opened. One corner is bent, but otherwise it's undamaged. I hold it in my hands. Looking around, I spot a single book of mine out of place: the galley proof of
Gil steps into the foyer between the bedrooms and calls to us. They didn't touch anything of Charlie's or mine. What about you guys?
There's a spot of guilt in his voice, a hopefulness that despite the mess, nothing is gone.
When I look in his direction, I notice what he means. The other bedroom is pristine.
My stuff's fine, I tell him.
They didn't find anything, Paul says to me.
Before I can ask what he means, a voice interrupts from the foyer.
Could I ask you two a few questions?
The proctor, a woman with leathery skin and curled hair, takes a slow look at us as we appear, snow- soaked, from the corners of the room. The sight of Katie's sweatpants on Paul, and of Katie's synchronized swimming shirt on me, catches her attention. The woman, identified as Lieutenant Williams by the tag on her breast pocket, pulls a steno pad from her coat.
You two are…?
Tom Sullivan, I say. He's Paul Harris.
Was anything of yours taken?
Paul's eyes are still searching his room, ignoring the proctor.
We don't know, I say.
She glances up. Have you looked around?
We haven't noticed anything missing yet.
Who was the last person to leave the room tonight?
Why?
Williams clears her throat. Because we know who left the door unlocked, but not who left the window open.
She lingers over the words door and window, reminding us of how we brought this on ourselves.
Paul notices the window for the first time. His color fades. It must've been me. It was so hot in the bedroom, and Tom didn't want the window open. I came out here to work and I must've forgotten to shut it.
Look, Gil says to the proctor, seeing she's not trying to help, can we finish this up? I don't think there's anything else to see.
Without waiting for an answer, he forces the window shut and leads Paul to the couch, sitting beside him.
The proctor makes a final scribble in her pad. Window open, door unlocked. Nothing taken. Anything else?
We're all silent.
Williams shakes her head. Burglaries are hard to resolve, she says, as if she's wrestling with our high expectations. We'll report it to the borough police. Next time, lock up before you leave. You might save yourself some trouble. We'll be in touch if we have any more information.
She trudges toward the exit, boots squeaking at each step. The door swings shut on its own.
I walk over to the window for another look. The melted snow on the floor is perfectly clear.
They're not going to do a thing, Charlie says, shaking his head.
It's okay, Gil says. Nothing was stolen.
Paul is silent, but his eyes are still scanning the room.
I raise the sash, letting the wind rush into the room again. Gil turns to me, annoyed, but I'm staring at the cuts in the screen. They follow the border of the frame on three sides, leaving the material to flap in the wind like a dog door. I look down at the floor again. The only mud is from my shoes.
Tom, Gil calls back to me, shut the damned window. Now Paul turns to look as well.
The flap is pushed out, as if someone left through the window. But something's wrong. The proctor never bothered to notice it.
Come look at this, I say, running my fingers over the fibers of the screen at the edge of each cut. Like the flap, all of the incisions point outward. If someone had cut the screen to get in, the sliced edges would point toward us.
Charlie is already glancing around the room.
There's no mud either, he says, pointing to the puddle on the floor.
He and Gil exchange a look, which Gil seems to take as an accusation. If the screen was cut from inside, then we're back to the unlocked door.
That doesn't make sense, Gil says. If they knew the door was open, they wouldn't leave through the window.
It doesn't make sense anyway, I tell him. Once you're inside, you can always leave through the door.
We should tell the proctors about this, Charlie says, gearing up again. I can't believe she didn't even look for it.
Paul says nothing, but runs a hand across the diary.
I turn to him. You still going to Taft's lecture?
I guess. It doesn't start for almost an hour.
Charlie is placing books back on the top shelves, where only he can reach. I'll stop by Stanhope on the way, he says. To tell the proctors what they missed.
It was probably a prank, Gil says to no one in particular. Nude Olympians having some fun.
After a few more minutes of picking up, we all seem to decide that enough is enough. Gil begins changing into a pair of wool trousers, throwing Katie's dress shirt into a bag of dry cleaning. We could get a bite to eat at Ivy on the way.
Paul nods, leafing through his copy of Braudel's Mediterranean
You guys might want to change, Gil adds, looking us over.
Paul is too preoccupied to hear him, but I know what Gil means, so I return to the bedroom. Ivy isn't the sort of place I'd be caught dead dressed like this. Only Paul, a shadow in his own club, lives by different rules.
What dawns on me as I check my drawers is that nearly all of my clothes are dirty. Rummaging in the far back of my closet, I find a rolled-up pair of khakis and a shirt that's been folded for so long that the folds have become creases, and the creases pleats. I search for my winter jacket, then realize it's still hanging from Charlie's duffel bag in the steam tunnels. Settling for the coat my mother bought me for Christmas, I head into the common room, where Paul is sitting by the window, eyes on the bookshelves, puzzling something out.
Are you bringing the diary with you? I ask.
He pats the bundle of rags in his lap and nods.
Where's Charlie? I say, looking around.
Already gone, Gil tells me, guiding us out to the hall. To see the proctors.
He takes the keys to his Saab and places them inside his coat. Before closing the door behind us, he checks his pockets.
Room keys… car keys… ID…
He's so careful, it makes me uneasy. It isn't Gil's way to concern himself with details. Staring back into the common room, I see my two letters sitting on the table. Then Gil locks the door with the same odd precision, rolling the knob in his palm twice afterward to be sure that it yields nothing. We walk toward his car, and now the silence is heavy. As he revs the engine, proctors shift in the distance, shadows of shadows. We watch them for a second, then Gil jerks the gearshift and brings us gliding into the darkness.
Chapter 8
Past the security kiosk at the north entrance to campus, we turn right onto Nassau Street, Princeton's main
