The Name of the Star - Maureen Johnson [22]
“The Flowers and Archers isn’t far from here,” he said. “We should go.”
“We . . . should?”
Again, I knew many students at Wexford could legally drink, because you only had to be eighteen. I knew that pubs would be a part of life here somehow. But I hadn’t expected someone, especially a prefect, to invite me to one. Also, was he asking me out? Did you ask people to crime scenes on dates? My pulse did a little leap, but it was quickly regulated by his follow-up.
“You, me, Jazza,” he said. “You should get Jazza to come, otherwise she’ll start stressing from day one. You’re her keeper now.”
“Oh,” I said, trying not to sound disappointed. “Right.”
“I have desk duty at the library until dinner, but we could go right after. What do you think?”
“Sure,” I said. “I . . . I mean, I don’t have plans.”
He put his hands in his pockets and took a few steps backward.
“Have to go,” he said. “Don’t tell Jazza where we’re going. Just say the pub, okay?”
“Sure,” I said.
Jerome gave a slouchy, full upper body nod and walked off to the library.
9
IT DIDN’T TAKE A GREAT DEAL OF INSIGHT TO KNOW that Jazza was not going to want to go to a crime scene that evening. She was, to use the vernacular, a normal person. She was at her desk eating a sandwich when I returned.
“Sorry,” she said, turning as I came in. “My cello practice ran late, and I didn’t feel like going over to the refectory. On Saturdays I sometimes treat myself to a sandwich and a cake.”
“Treat myself ” was a little Jazza-ism I loved. Everything was a tiny celebration with her. A treat was a single cookie or a cup of hot chocolate. She made these things special. Even my Cheez Whiz had become a little treat. It was more precious now.
Something was beeping on my bed. I still wasn’t used to the unfamiliar ring and alerts of my English phone. I hadn’t even gotten into the habit of carrying it with me because there was no one likely to call me, except my parents. They had been scheduled to arrive in Bristol that morning. That’s who the message was from. I noticed an alarmed frequency in my mother’s voice.
“We think you should spend the weekends up here, in Bristol,” she said, once we’d gotten the basic hellos out of the way. “At least until this Ripper business is over.”
Alarming though Wexford could be at times, I had no desire to leave it. In fact, I was certain that if I did, I would miss crucial things—all the things that would allow me to adapt and last the entire year.
“Well, I have class on Saturday morning,” I said, “then we eat lunch. And doesn’t it take, like, hours to get there? So I wouldn’t even get there until Saturday night, and then I’d have to leave in the middle of Sunday . . . and I need all that time to do work. Plus, I have to play hockey every day, and since I don’t know how to play, I have to do extra practice . . .”
Jazza didn’t look up, but I could tell she was listening to every word of this. After ten minutes, I had convinced them that it wasn’t a good idea to leave, but I had to swear up, down, and sideways to be careful and to never, ever, ever do anything on my own. They moved on to describing their house in Bristol. I was scheduled to see it for the first time during a long weekend break in mid-November.
“Your parents are alarmed?” Jazza asked when I hung up.
I nodded and sat down on the floor.
“Mine are as well,” she said. “I think they want me to come home too, but they aren’t saying. The trip to Cornwall would be too long, anyway. And Bristol is just as bad. You’re right.”
This confirmation made me feel a bit better. I hadn’t just been making things up.
“What are you doing tonight?” I asked her.
“I thought I’d stay in and work on this German essay. And then I really need to put in a few hours of cello practice.