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worst—eating all of your
food.”
    “I practically have my own room
now
,” I say, referring to Emily’s absence. “And I absolutely hate it.”
    Emily and I were assigned as roommates, only she moved out (to crash on her BFF Barbie’s spare futon) after only a few weeks into the semester, telling everyone that she couldn’t
possibly be expected to sleep in the same room as a killer.
    “Plus, all of that barging-in-and-eating-each-other’s-food stuff...” I continue. “It actually sounds pretty nice.”
    “You’ll love it,” she insists, voiding out my words with a jingle of her dollar-store bracelets; there are at least twenty silver bangles loaded on her arm. She lets them slide
up and down her wrist as she talks—her own sort of background noise.
    “Aren’t there any other options?” I ask. “Somebody else who needs to switch roommates? I’d be happy to meet with them first. I mean, seriously.” I feel my
eyes begin to fill. “I’m not as horrible as everybody thinks. I was voted Most Popular in high school for three years in a row, for god’s sake.” My words sound stupid and
desperate, and that’s exactly what they are.
    Chantel continues to stare at me, a plastic smile on her face, as if none of what I’m saying matters.
Jingle, jangle, jingle
. A second later, my own background noise kicks in: My
phone rings in my pocket. I don’t recognize the number.
    “Go ahead and take it,” Chantel says, as I’m about to hit IGNORE . “I have to run. I just wanted to let you know that everything is all
set.”
    I try my best to hold it together as Chantel turns on her heel, joining a group of sorority pledges in the corner of the lobby (all dressed up like Elvis), leaving me without a say.
    My phone continues to ring. I click on it to answer, eager for some love, even if it’s in the shape of some nonexistent prize I need to claim: “Hello?”
    “Taylor?”
    “Yes.”
    “This is Ivy Jensen. We spoke on the phone once before...when I was at the amusement park...during the Dark House weekend.”
    “Wait, how did you get my number?”
    “It was attached to your contest essay. It’s sort of a long story, but the essays showed up in my mailbox one day. I really think we should talk.”
    “Okay, but I’ve already told the police everything I know.”
    “I realize that, but I was hoping that if we got together and compared notes, we could come up with some new ideas.”
    “Ideas for what? The FBI already has our testimonies.”
    “Well, I think that we can do better than the FBI.”
    The conversation falls silent. I don’t know what to say, except that I don’t want to talk about the Dark House anymore—about why I left, or what I saw, or what I could’ve
done differently.
    “Taylor?”
    “We’re not the police.”
    “Can we just meet and talk?”
    I gaze out at the lobby of students. The group of sorority pledges attempts to serenade all of us by singing “Hound Dog” by Elvis, only it sounds more like
hedgehog
, which is
so completely distracting.
    “I’m really sorry, Ivy. But I’ve got a lot on my plate right now, and I need to stay focused on my studies.”
    “But people are still missing,” she says.
    “Okay, but aren’t those people believed to be dead?”
    “Do
you
believe it?”
    “I don’t have any reason not to. I mean, it’s been more than three months, and there was so much blood everywhere.”
    “How about this reason: If you went missing but your body had yet to be uncovered, would you want people to stop looking...to just assume that you were dead?”
    “I’m really sorry,” I tell her again, still focused on the sorority girls and wishing that I were one of them. If this were before the Dark House weekend, there’s no
doubt in my mind that I would be.
    “Can we at least talk on the phone, sometime when you have more ti—”
    “I’m sorry,” I say, cutting her off. “I just can’t do this right now.” I hang up before she can argue.