” I said, “but you can’t help that.”
Jon Cox let out a mumbling laugh. “Not according to some people.”
“Fuck them,” Mama said.
Jon Cox didn’t look satisfied. His expression grew doubtful, as if his own thoughts were hounding him. I wanted to say something reassuring, but nothing came to mind. “Right,” I said, clearing my throat. “Okay, so. We’ll just . . . hope Isaac comes around?”
“That’s pretty much my plan,” Mama said, standing.
The four of us collected our things, huddled down in our jackets, and shuffled out together into the icy clutches of campus.
It wasn’t until Nihal and I were alone and halfway up the hill, coated in snow to our knees, that I spoke. “I know nobody wants to say it, but if Isaac doesn’t show for the retreat, the driving thing is going to be an issue.”
“Yeah,” Nihal said. “He’s also loud. Next to everyone else in the competition, seven people will sound anemic. We’re already so small.”
“You want to track him down?” I said. “Tomorrow after classes, maybe?”
“We can’t. I have transcribing to do, and you have to go to that meeting with Graves.”
We broke onto the cleared sidewalk. “How about tonight?” I said. “I could sneak out after check-in. Ten o’clock?”
Nihal checked his watch. “I can do that. I’ll meet you at his room.”
I knocked on Isaac’s door, using only one knuckle to dampen the noise. The Wingate prefect couldn’t see me on this hall—he’d chase me out.
After a second, the door creaked open to reveal Isaac’s roommate, a light frown on his face. It was the first time I’d seen Harry: a pale, scrawny kid wearing white Converse and neon yellow jeans, which made him look just a little bit jaundiced. “Isaac’s not here,” he said.
I loosed a sigh. Of all the nights Isaac had picked to sneak out to work . . . good thing Harry was actually home for once, then.
Nihal glanced at me. “We can wait in my room for a bit.”
“Yeah, word.” I looked back to Harry. “Did Isaac say if he was getting back before lights-out?”
Harry frowned. “No, guys, like, he’s not here. He left Kensing ton this afternoon.”
After a beat of uncomprehending silence, I said, “He what?”
“Yeah.” Harry adjusted his glasses, the thick black rims framing owlish blue eyes. “They let him out before afternoon classes.”
“Why?” Nihal said, sounding as blindsided as I felt. “Where did he go?”
“Back to the city,” Harry said. “He didn’t tell you? His dad was in a wreck, and there’s been, like, three different surgery complications. He still hasn’t been discharged.”
“What?” Nihal spluttered. My mouth was wide open. I couldn’t help it.
“I thought he would’ve told you. At rehearsal, or whatever.”
We were quiet for a minute.
“No,” I managed. “Nothing. He didn’t tell us anything.”
Friday afternoon was cold and dark, 3:30 p.m. disguised as 3:30 a.m. Erik, Marcus, and I met in front of Arlington Hall to sort out the competition order. I passed between the twin statues of lions that flanked the stairs, following Erik, who looked like a turtle, shelled in an olive coat that was absurdly big for him. His parents must have expected a growth spurt soon, but judging by Victoria’s height, they might be waiting a long time.
The freshmen dipped easily into conversation, but secrecy had its hand across my mouth. Nihal and I had agreed not to tell the others—it wasn’t our information to dole out. If Isaac didn’t want the Sharps knowing, that was his business.
Still, I couldn’t help thinking about the way he’d been acting. Guilt tinted my recent memory blue. I’d read his attitude as hostile or sullen. This had been the last possibility on my mind. It felt wrong, all the others still trapped in that blue space, unknowing.
We clanked through the front doors and traipsed through the foyer, where murky-looking oil canvases hung on the wall that curved down to the box office. A door to the auditorium was propped; we filed in. A trio of people glowed at the edge of the stage, shirts and skin whitened by the lights.
The three of us traded a look and broke into a jog. We were fifteen minutes early to the time Dr. Caskey had given Trav—why were people already here?