Page 11 of The Narrow

I don’t know what to say to that. I wet my lips. “Delphine, I...” I’m not sure what I can possibly say. I came here wanting to see her, wanting to understand, maybe, how she had survived the Narrow six years ago, but now she’s in front of me, and I have no idea how to ask. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you when you were sick.”

“Why would you?” Delphine asks, head cocked curiously.

“You were my roommate. I should have—I’m sorry, that’s all.”

Her brow is slightly furrowed as she frowns down at me. “We were roommates?”

“Only for a day. Your first day here.”

She looks thoughtful. “I don’t really remember anything from back then. I remember getting to the school. Then it’s all a haze until the hospital.”

“I’m sorry.” Old guilt twists through me.

Delphine shrugs. “It’s not your fault.”

I’m not sure she’s right about that.

Distantly, the chapel bell is ringing. That means it’s really time to get moving. “I should go. I guess I’ll meet you officially later.”

“Okay.” She pauses. “Can you promise me something?”

“What?” I ask, knowing better than to make a blind promise.

“Don’t pretend to be my friend. Don’t pretend to like me. I don’t care if you hate me, as long as you do it honestly,” Delphine says.

“I don’t hate you,” I say immediately.

“You don’t know me,” she points out. “Never lie to me. That’s all I ask. If you promise me that, I’ll tell Maman I want you to stay.”Maman, not Mom. I remember Veronica whispering to me six years ago,She isn’t even really French.

“I promise,” I say, recklessly, foolishly, and part of me longs for her to ask the questions I have feared all these years.Why didn’t you save me? Why didn’t you tell anyone?

“Then tell me. Why did you agree to live here?” she asks. There’s an immense sadness in these words, as simple as they seem. I know, of course, that Delphine lives alone, but the enormity of it hasn’t hit me until now, standing a flight of stairs away and knowing this is closer than almost anyone has been to her in years.

If I hadn’t promised, I would have lied. The same way I lie to my friends all the time when I talk about home. Instead the truth comes quickly. “I needed the money. Tuition, I mean. I would have been kicked out otherwise.”

“Ah.” She has a look of satisfaction on her face, like she’s just solved a puzzle that’s been bothering her. “One more question. Do you think I’m strange?”

Bland reassurances present themselves, and I ignore them. “Probably. But that’s not a bad thing,” I say. Something that isalmost but not quite a smile hooks the corner of her mouth. A quick and blisteringly hot sensation snakes through my belly.This could be dangerous, I think. The truth is a vicious thing, and so am I. It’s why I lie so much. We look at each other for a long moment, and the silence feels somehow electric.

“You should go,” Delphine reminds me.

“I’ll see you soon,” I say.

“You know where to find me,” she replies, and now she does smile, closed-lipped.

I shut the door and turn away. I can feel Delphine watching me the whole way down the hall.

6

OUTSIDE, THE MUGGYwarmth of August hits me. I don’t need the cardigan, but I wrap it around myself as I hurry along the walkway toward the dining hall.

The dining hall is an austere brick building, ivy climbing up one side. It looks like something out of a boarding school brochure, and it is in fact plastered over the front of the booklets Atwood distributes.

I worried I would be too late, but I’m right on time, with a steady stream of students still arriving. I look with sympathy at the nervous freshmen and Lower School students—bouncing on the balls of their feet, glancing around, trying to work out the arcane rules of this ritual, which for some reason no one ever explains.

I slip past a petrified Lower School student, her sweater buttoned in the wrong hole and her hair a helpless frizz around hercheeks. “Back circular tables are for Littles, and don’t sit until all the upperclassmen are sitting,” I murmur to her, and she flashes me a grateful look.

The dining room is done up formally, with white tablecloths and seat covers, boisterous centerpieces dominating every table. At the very back of the room are two long rows of tables where the Lower School students are relegated. Upper School students get the large circular tables instead. As seniors, we’re allowed to use the front tables. The best table—the one by the window—is unofficially reserved for Atwood royalty, the Clarkes and Vaughans and Ryders and their crowd. I can already see a couple of freshmen being ousted.

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