“Oh, they get out of it, of course. They find a loophole. Or they trick the old creepy guy. My dad used to love to tell this story about a beautiful magician who secretly married her true love and . . .Oh!Oh my words!! Shepard!!! I have anidea.”
43
BAZ
I thought we were going to have to do some detective work to find Smith-Richards’s residential centre, but apparently someone gave Simon a leaflet at the meeting. (No one offeredmea leaflet.) (No one ever wants me to join their religion, either.)
Penelope still hasn’t called. Or texted. Simon’s in a funk about it, but hopefully he’ll rally. I sprung for a taxi, so he wouldn’t pout about having to take the train or a bus.
“Pull over here,” I say to the cabbie.
Simon squints out the window. “Here?”
“Apparently,” I say, paying the fare.
We climb out and look across the street. There’s a brick building with a tower and a belfry; it might have been a church once. A small, grey-haired man is hurrying away from the door.
“Is that Professor Bunce?” Simon says.
“Penny’s mum?”
“The other Professor Bunce, her dad.”
“Don’t know.” I pull Simon’s arm. “Come on. And don’t forget to invite me in if no one else does.”
We jog across the street. Simon looks like he’s going to call out to Professor Bunce, but the man is already half a block away.
The building ahead of us has a large, stone doorframe with the words HOME FOR WAIFS engraved in the lintel. “A little on the nose,” I mutter.
“Is it an orphanage?” Simon asks.
“Was, maybe.” I push the buzzer.
Simon smooths down his hair.
“Don’t forget to invite me in,” I whisper.
“When do I ever forget?”
“When we tried to have breakfast at Dishoom.”
“That was one time.”
“I miss America,” I say. “All those‘welcome’mats and‘come in, we’re open’signs . . .”
Simon snorts. “You donotmiss America—”
The door opens. The girl I recognized at Smith-Richards’s meeting is standing there. Chomsky, howdoI know her? She’s got to be around our age . . . Fair skin. Short, brown hair. I know she wasn’t at Watford. Are we related somehow, is that how I know her? Her eyes get big when she sees Simon.
“Hi,” he says.
The girl’s already rushing away from us, down the hall. Talk about starstruck. She’s left the front door open. Simon steps in and looks around.
I fold my arms, waiting.
He turns back to me and grins.
“This is a good game,” I say flatly. “Can we play this for the rest of our lives?”
