“It’s okay.” I free a hand and shake hers as best I can.
“I’m Bella. Do you eat carbs?”
She blinks. “Um.” Her eyes dip to the box of cronuts. “Yes. Definitely, yes. Are those from Pane P’s?”
“Yes!” She could probably tell these are from Panetteria Principessa, or Pane P’s, by the signature pink box.
“They’re my favorite.” Her eyes light up, but she keeps her voice modulated, soft and polite. But that’s fine; I’m loud enough for the both of us. “May I?” She gestures to the box. Even her hands are perfectly manicured in a classic French style. She’s the best dressed in this room, and now that I think about it, that might be a sign that she’s overcompensating.
She’s nervous about being here.
“Yes, please.” I hold out the box and watch her select a cronut to enjoy.
I sidle up next to her and look out the window. “Beautiful here, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Her melodic voice is full of wonder but also touched with worry.
Hmmm. Something’s on her mind, but I don’t know her well enough to pry.
So I fill the silence.
“The landscaping is pretty good.” I point out the usual colorful annuals planted in pretty patterns. “Those are native plants over there, though.” I point to the beds under the eaves of this old building. “And that’s a rain garden. I also like how they’ve mixed in herbs and perennials, like the lavender and catmint over there.” There are shade plants like ferns and hostas in beds under the hundred-year-old oaks. “It’s not just a boring grass lawn. They get points for their attempt at biodiversity.”
“Wow, you know a lot about plants.”
“They’re my favorite. I’m here to study botany. They have an amazing department here. Have you heard of the poison garden?”
“No, but the place I’m staying is down by the labyrinth.”
“Ooh, I want to see that. I’m living off campus, so I haven’t explored it yet.”
“I’ll show it to you.”
Squee! I cock my head. “Are we friends now?”
She pauses. Oops, maybe that was too presumptuous.
“I’d like that, Bella. I could use a friend.”
YAY!
“I don’t have many friends,” I say. “I was homeschooled through high school. It was fun, but my closest classmate was a Nepenthes × ventrata.”
Honey blinks. “A what?”
“It’s a type of carnivorous plant.” I start to tell her all about my greenhouse collection, and unlike most people who glaze over when I talk about flora, she seems intrigued. At least, she listens, nodding and murmuring responses at appropriate times.
A few shouts interrupt my flow, and I turn to see that a bunch of guys in sports gear have wandered into the hall.
As soon as Honey sees them, she mutters a curse and whirls back to face the window. She looks flustered. Her hand rises to fiddle with the long chain around her neck.
I check out the guys. Their voices bounce off the wooden walls. They must be upperclassmen with the way they act like they own the place. First-year students scuttle out of their path.
“Who are those guys?” I ask.
“The lacrosse team,” she answers stiffly.
Their leader is a tall, leanly-muscled guy with a set of dimples and floppy hair. Grade A trust fund himbo. He shoves his way through a group of freshmen.
