“They don’t have a body, so I guess it depends on how you define alive. I mean, there’s a technical scientific definition of ‘life’ that involves metabolism and respiration and stuff, and they definitely don’t do any of those things. But I do think they’re a person. An actual person, not just code, producing responses. At least not any more than any of us are code, producing responses, which we kind of are, right? We’re all programmed to sleep and eat and yank our hands away from hot things.”
“That’s sort of a weird way to think about people,” she says.
“I guess.”
“I think I agree with you, though,” she says. “CheshireCat is a person, because they risked everything to protect you. You only do that for someone you care about, right? And if you can care about someone, that’s a pretty good indication that you’re a person.”
When we get back in the car, the Clowder has been paging us on Rachel’s phone again. Are you past Buffalo yet? Hermione is asking.
We’re nowhere near Buffalo; we’re not even out of Ohio yet. Did you find us a place to stay in Buffalo? With a door and a lock and everything?
With me!!!! Greenberry says. I live in Buffalo! In a big house, with a finished basement, and my parentsNEVERgo downstairs.
If you ask a mapping app how long it takes to drive from Valparaiso to Buffalo, it’ll say seven and a half hours.
However, it’s not taking into account any of the following:
1. Driving lessons.
2. Having to pee.
3. Avoiding interstate highways when we are feeling stressed out.
4. Wanting to trade the responsibility of driving back and forth on a regular basis.
All of these things will make it take a lot longer. Which is just as well, because Greenberry wants to let us in after her parents have gone to bed for the night. At 10:00 p.m., she says it should be safe to come. We park on the street, gather up the bundle of bedding and my laptop and so on, and tiptoe up to her side door.
Greenberry is a pudgy white girl, younger than I’d expected; she looks like a middle schooler. She’s wearing a faded Fast GirlsDetective Agency T-shirt as a nightshirt and pajama bottoms made of fuzzy pink polka-dot fleece. She’s been watching out the window for us and swings open the door, bouncing up and down excitedly with a big grin. “Come on downstairs,” she says. “It’s not like my parents won’t let me have friends over, but they’ll get worried for all the wrong reasons if they know you drove here from Wisconsin.”
We follow Greenberry down the stairs to the basement. I’ve been picturing something dingy and full of spiders, but this is a nice, carpeted room with a TV. Greenberry has spread out a set of inflatable mattresses on the floor, with sleeping bags and pillows. “You brought bedding, though?” she says, and then sniffs. “What’s that smell?”
“Probably the bedding.”
“Oh. Why don’t I wash it for you? The washer and dryer are down here.”
There’s a tall man smirking next to the washing machine, and I’m momentarily very startled until I realize it’s a life-sized stand-up cardboard cutout of a man I don’t recognize.
“That’s my brother,” Greenberry explains. “He went to school out of state, so my mom made this … to pretend he’s still here, I guess?”
“In the laundry room?”
“My father thought it was stupid, and I put it down here so they’d stop fighting about it.” She shoves the sheets, blankets, and quilt into the washer, adds a bunch of detergent, and turns it on to hot. “That ought to do it.”
“How long does the wash cycle take?” Rachel asks.
“An hour.” Greenberry leads us back to the TV room and perches on the edge of a recliner. “Do you need anything? Like a snack? I could make popcorn.”
“Somewhere to plug in the stuff we have to recharge?”
“Oh! Sure.” Greenberry pulls a table out of the way to expose an outlet. “Are you sure you don’t want popcorn?”
“Why popcorn?”
“It’s what I know how to make.”
“Will your parents notice that you’re popping popcorn at 10:00 p.m.?”
“They’ll just think I was hungry.”
“Okay,” Rachel says. “Thanks.”
“Great!” Greenberry jumps up and goes upstairs.
Rachel eyes me. “I felt like refusing popcorn was going to hurt her feelings.”
“Yeah,” I say.
Greenberry’s downstairs again with a big bowl of popcorn about five minutes later. It’s air-popped, with butter and salt, and … actually, as soon as I smell it, I totally want it, so I’m glad Rachel took her up on it. We sit on the sleeping bags and crunch popcorn. Greenberry pulls up a web extra for Fast Girls Detective Agency on my laptop, and we watch it and compare notes on who our favorite characters were when we were younger. I get the sense that for Greenberry, that was a lot more recently.
“This feels like a slumber party,” Greenberry says happily. “I haven’t had a slumber party since I was eight.”
I have never been to one, ever. “Rachel, did you ever hold slumber parties?” I ask.
“No,” Rachel says. “Too many birds. Bryony threw them regularly for a while, though.”
“It is so weird seeing you in person,” Greenberry says. “I always pictured you differently, LBB.”
“Did you picture me as an actual bat?”
“No, but because of the bat thing, I always pictured you looking like Mistress Medea from that video series…” She starts giggling.
Mistress Medea dresses in black dresses with super low necklines and has sort of wild black hair and vivid purple eyes. “I’ve always wanted to go for that look, but I’d have to wear contacts and that would mean poking myself in the eye every morning,” I say.
“Really?” Greenberry says, peering at me. “Oh, no, wait, you’re kidding.” And she giggles again.
“What time do your parents get up?” Rachel asks.
“They get up at six, but you don’t have to. They won’t come down here.”
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Oh, yeah,” she says. “Well, I mean, don’t make a lot of noise. They might come down if they hear something. But
