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couples at the table duck their heads, seeming to want to hide from Teo’s question altogether. Some of my classmates used to do that, until they learned that Teo is much happier when you offer what you have learned, prove you’ve taken the time to study the material for class.
    So I answer for them, knowing that sharing my knowledge of Persephone will ease Teo’s mind. “Persephone was queen of the underworld.” Married to Hades, I think inside, but I don’t say it out loud.
    Teo drops his head sideways, revealing the slight black stubble on his shaved head. He swivels his head back and forth, up and down, a stretch I’ve seen maybe a thousand times. “Is that all, Persephone?” he asks me like he’s my best friend, or maybe the friendly checker at the 7-Eleven before I slap the counter with another pack of gum.
    “Yes,” I say, my throat constricting as it hits me that there will never again be visits to 7-Eleven. Barely five minutes have gone past and I have already forgotten this new fact. I open my mouth to say something about the Living Rot when Teo says, “It is time to dance.”
    Immediately, everyone finds their feet. Everyone, that is, except for Cleo and Marcus. She’s tugging his hands, trying to pull him from the couch. He’d better get a move on if he—oh, there he goes, trudging across the hardwood floor to dance with Cleo, who wraps her paws around his shoulders. I breathe a sigh of relief. No one speaks a word as the boys in regular clothes hold the waists of girls in fancy dresses.
    With one hand squeezing my waist, Teo squints down at me as we waltz away from the stairs. “That went well.”
    I’m not entirely sure how he thought it would go—or how well differs from poorly—but I smile anyway and say, “Yes, it did.”
    The seven other couples mimic Teo’s dance with blank faces and shoulders tight. How many of them are thinking about the monsters? How many are troubled by the fact that the Living Rot could—has—happened again?
    Teo’s masterful lead helps sweep me away from the horrors on the outside—he has given us our own protected world. It makes me wonder if there’s some sort of barrier through the trees. The neighborhood seems isolated. I would guess no one knows we’re here.
    The couples stumble about with little grace, a few sneaking looks at Teo and me. The girl wearing the sari and her scowling, pencil-thin date are the clumsiest, both watching their feet before crashing straight into Cleo and Marc. There’s a domino effect when Marc trips over a tassel-infested ottoman and falls awkwardly to his knees.
    My heart leaps. I must be wincing, because Teo turns around to see the cause. He takes in the sight of his brother bent across the ottoman, and puts together the fact that someone in orange can’t seem to find her balance in the room. This poor girl in the orange needs a rest, to put up her feet.
    “You,” Teo points to the sari-wearing girl, “and you,” he points to her date, “tell Persephone your names.”
    “Ana,” the girl squeaks, steadying herself on the couch. “And this is Sal.” Her date bobs his head in agreement, wiping his hands on his jeans.
    Teo narrows his eyes. “Tell me, Ana , do you enjoy looking like a hippo mashing feet with a giraffe?”
    Everyone freezes. He did not say that. Whatever happened to my Teo, who’s gifted with beautiful words? He must be tired, frustrated by our failure to contribute to his conversation before. Humiliation trickles into dear Ana’s eyes. “You’re right,” she says, and I want to pull her aside and give her a hug, because we all make mistakes.
    Her partner, Sal, though, is rather giraffe-like and does have an unusually long neck. He stares ahead, his miniature rectangular glasses perched neatly on the bridge of his nose. But his gaze isn’t looking at anyone. He merely toys with a block of wood in his hands.
    Teo sighs, glaring at Ana in her orange sari and slipping headscarf. “Let us see those