“I’m totally low-maintenance, I’ll get after-school jobs so you wouldn’t have to, like, give me an allowance and stuff. I’m quiet, good with chores, I’ll keep getting scholarships. And I can entertain myself—I don’t watch much TV, I’ll stay out of your way.” She felt herself floundering. “It’ll be adoption in name only. I promise I won’t bother you guys for anything . . . It’s just that my mother’s threatening to ship me to Korea and I just . . . I just . . . I can’t go, I can’t leave here.”

Mr. Z appeared to be thinking. She pressed on:

“I’ll pay you back as soon as I can. For the lawyers and paperwork and so on.”

“You know,” he leaned in toward her, and she mirrored the move with great anticipation, “I wasn’t quite expecting that from you, kiddo. You threw me a real curveball, I have to say. That’s not fair.”

“But you said, you said I could talk to you about anything.”

“Furthermore . . .” He lowered his voice. His smile was sugary but his words were not. “Furthermore, here is neither the time nor the place to discuss such a matter. I can ill afford to put myself in a situation that could be of a criminal nature.”

“Yes, but I’m not asking you to do anything bad. It’s just that I don’t want to have to go . . .”

“Rosemary, that’s all very well, but I’m your teacher, nothing more.” He pulled his legs away from her as he said this. “It’s important that you remember there are boundaries. It’s beyond my control.” A direct quote, from the coldest moment in Dangerous Liaisons. He glanced at the plates. “Are you going to eat any more of that?”

She shook her head, and he instantly gestured for the waiter.

A couple of minutes later, they were walking briskly to the exit. By the door was a table with a basket full of red Buca di Beppo pens. Rosemary fished out Mr. Z’s pen from her shoulder bag and returned it to the pile.

The house was dark when she returned. It looked like nobody was home, although she knew that wasn’t possible. The stupid choppers were at it again, combing the evening skies, probably looking for the same carjackers or home invaders they’d been tracking for the past six months. Except for the chubby couple walking their whippet and the sullen clanks of dinner cleanup, Santa Claus Lane was shut down for the night.

Rosemary entered her house, feeling the kind of loneliness that in recent weeks she thought she’d banished for good. Once inside, she was struck by a strong bleachy odor—clean, industrial, unkind. Mira’s bedroom door opened, and Mrs. Park emerged, her face made strange by a collage of shadows.

“Did something happen?” Rosemary asked.