LITMIR.BIZ

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a female voice said. “No one will notice.”

      It was Clara. My heart began to beat faster.

      “People just rush through this courtyard on their way to class,” Tom said. “But I think it’s nice out here. Quiet. We can talk.” He pointed to the bench where Clara sat, smoothing the skirt of her dress. It looked expensive and delicate, the color of ice. Tom wore almost the same clothes as yesterday.

      With a pang, I thought of Acid. My old school, my old life.

      Then I looked closer at Tom. I wondered how he could get away with wearing shorts at school, which was not allowed. I wondered how long the three of us could sit out here in the courtyard, which was also not allowed; we were clearly visible through the windows of the cafeteria.

      “Aren’t you worried about getting in trouble?” I asked.

      “No,” Tom said.

      “We got over that a long time ago,” Clara said. “I guess you haven’t yet.”

      “Why didn’t I see you here yesterday?” I asked Tom.

      But Clara was the one who answered. “He comes to school when he feels like it.”

      I had sat on the bench beside her, noting that Tom took the place on her other side. They were familiar with each other, casual and comfortable. He bumped Clara’s shoulder. She made a face at him. They wore the same kind of shoes, black leather lace-ups that looked expensive, though the leather was dusty and cracked.

      I took a bite of my sandwich. “How long have you guys been together?”

      “Together?” Tom said.

      “A long time,” Clara said.

      Tom looked at her, then at me. He looked like he was trying not to laugh. “We’re siblings.”

      Then Clara did laugh.

      I swallowed. I felt heat in my face. “But you have different last names?”

      “We’re adopted,” Clara said.

      “We’ve known each other since we were kids,” Tom said. “We grew up together. That’s all.”

      “Oh. Okay.” I held my sandwich out. “Do either of you want half?”

      Tom looked like he was going to laugh again. “No, thanks.”

      Clara exchanged a glance with him. “She’s so sweet. Look at her trying.”

      I felt stupid for a reason I didn’t understand. I balled up the wax paper from the sandwich, crumpled my napkins. Tom and Clara hadn’t eaten anything at all. “How do you stand it here?” I asked them. “Everyone ignores me. I feel like I’m being shunned.”

      “You get used to it,” Clara said. “It becomes easier.”

      “I feel like I’m going crazy. I don’t know what I did.”

      Tom tilted his head strangely. “What did you do?”

      “What do you mean?”

      “What happened to you, to end up here?”

      I stood. Clara had asked me the same question on the bus. “What is this place?” I asked. “You have to commit a crime to be sent here? No, I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t do anything. There’s nothing wrong with me.” Conscious that Tom and Clara were watching, I dumped my lunch in a trashcan, and went back into the cafeteria, where I sat alone in silence until the bell rang.

      Tom and Clara weren’t on the afternoon bus.

      I got a snack in the empty house, glancing through the window at the backyard. Tom had said we were neighbors, but the closest house was far down the road, past the fairgrounds. When I had passed it on my walk from the train station, an old woman had been out front, pulling weeds. Did she have two adopted teenagers?

      I washed my dishes and put them away. I was heading up the stairs to take a nap, or start on the homework no one would ever collect from me, when I heard a crash.

      It was an old house. It made sounds, creaking and groaning, settling, especially at night. It was also overrun with cats, and given my grandmother’s tendency to leave the doors wide open, possibly other strays as well.

      There was another crash, followed by a muffled curse.

      “Hello?” I said.

      At the top of the stairs a door had been flung open: the door to the linen closet, its shelves stuffed with junk. Someone was at the bottom of the closet, searching on hands and knees. “Nuts!” the figure said.

      “Excuse me?” I said.

      The figure turned. It was a girl, barely older than me. Seeing me, she jumped and clutched at her chest. She wore a drab brown dress and a dingy apron. On her head she had fastened a little white hat. “You gave me a fright,” she said. “Miss, don’t do that.”

      “I’m sorry. Who are you again?”

      She sat back on her heels. “I’m Martha.”

      “Okay,” I said. “Martha. What are you doing in the closet?”

      “Well, I thought it was time to change your bedclothes.”

      “Change the bedclothes?” I stared at the girl, her dress and apron, that hat. “Grandma has a maid? Since when?”

      “A long time,” the girl—the maid—said.

      “Do you live here?”

      Martha nodded.

      That was news to me. I definitely hadn’t remembered a maid. “Why haven’t I seen you before?”

      “It’s a big house,” Martha said. “And your grandmother is awfully particular about what I do and when I do it.”

      “She sure has a lot of stuff to clean,” I said, staring past Martha into the closet, which was crammed with sheets, bolts of fabric, glassware, and candles. So many candles. On the bottom shelf, there appeared to be a trumpet. A trumpet? I thought of how dusty the house was; how cobwebs were practically knitted in the corners, thick and gray; how the sides of my bathtub bled with rust.

      Martha the maid didn’t seem particularly good at her job.

      “I don’t mind,” Martha said.

      I studied her. “Um, are you old enough to be a maid?”

      “Old enough.” Martha stood, groaning as she rose, as if to prove it. “Back to work for me. You run along now. I bet your friends are outside waiting.”

      “My friends?” I said. “Clara? Tom?”

      But the front yard was empty. A cat, dozing on a downed limb, stared at me with one open yellow eye. I was about to go down to the pond—maybe Martha meant the backyard—when I saw the man in the driveway. He stood by the road, looking up toward the house, but when he noticed me, he turned quickly away.

      I wandered down the driveway. “Can I help you?” I asked.

      The man wore all black. His hair was black too, a shaggy mess, and his skin looked waxen—as washed-out as Tom and Clara had looked, I realized. People didn’t seem to get much sun in Wellstone.

      “Are you looking for my grandmother?” I asked.

      The man looked miserable, purple shadows under his eyes, which were swollen into slits and bloodshot. “I believe I may have left something at your house,” he mumbled.

      “Okay, I’ll go ask my grandma.” I didn’t want to tell him she wasn’t home.

      “I believe I may have lost something. In your pond.”

      “Seriously?”

      “Lily pads, coy. Nice gazebo.”

      “There’s

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