“Like that?” I asked with a chuckle, pointing at the dog-eared copy of Vogue lying on the coffee table.
“Absolument,” Scout said. “Vogue is our guide to current events and international culture.”
“And sweet shoes.”
“And sweet shoes,” she said, then gestured at the cello in the corner. “That’s Barnaby’s baby. Lesley Barnaby,” she added at my lifted brows. “She’s number three in our suite, but you won’t see much of her. Lesley has four things, and four things only, in her day planner: class, sleeping, studying, and practicing.”
“Who’s girl number four?” I asked, as Scout led me to the closed door directly across from mine.
Her hand on the doorknob, Scout glanced back at me. “Amie Cherry. She’s one of the brat pack.”
“The brat pack?”
“Yep. Did you see the blonde with the headband in the study hall?”
I nodded.
“That’s Veronica Lively, the junior class’s resident alpha girl. Cherry is one of her minions. She was the brunette with short hair. You didn’t hear me say this, but Veronica’s actually got brains. She might not use them for much beyond kissing Foley’s ass, but she’s got them. The minions are another story. Mary Katherine, that’s minion number two—the brunette with long hair—is former old money. She still has the connections, but that’s pretty much all she has.
“Now, Cherry—Cherry has coin. Stacks and stacks of cash. As minions go, Cherry’s not nearly as bad as Mary Katherine, and she has the potential to be cool, but she takes Veronica’s advice much too seriously.” Scout frowned, then glanced up at me. “Do you know what folks in Chicago call St. Sophia’s?”
I shook my head.
“St. Spoiled.”
“Not much of a stretch, is it?”
“Exactly.” With a twist of her wrist, Scout turned the knob and pushed open her bedroom door.
“My God,” I said, staring into the space. “There’s so much . . . stuff.”
Every inch of space in Scout’s tiny room, but for the rectangle of bed, was filled with shelves. And those shelves were filled to overflowing. They were double-stacked with books and knickknacks, all organized into tidy collections. There was a shelf of owls—some ceramic, some wood, some made of bits of sticks and twigs. A group of sculpted apples—the same mix of materials. Inkwells. Antique tin boxes. Tiny houses made of paper. Old cameras.
“If your parents donate a wing, you get extra shelves,” she said, her voice flat as week-old soda.
“Where did you get all this?” I walked to a shelf and picked up a delicate paper house crafted from a restaurant menu. A door and tiny windows were carefully cut into the facade, and a chimney was pasted to the roof, which was dusted in white glitter. “And when?”
“I’ve been at St. Sophia’s since I was twelve. I’ve had the time. And I got it anywhere and everywhere,” she said, flopping down onto her bed. She sat back on her elbows and crossed one leg over the other. “There’s a lot of sweet stuff floating around Chicago. Antiques stores, flea markets, handmade goods, what have you. Sometimes my parents bring me stuff, and I pick up things along the way when I see them over the summer.”
I gingerly placed the building back on the shelf, then glanced back at her. “Where are they now? Your parents, I mean.”
“Monaco—Monte Carlo. The Yacht Show is in a couple of weeks. There’s teak to be polished.” She chuckled, but the sound wasn’t especially happy. “Not by them, of course—they’ve moved past doing physical labor—but still.”
I made some vague sound of agreement—my nautical excursions were limited to paddleboats at summer camp—and moved past the museum and toward the books. There were lots of books on lots of subjects, all organized by color. It was a rainbow of paper—recipes, encyclopedias, dictionaries, thesauruses, books on typology and design. There were even a few ancient leather books with gold lettering along the spines.
I pulled a design book from the shelf and flipped through it. Letters, in every shape and form, were spread across the pages, from a sturdy capital A to a tiny, curlicued Z.
“I’m sensing a theme here,” I said, smiling up at Scout. “You like words. Lists. Letters.”
She nodded. “You string some letters together, and you make a word. You string some words together, and you make a sentence, then a paragraph, then a chapter. Words have power.”
I snorted, replacing the book on the shelf. “Words have power? That sounds like you’re into some Harry Potter juju.”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous,” she said. “So, what does a young Lily Parker do in Sagamore, New York?”
I shrugged. “The usual. I hung out. Went to the mall. Concerts. TiVo ANTM and Man vs. Wild.”
“Oh, my God, I love that show,” Scout said. “That guy eats everything.”