asked, stepping forward as she slipped off the escalator. Leah’s probable description of Persey—medium height, medium build, medium brown hair and eyes—could have matched two-thirds of the females in the terminal, and Persey realized with a start that this driver must have seen her before.
“Persey,” she said, once again beating back the fear that she’d made a terrible, horrible mistake. There was something familiar about this guy. Not just the lime-green getup…his face.
“You were taking pictures at the Hidden Library.” She didn’t mean it to sound like an accusation.
“I’m Greg,” he said, neither confirming nor denying her statement. His voice was flat, eyes dull and focused at a spot over her head. “If you could wait here? It’ll just be a minute.”
Wait?
Greg flipped his sign around and instead of Persey’s name, it now read NEELA CHATTERJEE.
She was going to have to share a ride to Escape-Capades? Persey hadn’t been prepared for that. She’d just assumed (hoped) she’d have the entire car ride from the airport to compose herself and get her head in the game—or whatever other sports cliché seemed appropriate—before the competition began. Now, once again, she was struck by how off-balance she felt with this new turn of events. Her challenges had already begun.
Greg was true to his word: it was only a few minutes before the driver, barely registering the amused looks as people streamed by, perked up. Persey followed his gaze to the escalator where a girl clad entirely in black descended. She wore her dark hair long and heavy, swept forward over each shoulder, which gave the impression that her small heart-shaped face was being eaten alive. Her hair flowed seamlessly into her clothes, all in the same hue—black long-sleeve Henley tee with a three-button collar over black jeans and black Converse, the white rubber siding the only other “color” in her outfit. Enormous square-rimmed black glasses stretched the width of her face, and even her backpack was black, slung over both shoulders like a hiker about to attack the Pacific Crest Trail, though her black eyeliner, plum lips, and mascara-clad lashes made her look like she was heading for a night out.
“Neela Chatterjee?” Greg asked as she stepped off the escalator.
Neela froze, causing the Tommy Bahama–wearing tourist behind her to stutter-step so he didn’t smash into her as the escalator deposited him on the ground floor. He shot her a dirty look as he shouldered by, but she didn’t notice. She just stared at Greg, her eyes slowly scanning him from head to toe before she answered. “It is I.”
“Awesome. Glad you’re here.” He sounded anything but. “I’ll take you guys to HQ now.”
Neela’s eyebrows shot up. “Guys?” She seemed as surprised (disappointed) as Persey had been to discover that she’d be sharing a ride, but as Neela tilted her head to the side, her heavy mane of hair shifting across her monochrome outfit, she looked more intrigued than annoyed by Greg’s announcement. “Do you mean ‘guys’ in the colloquial sense referring to all members of a gathered party regardless of gender, or are there one or more male members of our party whom I don’t see standing behind you?”
She spoke quickly, the words practically falling upon one another in the race to get out of her mouth, but her tone lacked even a trace of sarcasm, and her energy, despite her black on black on black exterior, was perky and buoyant.
“Um…” Greg faltered, dropping his sign. He was having difficulty understanding the question. “I’m Greg.” Or if he’d even been asked one.
“I’m Neela,” she said good-naturedly. “But since you already know that, I’ll assume the colloquialism was intended, and though I don’t love genderism, I understand your meaning exactly.”
Persey usually (always) disliked strangers. Or, more accurately, assumed that every single person she met disliked her, if not immediately, then eventually, and so it was just easier to get a jump on the mutual dislike-atude. Between that propensity and the natural distrust of a rival contestant, Persey should have instantly disliked Neela. But she didn’t. In fact, her reaction was the exact opposite. Which was a first.
“I’m Persey,” she said, smiling. “The other guy he’s taking to Escape-Capades.”
Neela’s heavy fringe of spidery black lashes quivered as her big, inquisitive eyes appraised Persey. The glass lenses were thick, distorting her pupils so they looked enormous, like some kind of Snapchat filter gone awry as she took in every detail of her new acquaintance. Just like Persey, Neela assumed the competition had already begun.
“Pleased to meet