“I appreciate you doing this for me.” I stood in the center of the room, recalling the odd bit of furniture and some of his posters from before. Though tempted, I tried not to touch anything. My fingertips were sticking together. My hair was plastered to the back of my neck. My soft, makes-my-eyes-green cashmere scarf was hopelessly destroyed. I also tried not to think about Brandon’s bedroom. Instead, I started making a list of what I’d do to Dragon’s Head. They wanted a war, they’d get one.

As Poe was fond of saying, I had a way of making trouble for people.

Brandon popped his head out of his room. “Do you want to hop in the shower first and wash some of the stickiness off?”

I hesitated. “Maybe I should just run home…”

“Don’t be silly. You’re still shivering. You’re not hiking all the way back to Prescott like that. It’s not a big deal.”

“Getting in your shower isn’t a big deal?” And all the way back? It was a block and a half.

“Well, it’s not like I’ll be there.” He checked his smile. “Is this too weird for you?”

“No.” It wasn’t weird enough. I put my bag down and held out my hands. “Fine. Toss me some towels.”

But I did little more than rinse. Brandon’s shampoo and soap smelled too familiar to risk; I remembered too many other showers, too many other afternoons spent smelling like him. I dried off and headed back to the suite, praying his suitemates wouldn’t see me in towels.

The common room was empty, even of Brandon, but I saw that he’d cleaned out my bag and hung it to dry over the radiator. A pile of used paper towels sat next to a neat stack of my ruined textbooks. Beyond, his bedroom door was open, but I couldn’t see anyone inside. Perhaps he’d gone to a bathroom on another floor to wash his hands.

I closed the door behind me and sat on his bed. I knew this comforter well. He’d laid out a worn Eli T-shirt and a pair of drawstring sweatpants for me to wear. I picked up the shirt and held the softness against my skin. Forgoing the soap had been a useless effort. His clothes smelled like him, too.

And I’d have to wash them before I returned them, even though I’d only be wearing them for the trip back to my place. Not to get too blunt about it, but my underwear was in the same condition as the rest of my clothing: covered in soda. I had no choice but to go commando.

I dressed, then stuffed my sticky outfit into an empty shopping bag. Shouldn’t he be back by now? As if on cue, there was a knock at the door. Brandon was always so polite.

“Come in,” I called.

Of course, it wasn’t Brandon. Felicity stopped dead on the threshold and gaped at me. In her boyfriend’s clothes. On her boyfriend’s bed. With my hair leaving wet rivulets all over her boyfriend’s shirt.

This isn’t what it looks like is so cliché, but it’s the only phrase that popped into my head at the moment. Luckily, I was spared speaking it aloud, as Felicity regained her composure and asked, in a surprisingly reasonable voice, “Why, hello, Amy. Brandon around?”

I rose. “I think he must be using a downstairs bathroom. I’m sure he’ll be right back.”

And then, because the room didn’t seem large enough for both of us, I squeezed out into the common room. Felicity stood by the door, watching as I assessed the damage to my schoolbooks. “What happened?”

“Some guy spilled a bunch of drinks on me at lunch.”

“A bunch of drinks?” She raised her eyebrow. “How…odd.”

Chick had no idea.

Brandon returned to rescue me. “Lis,” he said, his eyes wide.

Lis? What kind of nickname was that? Better than “Fell,” I suppose. And man, that was a guilty tone he was using. Curious. Brandon wasn’t the type to expect anyone else to see impropriety where he saw none.

“Hi, sweetie.” Felicity crossed the room, placed her hands on his chest, and kissed him like she hadn’t seen him in months. “Amy was just telling me what happened to her. It’s so awful. Do you know who it was?”

Brandon shook his head. “He’s not in Calvin. Amy, did you know him?”

“No,” I said. But I knew where he could be found on Thursday and Sunday nights.

“Sucks,” Felicity went on, moving closer to me. “You should try to track him down if you can. He should be forced to pay you for those books.” She toed at one of my stickier texts. “They’re unusable.”

Thanks for the tip, bitch. Never would have figured that out myself.

She straightened. “It was good to see you again, Amy. I just have a short break before my next class. I was hoping to duck in here and take a nap.” She smiled at Brandon. “Maybe you could join me.”

Brandon restrained his male hormones long enough to look momentarily taken aback by her audacity.

I swallowed. “I have to get out of here anyway.”

Felicity smiled, sweetly. “Of course.” Of course, because I’m the girlfriend here. Of course, because I’ve made the fact that you’re not welcome abundantly clear. You may have the sweatpants, but not their owner. Scat.

I grabbed my still-damp bag and shoved my books inside. “Thanks for the clothes, Brandon. I’ll get them back to you ASAP.”

“Amy, we haven’t even talked about these applications.”

Or eaten lunch. “Rain check,” I insisted, and ran.

I’m sure I hadn’t reached the ground floor before she had him in her clutches.

I reported the soda dump to some Digger friends over pizza that night and basked in their appropriately appalled response. They vowed revenge, promised to protect me, and started up a pool to replace my books. We talked about letting Dragon’s Head know the location of their missing statue, lest this incident was only the opening volley in a full-scale war on me. I liked having it as an option, but if anything, their little game made me even more determined to stand my ground and protect Rose & Grave—with my body, my textbooks, and my new camel coat.

Besides, there, in the bosom of my brothers, the whole affair seemed like a singular event, an isolated incident that would be immediately snuffed out now that the full weight of the society was bent on avenging the wrongs perpetrated against one of their own. Except, they couldn’t keep their eyes on me at all times, and it seemed as if whenever the Diggers weren’t watching, the Dragon’s Head members were. And thus, over the course of the next few weeks, we had as many failures as successes.

The Eli Library suddenly reported that I owed fines in the thousands on library books whose due dates went back to my middle school days. Jenny Santos, computer whiz that she was, managed to fix the “problem,” but lo, when the hold on my lending privileges was lifted, I discovered that all of the volumes I’d reserved had mysteriously gone missing in the stacks. So much for my research paper.

Two days later, I turned my back for five seconds in the dining hall and someone covered my salad with a spray of habanero pepper. A day after that, I was following my usual route home from class and passed underneath the Hartford College arch. When I emerged on the other side, I was met with another icy shower. (Luckily, I’d taken to keeping my valuables inside Ziploc bags inside my satchel.) By the time I looked up, I saw little more than two hooded figures disappearing back into their window, dragging a large empty tub behind them. Dragon’s Head sure liked their liquids.

Greg Dorian said he admired the ingenuity of their multilateral attacks. (I thwapped him with the Kaboodle Ball in response.) Josh wondered if we should be keeping tabs on my transcripts, to avert any bizarre clerical errors, a possibility that kept me up all night. Jenny was constantly monitoring my computer, and reported three different attempts to send me a virus through bogus announcement e-mails from the Prescott College master’s office. I only hoped she was good enough to catch them all.