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 seen Alias . 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 about me . 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 the Vogue from the coffee table, and I lay on the couch with an arm behind my head, staring at the plaster ceiling.
When her cell
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 seen Alias . 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 about me . 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 the Vogue from the coffee table, and I lay on the couch with an arm behind my head, staring at the plaster ceiling.
When her cell
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