Page 24 of The Narrow

“I just... don’t think it’s necessary,” I hedge.

Zoya snorted. “Riiiiight. I forgot you have a thing for him.”

“I don’t have a thing for Mr.Campos. He’s almost twice ourage,” I say unconvincingly. “Besides, he’s had a hit out on me since I spilled a mocha on a copy ofThe Odysseyin first year.”

“My bad. Thirty isancientand you havezerointerest,” she says, patting me on the head. “You know he knows every ghost story and urban legend about Atwood. So if you want answers, you’re just going to have to deal with your absolutely obvious and embarrassing crush.”

I roll my eyes at her.

“Besides, I’ll be there to protect you if he goes after you with a hole puncher.”

I allow her to cajole me into the library. Even this early in the semester, it’s pretty busy—seniors doing college application prep, panicky freshmen grabbing giant stacks of books as they realize just how academically intense Atwood is.

Mr.Campos is at his desk. He’s fat, with thick black glasses and dark curly hair that makes him look boyish, though his beard and piercing dark eyes balance that out. Today he’s wearing a sweater vest over a tailored shirt, his standard uniform—sometimes spiced up with a semi-ironic bow tie, though not, to my disappointment, today.

I always instinctively like men with sweater-vests. Veronica claims that someday, in a moment of dramatic irony, it will be a man in a sweater vest who betrays me to my doom.

Truthfully, I absolutely have a thing for Mr.Arturo Campos. It’s why I spilled the mocha, since I was sitting there daydreaming about impressing him with my knowledge of the classics when he asked me if I was finding everything okay, and I screamed aloud and smacked the cup over.

Zoya approaches his desk, her shoulders curled forward the way they always do when she’s talking to someone she doesn’t know well. I hang back and hope vaguely that he’s sustained a head trauma over the summer and won’t remember me.

“Miss Ivanova-Smith. Miss White. What can I do for you today?” he asks cheerfully. His voice is warm and friendly, and I want to sink into the floor.

“Eden has a ghost problem,” Zoya says. Her voice totally changes when she’s talking to other people—thin and quiet, like a layer has been stripped out of it. She looks back at me, beckoning me forward.

“I believe you want the Ghostbusters for that,” he says, a twist of humor on his lips.

“She means I’m trying to find information about ghosts,” I say.

“Of course,” he says, and his eyes glitter. I flush. “So are you looking for a particular specter or will any old haunting do?”

“I’m looking for information about the Drowning Girl,” I say, more confidently this time.

“Oh, good choice,” he says, like a waiter complimenting your wine selection. “That’s an intense one.”

“So you do know it?” I ask. I find myself leaning forward eagerly, an anxious excitement thrumming through me.

“There are all kinds of ghost stories associated with the Narrow, going back to before the school was even here. But the Drowning Girl, specifically, is more recent. Basically, the story goes that there was a young woman in love with a young man. This young man was someone she wasn’t supposed to be in love with—the details vary on why. He was older, or poor, or his skinwas the wrong color. Her parents forbade her to see him, and the school attempted to intervene, but of course that only made them love each other more. And so the two of them decided to run away together.”

“Idiots,” Zoya mutters.

“It’s not my place to judge,” Mr.Campos says, though he looks amused. “Anyway, they were supposed to meet up at the Narrow.”

“Again, idiots. Who goes down to the Narrow at night to meet up?” Zoya asks. “It’s a good way to get yourself killed.”

“An excellent way, as it turns out,” Mr.Campos agrees. “Apparently, her lover never showed up. The girl, in her grief, threw herself into the water and was pulled down below. But legend says that she climbs out of her watery grave at night to find him. She leaves wet footprints in the halls, and a few students have glimpsed her. She’s called the Drowning Girl because she’s always in the process of drowning. Choking on water. Gasping for air.”

“That’s horrible,” I say, clutching the strap of my backpack tightly. I can imagine it vividly: The constant sense of striving for air, your lungs filling with water. The thrashing panic of it. Only the release of unconsciousness never comes.

“That’s ghost stories for you,” Mr.Campos says. “At their core, every ghost story is a tale of loss and destruction.”

“Who was she? When did it happen?” I ask.

Mr.Campos spreads his hands. “That’s trickier to pin down. Ithinkthe earliest iteration of the Drowning Girl story is from the late eighties, but there are so many ‘drowned in the Narrow’ ghost stories that it can be hard to be sure. The choking, though—that definitely shows up in the eighties, from what I’ve found.”

“Is that when you were a student here?” Zoya asks.

He looks over his glasses at her. “The eighties were the decadebeforeI was born, so no, I did not attend Atwood then.”

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