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I shook my head.
“St. Spoiled.”
“Not much of a stretch, is it?”
“Exactly.” With a twist of her wrist, Scout turned the knob and pushed open her bedroom door.
“My God,” I said, staring into the space. “There’s so much . . . stuff.”
Every inch of space in Scout’s tiny room, but for the rectangle of bed, was filled with shelves. And those shelves were filled to overflowing. They were double-stacked with books and knickknacks, all organized into tidy collections. There was a shelf of owls—some ceramic, some wood, some made of bits of sticks and twigs. A group of sculpted apples—the same mix of materials. Inkwells. Antique tin boxes. Tiny houses made of paper. Old cameras.
“If your parents donate a wing, you get extra shelves,” she said, her voice flat as week-old soda.
“Where did you get all this?” I walked to a shelf and picked up a delicate paper house crafted from a restaurant menu. A door and tiny windows were carefully cut into the facade, and a chimney was pasted to the roof, which was dusted in white glitter. “And when?”
“I’ve been at St. Sophia’s since I was twelve. I’ve had the time. And I got it anywhere and everywhere,” she said, flopping down onto her bed. She sat back on her elbows and crossed one leg over the other. “There’s a lot of sweet stuff floating around Chicago. Antiques stores, flea markets, handmade goods, what have you. Sometimes my parents bring me stuff, and I pick up things along the way when I see them over the summer.”
I gingerly placed the building back on the shelf, then glanced back at her. “Where are they now? Your parents, I mean.”
“Monaco—Monte Carlo. The Yacht Show is in a couple of weeks. There’s teak to be polished.” She chuckled, but the sound wasn’t especially happy. “Not by them, of course—they’ve moved past doing physical labor—but still.”
I made some vague sound of agreement—my nautical excursions were limited to paddleboats at summer camp—and moved past the museum and toward the books. There were lots of books on lots of subjects, all organized by color. It was a rainbow of paper—recipes, encyclopedias, dictionaries, thesauruses, books on typology and design. There were even a few ancient leather books with gold lettering along the spines.
I pulled a design book from the shelf and flipped through it. Letters, in every shape and form, were spread across the pages, from a sturdy capital A to a tiny, curlicued Z.
“I’m sensing a theme here,” I said, smiling up at Scout. “You like words. Lists. Letters.”
She nodded. “You string some letters together, and you make a word. You string some words together, and you make a sentence, then a paragraph, then a chapter. Words have power.”
I snorted, replacing the book on the shelf. “Words have power? That sounds like you’re into some Harry Potter juju.”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous,” she said. “So, what does a young Lily Parker do in Sagamore, New York?”
I shrugged. “The usual. I hung out. Went to the mall. Concerts. TiVo ANTM and Man vs. Wild.”
“Oh, my God, I love that show,” Scout said. “That guy eats everything.”
“And he’s hot,” I pointed out.
“Seriously hot,” she agreed. “Hot guy eats bloody stuff. Who knew that would be a hit?”
“The producer of every vampire movie ever?” I offered.
Scout snorted a laugh. “Well put, Parker. I’m digging the sarcasm.”
“I try,” I admitted with a grin. It was nice to smile—nice to have something to smile about. Heck, it was nice to feel like this boarding school business might be doable—like I’d be able to make friends and study and go about my high school business in pretty much the same way as I could have in Sagamore.
A shrill sound suddenly filled the air, like the beating of tiny wings.
“Oops, that’s me,” Scout said, untangling her legs, hopping off the bed, and grabbing a brick- shaped cell phone that was threatening to vibrate its way off one of the shelves and onto the floor. She picked up the phone just before it hit the edge, then unpopped the screen and read its contents.
“Jeez Louise,” she said. “You’d think I’d get a break when school starts, but no.” Maybe realizing she was muttering in front of an audience, she looked up at me. “Sorry, but I have to go. I have to . . . exercise. Yes,” she said matter-of-factly, as if she’d decided on exercise as an excuse, “I have to exercise.”
Apparently intent on proving her point, Scout arched her arms over her head and leaned to the right and left, as if stretching for a big run, then stood up and began swiveling her torso, hands at her waist. “Limbering up,” she explained.
I arched a dubious brow. “To go exercise.”
“Exercise,” she repeated, grabbing a black messenger bag from a hook next to her door and maneuvering it over her head. A white skull and crossbones grinned back at me.
“So,” I said, “you’re exercising in your uniform?”
“Apparently so. Look, you’re new, but I like you. And if I guess right, you’re a heck of a lot cooler than the rest of the brat pack.”
“Thanks, I guess?”
“So I need you to be cool. You didn’t see me leave, okay?”
The room was silent as I looked at her, trying to gauge exactly how much trouble she was about to get herself into.
“Is this one of those, ‘I’m in over my head’ kind of deals, and I’ll hear a horrible story tomorrow about your being found strangled in an alley?”
That she took a few seconds to think about her answer made me that much more nervous.
“Probably not tonight,” she finally said. “But either way, that’s not on you. And since we’re probably going to be BFFs, you’re going to have to trust me on this one.”
“BFFs?”
“Of course,” she said, and just like that, I had a friend. “But for now, I have to run. We’ll talk,” she promised. And then she was gone, her bedroom door open, the closing of the hallway door signaling her exit. I looked around her room, noticing the pair of sneakers that sat together beside her bed.
“Exercise, my big toe,” I mumbled, and left Scout’s museum, closing the door behind me.
It was nearly six o’clock when I walked the few feet back to my room. I glanced at the stack of books and papers on the bureau, admitting to myself that prep-ping for class tomorrow was probably a solid course of action.
