“If you want a crash course in music that doesn’t suck, all you have to do is ask, you know.”

“Oh, do you know someone who could give it?” I ask sweetly.

He just rolls his eyes and goes back to his cup o’ bitterness, and I turn back to my homework. I expect him to do the same, but instead he whips out a worn paperback from his bag—I immediately guess it’s going to be Kerouac or Vonnegut and am sorely disappointed but also relieved when it turns out to be Colson Whitehead—and we sit in strangely companionable silence for a while. But it isn’t long before the gears in my brain start turning again as I think about how I can use the talent show to my advantage.

I don’t have any talents other than cards; that’s just an unfortunate fact. But if watching old teen movies on sick days has taught me anything, it’s that you don’t need a genuine talent if you just show off hotness, and amazingly enough, I think that’s a thing I’m learning how to do.

If the talent show is a regular thing at Camden, I’m willing to bet Isabel, Jenna, Priya, and Ashleigh have some sort of routine at the ready, and what could possibly make me look cooler or hotter than joining them? Maybe it’s a long shot, but they’ve already taken me shopping and picked out my freaking underwear; is it really so beyond to think they might be willing to include me in this too?

“What’s going through your head right now?”

Salem’s question startles me out of my plotting, and I look over to see him watching me suspiciously over the edge of The Nickel Boys. “Nothing to worry your pretty head over.”

“Why does that feel like the most dangerous thing you could possibly say?”

Dangerous. That’s certainly a word no one’s ever used about me.

Looks like I’m making some progress.

With my homework behind me, I dedicate the afternoon to figuring out how to approach Isabel about the talent show while also thinking about what I could possibly offer. Then, of course, there’s the task of actually tracking her and her friends down, but turns out I didn’t need to worry about that; they find me first—or at least, one of them does—thanks to Camden’s all-day Sunday dorm-intervisitation policy.

“So this is your Rumson lair.” It takes me a minute to realize that the person speaking those words is standing in my doorway and talking to me. I left my door open because I’ve become accustomed to the background noises of squeaky sneakers and trash talking, even when I’m playing solitaire. I certainly never expected to find Jenna London in front of it.