“Just a sec.” She must have covered the phone because, though I couldn’t make out what she was saying, I could make out voices. A long moment later, she said, “I’m sorry, Dylan came back sick from his field trip. He might have glandular fever. He’s gone back home and I don’t know when he’ll be back. Do you want me to leave a message on his door? Or, he has a friend crashing in his room for a couple days... maybe he can help answer your questions?”
I declined the offer. Dylan would have no idea who I was or what I was after, and I didn’t want to leave details in a note on his door. I certainly didn’t want to involve his friend.
Just before I hung up, the girl spoke again, “So, like, how do you choose what party you write about?”
“Random, mostly.” This wasn’t entirely true; I chose parties that were close to my apartment.
She continued, “Beckman Hall is having a ball this Friday, would that count as a party?”
I almost declined, but I reconsidered. If I attended this ball, I’d be at Beckman Hall, where a photo of The Raven hung in Dylan’s room. Maybe, if I was clever enough, I wouldn’t have to wait until Dylan returned to get a glimpse of the vigilante.
I leaned back. “Actually, I think Beckman Hall ball would work splendidly. How do I go about getting a ticket?”
Beckman Hall cafeteria-turned-ballroomlooked like ithad been sucking on gangster hats, feather eyelashes, fringed skirts and cigarette holders for so long that it started spitting feathered scarves and velveteen gloves to the floor in protest.
Wearing plain black slacks and a black shirt, I slipped easily into the shadows, and no one gave me much more than a passing glance. Now that I was here, all I had to do was write some notes for my column, find out where exactly Dylan roomed, and sneak inside for a quick look around.
A voice cut through the plucking of bass strings, and the familiarity stilled me. Trying to fit myself against a life-size silhouette showcased on the wall, I skimmed the heads of the crowd toward the voice. No. It just wasn’t possible. How could he be here?
I blinked at the guy dancing to the lively jazz—black pants, white shirt and suspenders.
Quinn.
It’s no wonder he doesn’t have friends.
My throat pinched as I swallowed, and despite the... rawness that overcame me seeing him, I couldn’t look away. Thank God he wasn’t gazing in my direction. I slunk closer to the wall, trying to be more inconspicuous.
How was it that Quinn was at almost all the parties I went to?
I’d read up on Beckman Hall, and this ball was famous, but really? It was unfathomable that we would run into each other at a party—three times in a row.
I searched for Shannon, but didn’t see her anywhere in the thickening crowds of top hats and suave come-ons. Nor did I spot Hunter hidden in a corner. Was it just Quinn?
I narrowed my gaze on him again. Judging by the chipper smile on his face, he was quite simply having a ball.
The girl he danced with laughed loudly when he mirrored her moves. Something about them had me itching to pull out my notebook and start writing. I couldn’t get enough of trying to make sense of this bleached-blond, green-eyed, broad-shouldered,club-eared man who seemed so at ease at these parties. Maybe, if I studied him long enough, I’d uncover the key ingredient to fitting in well in social situations.
Rested against the silhouette, I pulled out my notebook. I had to write a column on the ball anyway, so Icouldstart with a description of the dancing. I wouldn’t actually use him as my angle or anything; he was just one example of the numerous people swinging their hips....
Quinn kept scanning the crowds as if waiting for someone to turn up, and each time his head swung around my way, I ducked into a crouch and pretended to pick up the pen I’d “dropped.”
Inching back up the wall until I was standing again, I skimmed the room trying to spot who he was looking for. Shannon, perhaps? Or maybe he was trying to get back with that guy he broke up with?
When the jazz band started improvising mid-song and the saxophonist burst out into a complex melody, I twisted toward the stage, my gaze sweeping over Quinn—
I froze. He’d stopped dancing, and was focused directly on me.
I couldn’t figure out why a jolt ofguiltzapped me from head to foot. Just because he had friends and fit in better didn’t mean I couldn’t be here too.
I clapped my notebook shut, slipped it into my deep pocket, and without any acknowledgement, turned toward the exit. I didn’t care to exchange words with him. In fact, I shouldn’t have even cared how energetically he danced.
I was at Beckman Hall for another reason.
It was time to execute my plan of sneaking into Dylan’s room.
I waited until people started to get inebriated. Then I waved a piece of paper and asked students where his room was so I could tack the note to his door.
In fact, what I intended to do was hide out in the hall until the guy crashing in there returned. I’d hook him into conversationand push my way into his room to check out the walls, where the picture of The Raven hung.
