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natural light and a sturdy wooden easel and flat files where I could store my work.
    “It’s all mine?” It really didn’t seem possible, but she nodded.
    Ms. Benson pointed out all the materials she’d stocked for me: several different inks, every variety of charcoal and pastel, a set of oil paints, a complete double-ended Bristol marker set, and some discarded magazines and newspapers for collage. There was even an old typewriter—just like the one I’d used at home but left behind because it was too heavy.
    “I looked at your work carefully and tried to anticipate your needs.”
    I had to prevent myself from bursting into spontaneous laughter. No one had ever been quite so thoughtful or generous with me. Not even Santa. I’d made out painstakingly detailed lists every year asking for each of the specific pigments I needed—phthalo green is expensive!—but my parents had always ended up grabbing something like a Crayola paint kit from Target, thinking that was close enough.
    “I don’t know what to say.”
    “Say you’ll work. Hard. Say you’ll push yourself and try things that are uncomfortable … like making a big mess. Drawing with your left hand. Losing control. Breathe
life
into your work. Put yourself out there. I’d like to see you try bigger canvases that would make your art—and you—really
seen.
” She turned to leave but then paused by the door. “And … say you’ll keep your eyes open and be safe. Don’t find yourself alone at night.”
    “They’re pretty strict about that around here, huh?”
    “Yes, they are,” she croaked. But I could tell that hadn’t been what she meant.
    I WAS SO ENGROSSED in my drawing I almost missed my 5 P.M. scholarship meeting. I had to rush across campus clutching the Wickham Hall map with my dirty hands. When I finally arrived, I discovered the work-study advisor was Mrs. Mulford, my dorm mistress (aka Pitchfork Lady). She snapped at me; I was eleven minutes late. She reminded me that my scholarship at Wickham Hall wasdependent upon successful completion of my work shifts. Then she informed me with near glee that my work-study job partner was Gabriel Nichols.
    I looked over. Of course. Gabe from First Dinner.
    “The students paired off, choosing partners they felt were well suited. Mr. Nichols was not yet selected.”
    Gabe: the weirdo in the corner no one picked. Imagine, even the scholarship students were this judgmental. He gave me a little wave from the corner of the room, then held up his arms triumphantly, shaping his thumbs and pointer fingers into
L
s: the universal symbol for “loser.” I smiled.
    “Great,” I chirped to Mrs. Mulford. “That’s who I would’ve picked anyway.”
    Part of me wanted to let her know she hadn’t won, part of me felt sorry for him, and part of me meant it. He kind of scared me, but he also seemed more real than anyone else around here. At least he owned his weirdness. It was brave. Being at Wickham Hall kind of made me feel like a loser, too, but I’d never wear it as a badge.
    Mrs. Mulford made us wait until the other teams had their assignments. Then she explained our first job was to catalog all the alumni names carved into the bricks of the catacombs. We were to start immediately. Gabe shuddered. Like, actually
shuddered.
As if he had some physical reaction to the thought of the catacombs. I asked him what was wrong, but he shrugged it off.
    WE STARTED AT THE bottom of the circular stairway, the same one Abigail had led us down the day I arrived. If youlooked closely at each brick, there was a name and year carved into it. Supposedly, this had been a tradition for many years, until all the bricks were carved. On the occasion of the 150th anniversary of the school, they’d decided to log all these names and create a map of their locations so visiting alumni might easily find their ancestors’ bricks. So it was our job to trudge like rats through the dark underground hallway and record these names on