Teachers and students get to their feet, and we all march together to the back of the manor, splitting up at the locker rooms to pick a black cloak in our size, and we fasten it around ourselves as we pour onto the field.
I hear a few people gasp as an ice rink is revealed for curling, and I can’t believe the staff went to these lengths for us. The main field has been turned into a soccer field, despite Ms. Floreville’s protests of anachronism. For those in the mood for a mental workout, tables have been set up with a variety of games, including chess, backgammon, and playing cards.
Off to the side is a small tent that saysPOST OFFICEwith a stack of papers and envelopes. There is a blue wooden box with a slit for inserting the letters, which will be delivered to people’s rooms throughout the day. There are also easels set up near the post office, right next to a sign that says:FOR ANYONE HOPING TO CAPTURE THE VIEW—OR SOMEONE’S PORTRAIT.
Both of these were William’s ideas.
Even though it’s a blustery gray day, the heat lamps installed all around offer protection from the worst of the chill. Everyone starts heading in different directions, except for the five of us.
“Wanna write a letter?” Salma asks me, and I know it’s more of a summons than an invitation.
“Yes,” I say, and the two of us break away from the group toward the empty postal stand. I grab a piece of paper and one of the pens that’s chained to the tabletop, pretending to write.
“What areyoudoing here?” demands Salma, and I turn to see that Trevor’s followed us.
“You can’t leave my sight,” he says.
“What about Tiffany and Zach?” she challenges.
“They went to the chess tables, so I had to make a call. Since they’re less likely targets, I followed you.”
“Who are you, Jack Ryan?”
“Okay, look,” I say, just wanting to get this over with. “We burned the newsletters last night in one of the fireplaces.”
“And you didn’t include me?” she asks, and I know she’s thinking it’s because of what she said to me yesterday.
“It was my plan,” says Trevor. “Ididn’t include you.”
“I didn’t mean what I said,” Sal says to me, ignoring Trevor. “Not the way it came out.”
I don’t want to talk about it, so I just say, “Trevor asked me to meet. I had no idea what we were about to do.”
“Tiff’s never going to forgive you now.” Salma shakes her head sadly. “I was really hoping you two would be friends.” It’s not what she says buthow. The way her voice dips like she’s sharing a deathbed regret.
“She really has a good heart,” Salma goes on. “I know you can’t see this right now, but she’s coming from a place of integrity. Promise me you’ll give her a chance.”
“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” asks Trevor. He sidesteps me so he’s face-to-face with Salma. “You’re talking like Beth fucking March.”
“Really?” asks Salma, finally acknowledging him. “Little Women?”
“What, the March sisters aren’t good enough for you? Notgothenough?” He chuckles at his own joke, and despite her best efforts, a grin breaks through Salma’s blackish-purple-painted lips.
“You’re such an idiot.”
“But I made you smile,” he says in a gentle tone that makes me feel like I’m intruding. “I wish you’d let me be your friend. I’m not asking for anything else. Just talk to me.”
She swallows, and I start backing away slowly so they can have their moment.
“Hit the brakes, Third Wheel,” he warns me. “You’re not going anywhere.”
A few hours later, we head back indoors for lunch, and I announce themeal to everyone: “Roast mutton, vegan vegetable stew, apple tart, potatoes, corn on the cob, bread, and butter.”
When I sit down, Tiffany and Zach aren’t in their seats. “Where are they?” I ask Salma and Trevor.
Salma shrugs. “Writing a new newsletter?”
Trevor looks at the open double doors. “They could be in trouble.”
