She sure does, Natasha said.

And it goes a little something like this, Dana said. The others could almost hear her roll her eyes in the dark.

And it goes a lot something like this, Natasha said. Daphne was a woman who lived in Samhattan in the ’80s and ’90s. She was a seven-foot social freak who had no friends and no family that anybody knew of. She lived alone in Regerton, on Marris Street, and no doubt had to duck every time she stood up in that tiny one-bedroom home. Now, when I say “freak,” I don’t mean because she was tall. I mean because she’d sit in the food court at Spartan Mall and stare at the little kids as they ate until more than one parent asked her to please stop and others moved to other tables. It was understood that somehow, in whatever way, Daphne’s own childhood had been stolen from her.

What the fuck are you talking about? Emily Holt asked. Emily, who is also tall. But almost a foot shorter than Daphne in Natasha’s story too. Seven feet tall?

There was a sense that Natasha was making this up on the fly. That she’d simply paid more attention to a name the others had long forgot or had never consciously thought about to begin with. As if all Samhattanites had been bred to refuse to think about Daphne.

It’s the story I heard, Natasha said, undeterred. She longed for her own childhood and didn’t talk to anybody and kept to herself and lurked about town like a giant pair of pants that came to life. Did I mention that? She only wore denim. Head to toe. Patches of her favorite bands all over. All metal stuff. Hair rock. And she scared the shit out of people, right? I mean, imagine turning the corner downtown and there’s this giant standing there, alone, staring at little kids. Oh, and she wore makeup. All painted eyes and tongues.

Welp, I’m out, Melanie said. Now you’re just making stuff up. Bedtime.

Now? Emily said. It’s all Natasha does.

But the ballers sounded uneasy, Kit thinks now. Yes. If she had to define the mood that night, she’d say the ballers were caught off guard.

Surprised.

As if Natasha had suddenly pointed out a thirteenth member of the team, a girl who had always been with them, but they never noticed.

I’m not, though, Natasha said. I’m really not. She wore makeup because a lot of her favorite bands did. Neighbors said they heard electric guitars blaring from her garage, day and night, Daphne sitting in her car, listening at all hours, but most often at about three in the morning. You know, the Devil’s teatime.

The Devil’s teatime? Kit asked.

They all laughed. It was ridiculous. Or, maybe, because they were nervous.

The night, the story, Natasha’s voice; it all feels like a bad dream to Kit now. Or even like a close call. Like she’d slept beside a spider that night.