33
At Gray Wolf, we dress for dinner.
I know this because of the note card stating as much that was slipped under my door.
Though just how far I’m supposed to go in this newdress for dinnerworld, I’m not sure.
Do I wear one of the formal gowns hanging at the far end of my closet?
Or do I go with one of the simpler, but still pretty, dresses hanging just beside them?
Should I choose a vintage look or something more modern?
My wardrobe is bursting with choices.
Not wanting to look like I’m trying too hard, I reach for a pretty but still understated navy-blue Dior dress, thinking the color might send a subliminal message that after spending the bulk of the afternoon in deep, one-on-one conversations with Einstein, Stephen Hawking, Michio Kaku, among other notable physicists, both living and dead, I’m ready to make the jump from team green to team blue.
But just as I’m reaching for the hanger, I notice the gorgeous emerald green slip dress hanging nearby. There’s a faux fur stole just beside it and a pair of jeweled Jimmy Choo biker boots placed underneath.
My breath hitches. It’s an exact replica of the outfit I described on my last day at school, when Mason and I played a round of Anywhere but Here.
But how could Arthur have known?
Did he hack the mic on my phone?
And if so, what else has he heard?
I trail a finger down the length of the dress. It’s made of a heavy, high quality silk. No fast-fashion, polyester knockoffs here. Then I carry both dresses to the mirror and take turns holding each one against me, trying to determine if it’s some kind of test, or even a dare, when there’s a knock at my door.
“Hey, Natasha—it’s Song.” Her voice carries through the door. “I thought you might want to go down together. I know it’s your first night, or your first dinner anyway, and—”
Still holding both dresses, I open the door.
“That one.” Song points at the slip dress. “No contest.”
…
“I take it you’ve been to the Winter Room?” Song walks alongside me, her delicate silver heels clicking against the stone tile floor.
With her minimal makeup and long black hair twisted into a loose bun, she wears a billowy, low-cut, tulle dress nearly the same shade of blue as the collection of aquamarine studs artfully arranged in each of her ears. From her neck hangs a beautiful crystal necklace, making for an effect that’s so effortlessly glamorous, I worry that my last minute dash of red lipstick might’ve pushed my own look too far, even though Song did encourage it.
I fidget with the faux fur stole, run my tongue along my upper teeth, when Song stops, grasps my arm, and says, “Stop it. You look amazing.”
I can feel my face flush. I’m embarrassed by how much I needed the reassurance. “Everything here is so different,” I start. “Back home we never dressed up for meals. We never dressed up for anything, really.”
Song shoots a worried look down the hall. Determining the coast is clear, her dark eyes then settle on mine. “The sooner you forget about home, the easier it’ll be to adapt.”
On the surface, it sounds like good advice, but I can’t help but think there’s a warning attached.
She holds my gaze, and when I nod in reply, she releases my arm, and we continue the walk.
“Can I ask you how long you’ve been here?” I say.
She stares straight ahead, her expression a perfect blank slate. “You could,” she finally replies. “But I’m not sure what you’d gain from knowing.”
It’s a definite roadblock, but there’s still one more thing I’m determined to ask. “Is—” I bite my lip, look all around, and in a lowered voice say, “Is there… I mean, are we being…watched?”
Song’s expression goes blank. After we’ve walked a few minutes longer, she says, “Look, Natasha, I’d really like for us to be friends. If for no other reason than having friends is useful around here.”