way they seem to care about her, but no one gets everything in this world. As long as she can feign connection believably enough that people will answer it in kind, that will be enough. That has to be enough.
Dave and Smita could be friends, if she takes the time to cultivate them. She thinks she will. Friends are useful things, and she gives as good as she gets, following the established rules of friendship. If she brings people soup when they’re sick because the rules say she should and not out of empathy, what does that matter? They still get the soup. She still gets the contact. The math is good. Lauren is an unknown quantity. Snake would probably like to be friends, but he hasn’t taken his eyes off her breasts in almost five minutes, and Dodger has moved out of the phase of her life where that would seem like a good thing. It was nice to have the boys noticing her for a little while, when she was trying to work out social interaction; boobs were like a cheat code for getting along. As her grasp of the math improved, she stopped wanting to cheat.
Jessica is going to be a problem. That’s all right. She likes problems.
“Where did you do your undergrad?” asks Smita.
“Stanford,” says Dodger. This is the most common question in her world right now, and she volleys it back without pause: “You?”
“Brown.”
The others offer their own answers as the minutes move, until Dodger’s late arrival is completely overshadowed by their tour guide, who is going for the record.
“If this guy weren’t showing us around campus, I’d suggest ditching him,” says Snake. Everyone murmurs agreement, even Dodger and Jessica, who might never agree on anything again. (Not that this is a bad thing. Rivalry inspires good work. Not peaceful work, but since when does peace have anything to do with the march of scientific progress?)
“Maybe we should ditch him anyway?” Lauren ducks her head like she’s ashamed of her own question. “We could all get lost together? It might be fun?”
The way the girl sounds as if she’s constantly questioning things is going to get old soon. But they’re not in the same discipline, so it’s not like they’re going to share advisors, and besides, this is Amiable Dodger time, Friendly Dodger time, Dodger - who - gives - a - damn time. Dodger slaps a smile on her face and says, “I think I saw a Starbucks just off campus.”
“I know I did!” says a new voice. The group turns to see a tall, rail-thin man walking toward them. His brown hair is long enough to be pulled into a ponytail; his glasses are wire-framed and as stylish as mud. The cup in his hand bears the familiar green mermaid, complementing his blue-and-gold UC Berkeley sweatshirt. He looks like a campus tour guide out of a student handbook, and he puts Dodger’s teeth instantly on edge. Something about him is familiar enough to hurt. She’s learned, over time, to fear the overly familiar.
“Are you our guide?” asks Smita. “Because you’re late. There was almost a mutiny.”
“Wouldn’t be my first,” says the man. “Something about my face inspires people to rebel against me. Even when my face isn’t there, they rebel against me. I’m Roger Middleton, and I’m going to be your gateway to the wonders of the UC Berkeley campus. Please watch your step, forgive my tardiness, and don’t feed the squirrels, as they have been known to mug people for their—Miss? Where are you going?”
The group turns again, this time to look at Dodger, who has grabbed her bike and is in the process of swinging her leg over the seat, hands already tight on the handlebars. She blanches when she sees them—when she sees him—staring at her.
Then she slaps her smile back into place like it was never gone. “Sorry, just realized I didn’t feed the cat before I left. I’ll see you guys around, right?” The cat came with her apartment, and he’s already been fed, and that doesn’t matter. What’s one more lie in the face of the lies she’s already told, the ones she’s telling every time she smiles like she means it, or doesn’t open her mouth and scream? Lies are nothing. They’re the currency she uses to pay for the rest of her life.
They’re not going to be enough. Roger went pale the second she spoke, and how could he not? He can’t see the color