We broke into laughter that was stifled by a sudden knock on my bedroom door. Scout and I exchanged a glance. I unknotted my legs and walked to the door, then flipped the lock and opened it.
Lesley stood there, this time in uniform—plaid skirt, oxford shirt, tie—wide blue eyes blinking back at me. “I’d like to come in.”
“Okay,” I said, and moved aside, then shut the door again when she was in the room.
“Hi, Barnaby,” Scout said from the floor. “What’s kicking?”
“Those girls are incredibly irritating. I can hardly hear myself think.”
As if on cue, a peal of laughter echoed from the common room. We rolled our eyes simultaneously.
“I get that,” Scout said. “What brings you to our door?”
“I need to be more social. You know, talk to people.” Still standing near the door, she looked at us expectantly. The room was silent for nearly a minute.
“Okaaaay,” Scout finally said. “Good start on that, coming in here. How was your summer?”
Barnaby shrugged, then crossed her ankles and lowered herself to the floor. “Went to cello camp.”
Scout and I exchanged a glance that showed exactly how dull we thought that sounded.
Nevertheless, Scout asked, “And how was cello camp?”
“Not nearly as exciting as you’d think.”
“Huh,” Scout said. “Bummer.”
After blinking wide eyes at the floor, Lesley lifted her gaze to Scout, then to me. “Last year was dull, too. I want this year to be more interesting. You seem interesting.”
Scout beamed, her eyes twinkling devilishly. “I knew I liked you, Barnaby.”
“Especially when you disappear at night.”
Scout’s expression flattened. With a jolt, she sat up, legs crossed in front of her. “What do you mean, when we disappear at night?”
“You know,” Lesley said, pointing at Scout, “when you head into the basement”—she pointed at me—“and you follow her.”
“Uh-huh,” Scout said, picking at a thread in her skirt, feigned nonchalance in her expression.
“Did you by any chance leave a note for Lily? A warning?”
“Oh, on her locker? Yeah, that was me.”
Scout and I exchanged a glance, then looked at Lesley. “And why did you leave it?” she asked.
Lesley looked back and forth between us. “Because I want in.”
“In?”
Lesley nodded. “I want in. Whatever you’re doing, I want in. I want to help. I have skills”
“I’m not admitting that we’re doing anything,” Scout carefully said, “but if we are doing something, do you know what it is?”
“Well, no.”
“Then how do you know you have skills that would help us?” Scout asked.
Lesley grinned, and the look was a little diabolical. “Well, did you see me following you? Did you know I was there?”
“No,” Scout said for both of us, appreciation in her eyes. “No, we did not.” She looked at me.
“She makes a good argument about her skills.”
“Yes, she does,” I agreed. “But why leave an anonymous note on my locker? If you wanted in,
why not just talk to us here? We do live together, after all.”
Lesley shrugged nonchalantly. “Like I said, things are dull around here. I thought I’d spice things up.”
“Spice things up,” Scout repeated, her voice dry as toast. “Yeah, we could probably help you out with that. We’ll keep you posted.”
“Sweet,” Lesley said, and that was the end of that.
Scout didn’t, of course, fill Lesley in about exactly how interesting she was. I, of course, didn’t contribute much to that interestingness. I hadn’t been more than an amusing sidekick, if that. It was probably more accurate to call me a nosy sidekick.
I was relieved we’d solved the note mystery, but I was quiet at dinner, quiet in study hall, and quiet as Scout and I sat in the common room afterward—which was thankfully empty of brat packers. I couldn’t get Foley’s comments out of my mind. Sure, I’d seen the articles and the offices and met the colleagues, but I’d also seenAlias . People had created much more elaborate fronts than collegiate careers. Had my parents concocted some kind of elaborate fairy tale about their jobs to keep their real lives hidden? If so, I highly doubted they’d tell me if I asked. I’d walked into St. Sophia’s thinking I was beginning day one of my two-year separation from the people who meant more to me than anyone else in the world—two people who’d been honest with me, even if we hadn’t always gotten along. (I was a teenager, after all.) But now I had to wonder. I had to look back over my life and decide whether everything I knew, everything I believed to be true about my mother and father, was a lie.
Or maybe Foley was wrong. Maybe she’d confused my parents for someone else’s parents.
Parker wasn’t such an unusual name. Or maybe she’d known my parents before I was born, at a time when they’d had different careers.
The biggest question of all, though, didn’t have anything to do with my parents. It was aboutme . Why did Foley’s questions bother me so much?Scare me so much? Why did I put so much stock in what she had to say? Foley’s words had struck a nerve, but why? Did I have my own doubts?
I kept replaying the memories, going over the details of my visits to the college, conversations with my parents, the conversation with Foley, to milk them of every detail.
I didn’t reach any conclusions, but the thought process kept me quiet as Scout lay on the floor of the common room with her iPod and theVogue from the coffee table, and I lay on the couch with an arm behind my head, staring at the plaster ceiling.
When her cell phone buzzed, Scout reached up and grabbed it, then mumbled something about exercise. I waved off the excuse.
“I know,” I told her. “Just do what you need to do.”
Without explanation, she packed her gear—or whatever was in her skull-and-crossbones messenger bag— and left the suite. Since I was going to do us both a favor by not spying, I decided I was in for the night. I went back to my room, and grabbed a sketch pad and a couple of pencils. I hadn’t done much drawing since I’d gotten to Chicago, and it was time to get to work,
especially if I was going to start studio classes soon.
Studio was going to be a change, though. I usually drew from my imagination, even if Foley hadn’t been impressed. No fruit bowls. No flowerpots. No portraits of fusty men in suits. And as far as drawing from the imagination went, the Scout Green mystery made for pretty good subject matter. My pencil flew across the nubby paper as I sketched out the ogre I’d imagined behind the door.
The hallway door opened so quickly, and with such a cacophony of chirping that I nearly ripped a hole in the paper with the tip of my pencil. The brat pack rushed into the suite, a girly storm of motion and noise. Thinking there was no need to make things worse for me or Scout, I flipped my sketchbook closed and stuffed it under my pillow.
Veronica followed Amie, Mary Katherine behind them, a glossy, white shoe box in her hands.
“Oh,” M.K. said, her expression falling from devilishness to irritation as she met my gaze through my
