“She has a legitimate excuse,” the librarian said, sighing as if she wished it were otherwise. I couldn’t tell if she missed Amanda or if she simply wanted to nail her for being delinquent. On Thursday, about ten minutes after lunch began, Amanda waltzed into the library as if she owned it. “Love the scarf,” she said, gesturing at the turquoise one I was wearing around my neck. “It was my grandmother’s,” I said proudly. I’d spent a lot of time in front of the mirror this morning trying to decide if I had the guts to wear it. Unlike the rest of my outfit—dark jeans and black T-shirt—it was not subdued. “It’s from the seventies,” I added. Amanda frowned. “You should wear it more off-center,” she said, and retied it for me with fingers as smooth and cold as pearls. Then she stood back and admired her work. “So much better. It was too old-lady the way you had it.” Amanda reminded me of a French actress today. She was wearing skinny jeans, high-heeled boots, and a cool black raincoat.
