Page 25 of The Narrow

“Right,” Zoya says, and looks at the floor, embarrassed.

“Work with teenagers, they said. It’ll be so fulfilling, they said. Never mentioned how they’d make me feel like a crypt keeper all the time,” he mutters, staring up at the ceiling and heaving a sigh. I stifle a laugh, and he grins. “I had a working theory that the Drowning Girl was inspired by a real disappearance in the eighties.”

“Disappearance?” I echo, interest piqued.

“Well before my time, as mentioned.” He gives Zoya a mock glare. “It was a young woman, a student at the school. She went missing, and there was speculation she ended up in the Narrow. That’s about as much as I know off the top of my head.”

“Do you know who’s seen her? Or where we could find out more about the missing girl?” I ask.

“I don’t know of any specific sightings. You could try a classmate’s cousin’s roommate’s aunt—they’re usually the ones with the firsthand knowledge,” Mr.Campos says with a wink, and we chuckle obligingly. “As for the missing girl, you could ask Dean Oster. He was a teacher here during that time period.”

A jolt goes through me. It’s hardly sinister—I already knew Oster was here in the eighties. But I think of him out on the grounds at night, the questions he asked, and I wonder.

“You could also check out the local paper archives on campus,” Mr.Campos adds. “Just say the word, and I can get you the keys to the kingdom. The extremely nerdy, niche-interest kingdom.”

“Thank you,” I say, feeling a bit faint. “This is really helpful.”

“That’s my job. Helping students with weird questions and not asking too many of my own,” he says cheerfully, pushing up his glasses. “Oh, and Eden? Watch out for rogue mochas.”

My cheeks turn red, and I hurry away.

11

WE’RE THE FIRSTones to get to the dorms. Zoya goes into hostess mode, and by the time Ruth arrives, I have a cup of tea and a plate of beautiful little shortbread cookies made by Zoya’s tiny Russian grandmother.

“Well, this year is going to suck,” Ruth declares, dropping onto the couch next to me. She snags a pair of cookies and nibbles at the edge of one with a deep, contented sigh. She strictly limits her sugar during the school year for training purposes, but there are exceptions for Tiny Russian Grandma Cookies.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I just overcommitted,” Ruth says.

“A shock,” Zoya notes, folding her long limbs into a cross-legged sit on the floor and setting her own cup of tea delicately on the edge of the coffee table. “Who knew that trying to become a doctor and go to the Olympics at the same time would be challenging.”

“Yeah, I know,” Ruth says. She sounds defeated, and that isn’t like her. Ruth is driven—the most driven person I know. She’s only ever seentoo muchas a challenge to be overcome, but as she slowly nibbles away at the shortbread, her gaze is unfocused and weary.

“Do you still want to do both?” I ask. “It is a lot. You’re basically superhuman for even trying.”

She bites her lip. “I got a B in Chemistry last semester. I brought it up to an A minus with some extra work over the summer, but I had to scramble.”

“A B is perfectly respectable,” Zoya says. She’s right, of course, but it’s not up to Ruth’s own standards for herself. Not with applications due soon and her GPA on the line. She looks at me, and I give a little nod to show I understand.

“I’m not sure I actually have the time and the sheer physical energy to manage both, short of bending the space-time continuum,” Ruth goes on. “Getting that B made me panic, and then I realized that if I have to pick one, it’d be the academics and medicine. And then I started to think, do I even want to go to the Olympics?”

I tilt my head in surprise. The Olympics have been all she’s talked about since we were twelve and she realized there was more to the Olympics than being a pint-sized gymnast. She could be big, strong, and a champion, and she’s been driving toward that goal ever since. “Do you want to stop competing?” I ask.

“No, I don’t think so,” she says. “But going to the Olympics basically means giving up a normal life for a long time. Thetraining, the money, the politics... I don’t know if I’m up for that just to say I did it.”

“You don’t need an external marker of success to prove that you’re a badass,” I say.

“Are your parents going to be disappointed?” Zoya asks.

“I imagine they’ll be relieved,” I say, and Ruth nods.

“They’ve always been worried I’m pushing myself too hard,” she says. “ ‘There’s a line between overachieving and working yourself to the bone, and you crossed it in fifth grade!’ ” she says in an exaggerated rumble that I imagine is supposed to be her father’s voice.

“At least they’ve always known that if they tried to slow you down, you’d only push harder,” I point out. “You’re like a cat. It has to be your idea.”

“Ouch. Stop knowing me so well. It’s hurtful,” Ruth says.

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