Though sometimes I needled him, or acted lazy, I had figured out early on how Aubrey liked me best: trying but not getting anything right. Or maybe: not getting anything right but trying. Either way, the other person’s reaction was the only thing that ever counted to me-numbers were spiky and indifferent, but a person was warm and breathing, potentially swayable. I often messed up with people, it was true, but it rarely happened because I was reading them wrong; it was because I got nervous, or because I could see too clearly that I was not what they wanted. And, in fact, it was in falling short that I truly excelled. I might fail to be what the other person sought, but as a failure, I’d accommodate them completely-I could be obsequious or truculent, sad or earnest or utterly silent. If I’d had to guess, I’d have guessed that Cross knew I had a crush on him, and that in not trying to talk to him, in only every so often making eye contact with him and waiting a beat before looking away, I was acting just the way he’d think a girl who liked him but whom he didn’t like back should act. And I might get spring-cleaned, but I’d be able to go out with everyone on my side-Aubrey, Martha, Ms. Prosek, and even Dean Fletcher, all of them rueful and sympathetic.

The housing meeting, which was the meeting I’d thought was occurring when my class had nominated senior prefects, happened the next day. At morning break, all the juniors assembled in the first few rows of the auditorium, and Dean Fletcher sat on the edge of the stage swinging his legs. He gave the same speech we’d heard the last few years-it was impossible to accommodate everyone, etc., etc., and he added that as seniors, we’d set the tone in the dorms. When the meeting was finished, Martha left the auditorium to check her mail, and I began filling out both our request forms; we’d already decided we wanted to stay in Elwyn’s, the dorm we were in this year. As I pressed the paper against my thigh, writing Martha’s name and then my own, it occurred to me that perhaps this was a futile act-if I were not returning to Ault, certainly there was no point in making a rooming request. But how could I not be returning? What things would I think about if I were not an Ault student? At Marvin Thompson High, the cafeteria floor was mustard-colored linoleum with black and gray flecks; the sports teams were called the Vikings and the Lady Vikings; there was an ongoing debate about whether to let the pregnant girls attend classes after they started to show.

“I’ve always thought that the rooms in Elwyn’s smell like cat pee, but I guess that doesn’t bother you and Martha.”

When I looked up, Aspeth Montgomery was sitting to my right, sitting, in fact, so close to me that I felt the physical self-consciousness I usually experienced only with boys-did my pores look huge to her, I wondered, and was the skin around my mouth flaking because I’d forgotten my chapstick in the dorm and been licking my lips a lot? As my eyes met Aspeth’s, out of nervousness, I licked my lips again.

“I’ve never noticed that,” I said.

“Well, you lived with that squid in your room in Broussard’s, too, before you got Little kicked out. You must be used to gross smells.”

I said nothing.

After a beat, Aspeth said, “So I hear you think I won’t make a very good senior prefect.”

It had occurred to me that Dede might repeat my comments to Aspeth, but it had seemed too predictable-childish and vindictive in just the ways I knew Dede to be-and therefore I’d decided she wouldn’t; people rarely did exactly what you expected.

“You’re not denying it,” Aspeth said. “God, Lee, you’re shameless.” She leaned back, her left arm slung over the seat, and she did not seem angry but more amused; she hadn’t had anything else to do before morning break ended, so she’d come over to needle me.

“Dede probably told you stuff out of context,” I said.

“You think?”

“What do you want, Aspeth?” I asked. “Why do you care what I said to Dede?”

Aspeth seemed to reconsider me. She removed her arm from the seat back, sat up straight, and folded one leg over the other. “Does Martha really think she’ll get elected?” she asked, and the lazy, teasing quality was gone from her voice.

“What are you doing?” I said. “Campaigning?”

An odd look crossed her face-a recomposing of her features to form the same expression they’d formed before-and it dawned on me that campaigning was precisely what Aspeth was doing.

“Martha won’t win,” she said. “This is what will happen. About half the class will vote for Gillian, maybe a little less. And a little more than half the class will vote for me, except let’s say a tenth of the class will vote for Martha. You see what I’m saying? She’ll get my votes. And that means Gillian will win.”

I couldn’t help smiling. “You just said yourself that those aren’t your votes. They’re Martha’s.”

“You’re missing the point. Do you want Gillian to be senior prefect?”

I shrugged.

“Of course you don’t. Gillian’s a fucking pill. But all these dimwits in our class will vote for her because she’s been sophomore and junior prefect, and they’re little status quo lemmings.”

“Why don’t you like Gillian?” I asked. Gillian and Aspeth were in more or less the same friend group, and I’d never heard of friction between them.

“Who does?” Aspeth said. “Gillian’s a bore.” During our conversation, Aspeth had never once lowered her voice, and she didn’t now, though dozens of our classmates were still milling around the front of the auditorium; for the fearlessness of her bitchery, I felt a surge of admiration. “The only person more boring than Gillian is Luke,” Aspeth continued. “She probably falls asleep while he’s boning her.”

I felt a brief wish for Aspeth to ask what I thought of Gillian, so I could voice my assent; she didn’t.

“Martha needs to drop out of the election,” Aspeth said. “There’s nothing at stake for her. If she had a shot at winning, it would be one thing, but I think we’ve established that she doesn’t.”

Again, I couldn’t help but be impressed by the purity of Aspeth’s condescension, her utter lack of interest in wheedling or bribery. Martha should drop out of the race simply because Aspeth was Aspeth; for the same reason, Aspeth should be elected.

“Maybe you should talk to Martha yourself,” I said.

“Why? I just talked to you.” Aspeth unfolded herself-she had the longest legs of any girl in our class, fantastic legs, and she was wearing a khaki skirt that ended six inches above the knee-and stood; apparently, her business with me was finished. She seemed about to walk away, but then she took a step toward me and leaned over. Her honey blond hair fell in front of my face, and when she pressed one finger against the rooming sheet still on my lap, I could feel her fingertip on my thigh, through the paper. “I’d give the cat pee thing some thought,” she said. She turned to look at me, and our faces were so close, how could I not have thought of kissing her? She tapped her finger a few times, smiled knowingly, and said, “Just some friendly advice.” Then she was gone, the smell of her shampoo lingering in the air. I actually knew what kind of shampoo Aspeth used because Dede used it, too, though its scent didn’t cling to Dede’s hair like it did to Aspeth’s. When I was at Ault, that shampoo was the smell of popularity; after I graduated, it became the smell of Ault itself. One afternoon after work, in my early twenties, I was at a CVS and I held a bottle toward a friend and said, “I think this is the best-smelling shampoo in the world,” and she gave me a bemused look and said, “So buy some.” And I’d thought by then that I’d outgrown my Ault self, but still, the suggestion was revelatory; paying for it at the cash register, I had the same residually fraudulent sensation you experience the first time you buy alcohol after turning twenty-one.