I knock on Mrs. Divs’s door and someone else answers.
“Kit!” A dark-haired blur leaps from the doorway to hug me tight. I stiffen, one arm braced on the colorkit box. She smells like open fields and sunbells, hair swept in a long braid down her bright purple shirt. She pats my shoulder like she’s got twenty years on me instead of eight, tops.
Who the hell—?
“You poor thing,” she coos, finally backing up for breathing room. “How’s your father?”
Oh, right. From yesterday’s intercom extravaganza. She’s the one who stood up for Dad.
“Uh, fine?” I say.
Mrs. Divs’s cane thuds, followed by a cranky, “About time you showed up, I’ve been waiting all morning.”
It’s barely even ten.
Her paisley dress swishes her ankles, a green/pink/yellow number that Yonni would have loved. Apparently, paisley was the in thing back when people had no taste.
“Sorry, Mrs. Divs.” I glance at the hugger, then ask, “Can I talk to you a minute?”
Her eyebrows rise, but she flaps at the other woman with shaking hands. “Go on then, Annie. I’ll see you at the salon later, yeah?”
“Of course!” The hugger beams enthusiasm, big eyes and pearly teeth. “We’ll get you fixed right up, Mrs. D, don’t you worry.” She skips out the door in a bounce of heels and tight pants.
Her perfume sticks to my tongue. “Who’s that?”
Mrs. Divs smacks her cane to my shin. I yip.
“That is Annie Sheldane, who’s only lived here four years and does the best hair in town. And you of all people have no right to be talkin’ her down.”
“I didn’t say anything!”
“Yes, but you thought it.” She scans me over, then centers her cane between her spread feet, folding her hands atop it like a general. “And I’m guessing if you’d asked for her help last night, you wouldn’t be in that god-awful hat now. Come on, let’s see the damage.”
Always sharp, Mrs. Divs.
I rub my stinging leg. “I’ll pay for the colorkits.”
“I don’t want to see your money, I want to see your hair.”
“There’s nothing to see.”
“Now that’s a lie and you know it.”
I hold up the box. “Where should I put this?”
“Anywhere, the table is fine.”
I slip past her into her suite and dump the box as directed, while Mrs. Divs fills the doorway, blocking my exit.
“I need a favor,” I say.
She sniffs. “I’m listening.”
“If someone from the Records Office stops by, can you say that Dad wasn’t here? That he left after Dee?”
Her face grows very grave indeed. “You want me to lie for you, Kit?”
There’s no making this pretty. “If the Office knows, then Dee can get me kicked out. It’s part of Yonni’s will. But if all they have is Dee’s story . . . no one will believe her over you.”
Mrs. Divs taps her pointy-toed foot. “And this is how you steel your fists? By getting your elders to tell stories?”
Partly. The least threatening part. All the parts are a mess.
I stand straight, radiate neutrality, calm. So much calm. “I just need to keep my place.”
She sizes me up, chin lifted, eyes narrowed. The one with the power and well aware.
“All right,” she says. “I won’t mention your father.”
The wires in my chest retract their barbs. “Okay. You’ll pass the word on to Annie?”
“My, your net keeps getting bigger and bigger. How about I just make sure she’s not around at the time?”
Even better. “Thank you, Mrs. Divs. I mean it. You need something, just say.”
She points her cane. “Hat.”
Well, fair’s fair. I flip the brim and reveal all my blinding glory.
Her tiny frame sags. “Oh, Kit.”
I had no doubts it was bad. But still—
It’s bad.
I slam the hat back on my head. “You’re right, I should have asked someone. Too late now.”
She thumps closer and pats my scalp. “What did you do?”
“Left it on too long.” I edge around her into the hallway.
“How long exactly?”
“Overnight.”
“Kit!”
I pause at door. “Yeah?”
Her pink lips weave for a full three seconds, but at last she shakes her head. “You better talk to that boy, if you’re making the rounds. He’s up in 308.”
Niles.
I don’t know that I want to talk to Niles.
My hand tightens on the doorframe. “Has . . . he been here long? When did he move in?”
Mrs. Divs’s mouth takes on a sly little twitch. I shouldn’t have asked. “He hasn’t,” she says, “not as such. You remember old Mr. Green, don’t you? That’s his grandson. He’s here for a seasonal internship or some such. Mr. Green moved to North 9th you know, after that last surgery. Deathly afraid of elevators and couldn’t do the stairs. Such a sweet man. His grandson seems sweet, too, so don’t you go snapping at him.”
Too late for that.
“Thanks,” I say, again, and close the door.