People Like Us(28)

She rises and curtsies elaborately. Her hair is arranged in a meticulous mass of curls held back by a blue silk ribbon that matches her eyes. “Miss Matthews, I know you by reputation of course.”

Brie takes her in and shoots me a wary look. Even in uniform, Brie and Nola are total opposites. Nola is a different dramatic incarnation of herself every day, while Brie is classic and traditional. Nola is makeup and theater and effect. Brie is lip gloss and natural light; she seems to glow from the fact of existing. Nola is always moving; Brie moves with intention. Brie’s shirts are pressed and buttoned, casually accessorized with a simple silver chain; Nola wears shirts unbuttoned down to the vest, clunky bracelets, and large rings that overwhelm her tiny hands.

“Nola, maybe you should call off your date with Greg.”

She shakes her head and her curls bounce. “No way. We’re going to a midnight showing of Rocky Horror. I’m dressing as Magenta.”

“Okay, but Jessica’s death is being investigated as a murder now, and he’s almost definitely a suspect. It wouldn’t be safe.” More to the point, it wouldn’t look good if Detective Morgan somehow drew a line between Nola, Greg, and me. She did not seem to like the fact that I was in contact with Greg.

Nola raises her eyebrows. “Intrigant. Do you think he did it?”

“No,” I admit. “But you can’t risk that.”

“You could,” Brie says mildly. She crunches a piece of ice and smiles at Nola sweetly.

“Funny.” Nola takes a bite of garlic bread. “I heard you were on the suspect list, Kay. Maybe I shouldn’t risk talking to you.”

“Who told you that?”

She shrugs. “People talk.”

I give Brie a told-you-so look and then turn back to Nola.

“You can do what you want. I’m just trying to look out for you.”

She studies me. “Really?”

I nod with effort. My head feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. I need coffee. I feel my phone buzz under the table and I look down to see a message from Brie.

Third wheel?

She looks at me expectantly, but I shake my head.

All good, I write back.

“Fine. I won’t go.” Nola texts something into her phone. “He’s not my type, anyway. Too decorative. A little ink is okay. Less is more.” She looks at me and Brie. “So what are we up to tonight?”

“We study on weeknights,” Brie says. She looks at me like she’s waiting for me to give my own excuse.

I really should study. But I need to take a look at the next recipe on Jessica’s blog, and it should be unlocked by now. I can’t mention that to Brie, though. “I have nothing going on.”

Nola nods. “My room or yours?”

“Yours, I guess. Mine’s a bit of a wreck.”

Brie stares at me with a look I don’t understand. She rises without another word, gives me a hard kiss on the cheek, and storms out of the dining hall.





8


Nola’s room is nothing like I expect. I thought the walls would be covered in Tim Burton posters, Vampire Diaries, goth drawings, that sort of thing. Instead, it’s full of light and life. There are plants everywhere. I recognize cacti, aloe, sunflowers, tiger lilies, and amaryllises, but the rest look exotic to me, the kinds of plants you would see in desert and tropical climates. It occurs to me that I don’t know anything about Nola, including where she’s from.

“You’re a gardener?” I ask pointlessly.

“Well, it’s not exactly a garden. But I do like plants. These were all cuttings from home. Homes.” She tilts a watering can into a cactus pot, and I survey the rest of the room. Her desk is covered in neat stacks of books and vintage writing instruments, jars of ink, reed pens, sharpening stones, pen cutters, and the like. The walls are completely covered with brown butcher paper, with neat columns of calligraphy stretching from floor to ceiling. I stand on tiptoes to reach the top of a column.

“‘How happy some o’er other some can be! / Through Athens I am thought as fair as she.’” I turn to her. “Why does that sound so familiar?”

“Because A Midsummer Night’s Dream is Shakespeare’s most-performed play. We read it last year in European Lit, and it was also the spring play. I was Helena.”

“Oh.” I don’t usually bother with the school theater productions. Plays aren’t really my thing. I only go to Justine’s shows to support her, and I’ve fallen asleep or texted my way through most of them.

Nola gestures to the wall with a thin hand and then stands by my side. She’s a full head shorter than I am. “You think memorizing a few equations for physics is hard. Try cramming all this into your brain.”

I turn a slow circle. The entire wall is covered, top to bottom. “There’s no way you memorized it all.”

“Well, not for one show,” she admits. “But I never forget. I could recite Hamlet for you right now.”

“You didn’t play Hamlet.”

She looks at me with her freaky globe eyes. “I was the first in Bates’s history to play Hamlet. Last winter, as a junior.”

I knew the drama club liked to put on Shakespeare productions, and since we have no male students, they cast girls in the men’s roles. But for some reason I never envisioned someone I actually knew playing an iconic theatrical part. Hamlet. The salesman, whatever his name is. I imagine Nola dressed in classic Elizabethan garb with a mustache drawn on with eyeliner and a smile cracks my lips. I can’t help it.