“That which you just mentioned should not be mentioned in front of Tabaqui,” Humpback says, shaking his head. “It really shouldn’t.”
“What was it I mentioned?” Fly whispers. “I don’t remember.”
Humpback and Lary tap their wrists, miming nonexistent watches. Lary does it with a look of utter disgust on his face, probably channeling me. Now poor Fly’s completely confused.
“What is it? Some kind of disease?” she asks.
This entire conversation, and especially the gestures accompanying it, do start to make me sick. Slightly. I do not appreciate my psychological peculiarities being put on display, and crawl farther under the bed. Then I put my hands over my ears. Now let them say whatever they want. By the way, a mere mention of a watch is never enough for me to fly off the handle, they’re well aware of that. When I crawl back out they are already discussing something else, and getting ready to leave.
The girls have discarded the blankets. Fly’s own speckled sweater is peeking out from under Noble’s gray one. She tugs on both, admiring her reflection in the wardrobe’s polished door, and cheerfully displays her teeth. Lary, putting on boots, heaps praise on her belt buckle that I completely failed to notice. Alexander rolls up the blanket formerly known as tablecloth. Sphinx and Blind are also going out, while Noble, who wheeled off into a corner to give everyone some space, watches Ginger from over there like a predator stalking its prey with a penetrating, unblinking stare.
I emerge fully, loath to miss even the smallest detail. But there isn’t anything to miss anymore: the guests are leaving, the evening morphed into the night, and the radio DJs are cheerfully greeting the insomniacs—in short, the predawn stupefaction is right around the corner. The saddest of all moods. Few are those who could gabble through the night with unrelenting intensity, like me, for example. Ginger is still wearing my socks and doesn’t seem to want to take them off before heading out, which means there’s a possibility of her coming back. On the other hand, she could always send them over with someone else.
“Bye,” she and Fly say to me, Noble, and Alexander.
Everyone else is planning to walk them home. With flashlights.
“Bye, Jonathan,” I reply. “Come again.”
She nods uncertainly and steals a sideways glance at Blind. Blind, of course, is not aware of that, but, honestly, he might have guessed. The others dutifully hold off inviting her back for a few seconds, giving him first dibs. When they do, they invite Fly as well. Lary, giggling, tells her to bring Gaby along. Idiot, that one.
Finally they file out. The whole crowd, leaving behind me, Alexander, Smoker, and also Noble. Ginger’s departure takes the sparkliness and fieriness out of him, leaving him dull and sullen.
I climb on the bed and start tidying it up. Spread out the plastic bag, shake the ashtrays out over it, add the half-eaten pieces of this and that, peel the gum blobs off the railing. Make a pile out of the textbooks and notes. Once the mess is localized and pushed to the edge, I create a burrow near the headboard and dive in. It’s warm and cozy here. Alexander’s broom swishes softly. Noble is completely quiet. I condense a cloud of drowsy fog around myself, a small one, to make it even cozier, and start remembering.
Jonathan. The ghost haunting our room. Probably the only case in the entire history of the House when a room had its own ghost. We were extremely proud. Countless times we had discussed the gifts he was leaving us, trying to decipher who he was. Countless times we had invented more and more elaborate snares and traps, only to come up empty again and again. Which served as irrefutable proof of his nonhuman nature. At first we had suspected our neighbors from next door. Then, the seniors. But neither could possibly know about our traps and snares, while Jonathan somehow evaded them all. Having despaired of catching him, we set to uncovering his identity through his handwriting. We diligently collected samples for comparison by stealing homework left in the staff room to be graded. We accumulated a sizable pile and were just about to destroy the evidence when a janitor stumbled upon it and told the administration on us.
I shuffle through the memories of that time. Funny how no one had even considered to snatch a girl’s notebook. Because, quite obviously, Jonathan was male. One thing we couldn’t grasp, though: Why hadn’t he chosen a more inventive nick? Why a simple name? Once the hopes of catching him had evaporated, we started leaving notes for him.
