The work was tough, but she didn’t care. She’d gotten straight A’s her first term, had four poems published in the literary magazine, and was up for a spot as an editor of the newspaper. Someone had whispered that she was a shoo-in. She’d written tons already for the paper, and her stuff barely needed editing.
But the spot went to another girl, one who had barely contributed to the paper. It had stung to hear the news.
She tried to pump herself up. There would be another opening at some point, she told herself, and she’d go for it. Until then she’d just contribute more ideas, write even more pieces.
Suddenly, however, her story ideas were routinely rejected, and she was given only one assignment in a whole month—a totally lame little story. It was as if she’d ended up on somebody’s bad side.
The third-quarter literary magazine came out, and this time there was nothing of hers inside. What did I do wrong? she wondered. Her poems had seemed so good to her.
And then the study group thing happened. She’d been meeting once a week with three other girls from her American history class, preparing for the frequent and awful pop quizzes the teacher was famous for. One afternoon, a member of the group told her that she and the two others had decided to disband and study on their own. But a week later, she stumbled on the three of them working in a lounge without her. It was as if they wanted her to see them. She hurried quickly by, as the blood rushed to her cheeks.
People have stopped liking me, she realized with a horrible sense of dread. And she didn’t know why.
3
PHOEBE STUFFED THE flyer back in her pocket and hurried along the sidewalk, her mind racing. Was the scrawled 6 an indication that Lily had become a target of the Sixes? Phoebe wondered. She pictured the girl’s sad blue eyes and felt a fresh swell of worry.
Phoebe had planned to bike along the river that morning, as she’d done most Saturdays and Sundays since she’d arrived in Lyle, but she scrapped those plans as she walked back home. There was no reason not to start her research immediately; in fact, the weekend would probably be the best time to pump students, when they weren’t busy schlepping to classes. But first she had to connect with Tom Stockton, the school’s dean of students. If she was going to hit the ground running, she needed background info and whatever leads he had about the Sixes.
Once home, she found Stockton’s cell number in the faculty directory. His phone rang five times, and just when she was certain it was going to voice mail, he answered.
“Stockton,” he announced, his tone firm.
“Hi, Tom, this is Phoebe Hall,” she said. “I know I’m catching you at a crazy time, with this student missing, but I was hoping we could talk at some point today.”
“Say again.”
“Phoebe Hall. I’m teaching here this term, and I’m supposed to talk to you about the secret society—the Sixes. Glenda might have mentioned I’d be calling.”
“Oh—right. Of course.”
“Can you meet today—to fill me in?”
“I wish I could, but I’m up to my ears with this Lily Mack crisis. I’m on my way to a meeting about it right now.”
“Could you grab a cup of coffee after that?”
He sighed. “I hate to commit to anything at the moment. We have no idea if this whole thing will turn really ugly.”
The guy was starting to annoy her. Glenda had said he was on board, but it sure didn’t sound that way.
“What if we at least set up a time, and then if you can’t make it, we’ll reschedule? I promised Glenda I’d work on this over the weekend. There’s a chance the two things might even be connected.”
“All right,” he said after a second. Invoking Glenda’s name had apparently done the trick, but he didn’t sound pleased. “Why don’t we meet at Café Lyle at noon.”
Café Lyle was the coffee shop in the student union. If she was going to entice kids to open up to her, she could hardly be seen fraternizing with the enemy. “Do you mind if we meet at Berta’s?” Phoebe said, referring to a little café on upper Bridge Street near Tony’s. “I think it might be better to do this off campus.”
After another audible sigh, Stockton agreed. As they ended their call, Phoebe considered her next move. Though she didn’t want to do much until she had a full briefing from Stockton, there was no harm in talking to Lily’s roommate right away. Glenda had already e-mailed her the name—Amanda Azodi—and her dorm.
She headed back out, this time to campus. It was just after eleven when she arrived at Curry Hall. Students, she’d discovered, tended to sleep till noon on Saturdays, but she suspected that Lily’s roommate would probably be up already, given what was going on. Phoebe tried the main door of the dorm and realized that it was locked. She’d forgotten to ask Glenda for any kind of access card to swipe. She’d have to wait for someone to exit the building.
After ten minutes a sullen-looking girl emerged, dressed in jeans, a baggy sweatshirt, and Uggs. Her ponytail, Phoebe noticed, was tied with what appeared to be a pair of stretchy yellow panties. The girl allowed Phoebe to catch the door without even a glance in her direction.
Phoebe rode the elevator to the fourth floor and stepped into the hallway. Directly in front of her was a lounge and kitchenette, with a garbage can overflowing with trash and several pieces of sagging, modular furniture; one sofa had been turned upside down. Except for the low groan of the refrigerator, the floor was absolutely still. Phoebe glanced at the number on the first door to the left: 406. It looked as if 424 would be farther in that direction. She realized this was the first time she’d been in a college dorm in twenty years.
Walking down the silent hallway, she imagined the students who lay sprawled in their beds behind the doors, sleeping off hangovers or exhausted from all-nighters they’d pulled during the week. The cinderblock walls of the corridor were plastered with announcements, including flyers pleading, “Help Us Find Lily!!!” When Phoebe reached 424, she saw that there was a makeshift paper pocket taped to the door with dozens of the same flyer inside, obviously there for people to grab and distribute. She rapped lightly on the door several times. From inside she thought she heard someone stir. As she raised her hand to knock again, the door opened partway, and revealed a young woman’s face.
Phoebe had only seen Lily’s roommate from a distance the previous night, and up close the girl’s looks surprised her. At Lyle the pretty girls traveled in packs, and she had expected that Lily would be rooming with someone equally attractive. But her roommate was almost homely, with a wide, flat face, deep-set brown eyes, and shoulder-length brown hair styled in a structured under-curl that seemed from another era.
“Amanda?” Phoebe asked as the girl stared at her in confusion.
“Yes?”
“My name’s Phoebe Hall. I’m part of a team at the school looking into Lily’s disappearance. May I come in?”
“What’s the matter?” Amanda asked, alarmed. “Did they find her?”
“No—not yet. But I’d love to ask you a few questions.”
“I already talked to the police, you know. I told them everything.”