“Selah,” Twig hisses, following sheepishly. “What are you doing?”
“Being hospitable,” I hiss back.
All eyes follow our approach. By the time I set my tray in front of the seat beside Jude, a hush has fallen.
I stick out my hand. “Hi, I’m Selah. I live in your carriage house.”
He looks up from his well-worn copy ofMacbethand blinks at my outstretched arm, ribbons of steam curling from his thermos. Coffee, by the looks of it. Probably some super expensive, French blend his stepmother brought with them from Europe. When it becomes obvious he has no interestin shaking my hand, I pull out the chair and sit. If he recognizes me as the girl he made intense eye contact with earlier, he doesn’t let on.
“Did you know actors won’t say that name in a theater?” I nod at his book. “They call it ‘The Scottish Play’ because the production is supposedly cursed.”
“If you believe in that sort of thing,” he says.
“Oh, I relish that sort of thing.” I open my chocolate milk. “But I guess we’re not in a theater, so we should be safe. This is my friend, Twig.”
Jude quirks an eyebrow.
“Spencer,” Twig says, his voice cracking mid-syllable as he drops awkwardly into the seat next to mine.
“But everyone calls him Twig.”
Except his family.
And my dad.
Twig stuffs his mouth full of mystery meat.
Jude stirs his coffee.
I take a drink of my milk and resign myself to being the carrier of this conversation. “So, you’re a fan of tragedies?”
“I’m a fan of classic literature.”
I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of his schedule, which sits on the other side of his thermos. We share a class. U.S. History, final period. “Well, then,” I say, “I’m happy to report AP Lit will be right up your alley. You missedOf Mice and Men, but you got here right on time forThe Scarlett Letter.”
Both classics.
Both tragic.
“If the trajectory continues, we’ll be readingThe Bell Jarby the end of the semester. Mrs. Cannery loves herself a depressing tale.” I take a bite of my pizza.
Jude continues brooding.
I had hoped this little meet and greet might act as a sort of olive branch, an apology on behalf of my classmates. Wearecapable of treating him like a normal person. At the moment, he’s not making it easy.
“So,” I say, throwing my voice into a lower register, “what kind of literature do you enjoy, Selah?” I tilt my head in the other direction and speak from the opposite corner of my mouth. This time, in my normal voice. “Oh, so nice of you to ask, Jude.”
He narrows his eyes.
“If we’re sticking with Shakespeare, I’d have to go withThe Tempest.” Magic. Spirits. Strange happenings on an island. It’s definitely my cup of tea. “If we’re straying from the playwright, I’d probably go withThe Legend of Sleepy Hollow.”
“Small-town folklore,” Jude says.
“And a headless horseman.” I take another bite of my pizza. Mostly to keep from verbalizing another defining feature of the classic—mysterious disappearances. That seems to strike too close to home where Jude Vandenberg is concerned.
I set my elbows on the table. “We should carpool.”
“What?”
