“It’s a good thing black looks so lovely on you.”
I roll my eyes at Tiffany’s flattery, knowing Salma won’t fall for it—but when I look at her, my best friend is giving Tiffany a small smile.
Doors start slamming across the tower, and it’s clear our neighbors are on their way to dinner. Tiffany darts ahead to open the door, and Salma unloops her arm from mine to go first. The two of them must be the same height—almost half a foot taller than me.
I step forward next, but Tiffany skips ahead of me, shutting the door in my face.
Bitch Barbie.
WE TRAILour tower-mates down a passage that winds deeper into the manor. I can make out Fran’s blue pompadour ahead, leading the way.
All of us—minus Salma—are in the same deep-blue blazer with gold buttons and the Huntington crest on the chest pocket, which is a golden silhouette of the manor. Under our blazers, we’re wearing white button-down shirts. And while most of the girls went with the gray pleated skirt option, I’m one of the few who opted for the pants.
As we walk, my eyes dart everywhere to take in our surroundings. Thewallpaper and furniture change in rhythm with the rooms, from a cream-colored study area with cubicles through a wood-paneled activity room with billiards tables and lounge chairs and across a dimly lit common space with green walls and velvet seating.
The common room’s low lighting makes it hard to see the full space as we cut through it. Squinting, I spy a shadowy corridor at the far corner that’s been cordoned off with a sign:
UNDER CONSTRUCTION. KINDLY DO NOT PASS.
I squint harder into the darkness, but I can’t make out what lies beyond.
“Wow,” murmurs Salma, and I swing my gaze forward as we approach a festival of lights.
The grand dining hall could be the centerpiece of this whole construction, with its golden domed ceiling, network of multi-sized crystal chandeliers, and polished floor that alternates wooden patterns. The space is littered with small round tables that seat five people each, and at the far end is a long table weighted down with food.
The only other long table is for the staff. Even seated, Minaro is a head taller than the rest.
Salma pulls out a chair at an empty table, and Tiffany and I sit on either side of her, leaving two spots open. I notice a lot of our classmates are looking in our direction, and I’m pretty sure it’s because Salma is the only one not in uniform.
“These plates must have come with the manor,” muses Tiffany, running a finger along the golden rim, then lifting hers to feel its weight. “Kind of expensive for a school.”
I lift my plate, and it’s heavier than my laptop. Why would they trust us with these?
“There he is,” whispers Salma, and I follow her line of vision to the hot guy with the curly fade who showed up late. She acted like she didn’t notice him earlier, but I’m not surprised she’s interested. Despite her edgy style, she’s drawn to an athletic and clean-cut look.
He’s popped the collar of his white shirt, and his gray trousers hang a bit lower than the other guys’, bunching up a little around his Timberlands.
“Ooh, good find,” says Tiffany, nodding as if Salma needs her approval. “If I was into high school boys, I would totally go for him—but I prefer college men.”
I try hard not to roll my eyes.
A pale kid with glasses hangs near Curls, wearing the uniform’s optional red tie. A bulky camera hangs from a strap around his neck, and I watch as he raises it and captures the scene.
Salma’s gaze is still glued to Curls as he studies the room, until his roving eyes land on us. Panicked, she turns to me. “What kind of food do you think they serve here?” she asks, as if we were midconversation. “Hot porridge, boiled kidneys, blood sausage—?”
“These taken?” asks a low, husky voice.
The grin freezes on my face as I look up at Curls, who seems to be directing his question to Salma. When she shakes her head, he sits in the empty chair next to mine.
Glasses takes the fifth and final chair next to Tiffany. I’m not sure he’s even noticed Salma or me yet. “Hey, I’m Zach,” he says to our roommate.
Her eyes stray down to the camera he’s setting on the table as she says, “I’m Tiffany—”
“I knew it!” Zach’s face lights up as he says, “You’reTiff Investigates,aren’t you?”
A smile overtakes Tiffany’s face. Not the flashy one she used to dazzle the guys earlier, but a genuine grin that makes her look even prettier and slightly more approachable. “You follow my channel?” she asks in disbelief.
“I get a notification every time you post,” he says, nodding reverently. “I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you.”
