It was the kind of thing that could get you kicked out of school, but he didn’t care at this point. He ducked in the side door of Critchley Hall, then ran like a shot to the back steps behind the common rooms. He had taken this chance before, times when Ellie knew ahead that he’d be coming—only now he was flying blind; reckless and unannounced and unconcerned with consequence. But he had to talk to her, and he’d had enough of waiting and being dodged, and he didn’t want to risk cornering her on campus somewhere only to have her cut and run and have it happen in front of people—and just basically he couldn’t stand it anymore, not being able to talk to her and especially now that he had a concrete reason he could hang it on.
So it was up three flights and down two long hallways, whizzing past doors with posters on them—cartoon characters, fluffy animals with big soulful eyes, shirtless heartthrob guys with impossible stomach muscles and faraway looks—then around a tight hairpin corner, where traction was always key, past Janet Pardini’s room with a classic Audrey Hepburn glamour shot that boldly told the world that Janet knew of such things as Audrey Hepburn and glamour—until finally there it was: Ellie’s door, neatly laid out with quadrants of info sheets covering just about every environmental nightmare and nearly-extinct species she could fit on there to rally for.
“Chip!”
He closed the door behind him. He was barely even winded; say what you want about Coach Milpitas, but the man knew how to condition his players. “Hi,” he said.
“Hi?”
Chip nodded. Gulped down some air and steadied himself. “Listen—you’re really good at mysteries, right?”
“Mysteries?”
He nodded again. “Silva had this idea and I was following through on it, but the bell rang. So, I thought maybe you could help. It’s at the library.”
“What’s at the library?”
“Yearbooks.”
“Yearbooks?”
Chip confirmed. “They’re in the reference section but they don’t let you take those out.”
“Oh, but this you can do. And by the way, hello? Did someone in the room just get out of the shower here?”
He stopped and took her in. She was in her bathrobe, with her hair wrapped in a towel in that turban way that only girls can do. She had tried to show him once, back in happier times, but he couldn’t get his towel to stay on. On the other hand, he couldn’t teach her how to skateboard more than eight or nine yards without endangering the hemisphere. So in a strange way, they were even.
“Just come to the library,” he said. “It’s not a trick. I’m asking for your help.”
There was a knock on the door. “Ellie?”
Chip froze. Ellie went over, cracked it open just enough to answer someone’s question on the other side; then came back to Chip looking freshly annoyed. “That was Foster Devlin, who is absolutely who you don’t want knowing you’re up here. She’s pushing for head proctor next year, and this would thoroughly clinch the deal.”
“I don’t care about Foster Devlin.”
“Well maybe I do.”
“Well maybe you shouldn’t.”
They looked at each other. “Listen,” Chip said. “Please. Just come to the library with me. They went here in the seventies.”
“Who did. Who the hell are you talking about?”
“Ellie?” Another knock, and this time both of them froze. “Ellie, are you in there?”
Mrs. Vanderlip. Shit. The glory days of when it was only Foster Devlin were starting to look nostalgic by comparison.
“Ellie? Are you all right in there? Are you alone?”
“Just a minute!” Ellie said. Then she flung open her closet door and shoved Chip like a car was coming; right away he tripped on some exercise gadget and lost his balance. He grabbed for a towel hanging over the top of the door, but it pulled down like an avalanche and sent him tumbling into the foreign regions of Ellie’s closet—stamping over shoeboxes like landmines and bouncing off both door jams before he finally fell back into a thick nest of coat hangers—wooden, wired and plastic and all of them loud as a pep rally—while Chip flailed around in there, looking for anything he could hold onto that would just stay still.
“All right, Ellie.” Definitely Vanderlip out there. “I think it’s time you let me in now.”
“Please,” Chip heard Ellie say back to her. “Give me a minute.”
He came to rest on a crushed shoebox with a pair of something formal inside—hard as hell and no doubt shiny, and stabbing at him so hard it made his eyes water. He clenched his whole body, waiting, while he listened to Ellie opening the door so Mrs. Vanderlip could come into her room.
“Now, what’s going on in here.”
“Nothing,” Ellie said.
Inside the closet a long cotton sleepshirt slipped off its hanger, floating down and covering Chip like a shroud. Somewhere in the back of his mind—way back—he had the feeling that from certain points of view, this might be pretty comical. Randy, for one, would have a blast with it. But nothing about it seemed funny right now. There was going to be serious hell to pay, from a hundred and eight directions.
“All right,” he heard Mrs. Vanderlip say. “I’m pretty certain someone’s in there, and I’m pretty certain I know who it is. So, I’m going to step back out into the hall now, and wait a moment, and then I’ll knock again—and when I do, things had better be proper.”
Chip heard her step out. He had his instructions. He was struggling to pull himself up when Ellie opened the closet door, blinding him with light from the windows across the room.
“My God,” she said. “A herd of reindeer would have been more delicate in here.”
“We’ve been out of practice.” Chip reminded her. And it was true: they had drilled for this. They had signals set up, and everything. Except to make the thing work, Ellie had to know he was coming. That was the part Chip had left out today.
“So, do you want to call my parents, or should I?” Ellie asked.
She was not being dramatic; they were in truly deep trouble here. People did not send their daughters to Pocono Valley so they could learn to hang around in bathrobes while football players paid illegal visits to their dorm rooms. The school would have to come down hard on this, just to show an example. And for Chip, who’d committed the bigger crime here, coming down hard could only mean one thing: the Nihaminy game. Homecoming. A classic way to show they meant business.
He was sure of it.