All I have to do is act stupid, talk loud, and throw money around like water for the next couple days, and by Friday, my invitation comes looking for me. It happens when I’m hunched over in a study carrel in Connaughton’s McManus Library, trying to cram a week’s worth of microeconomics into my skull. Shelves of books line the walls up to the cathedral ceilings, with ladders on wheels running up to the higher fixtures, and long, narrow hallways lead to different alcoves. The smells of old paper, parchment, and leather bindings are everywhere. “Will Shea?” I look up. The girl standing in front of me is a bronzed Malibu blonde, with a handful of errant freckles and the attentive smile of someone who’s heard interesting things about me and wants to find out if they’re true. Her school uniform looks custom-tailored to fit her, as if it’s been run through a half-dozen of the most exclusive design houses in Paris and Tokyo while she’s still been wearing it. After a second I realize she’s one of the girls who was dangling off Brandt’s arm when he staggered into Andrea’s room the other morning.
