“Oh, you pick up on it,” Harriet assures her through a mouthful of soup. “It’s like a jingle. You hear the same thing day in and day out and you start hearing it in your dreams before long.”

It sounds as though Harriet and I have very different dreams. Any praying in mine is usually of a distinctly separate sort.

“Anyway,” Harriet goes on. “Are you missing your old school?”

Briefly, I wonder at Harriet’s persistence to speak to Danni. Then I remember I saw the two of them speaking at length at Molly’s party. Harriet is a friend of mine, but more due to proximity than any true compatibility. At some point years ago, Molly, Eleanor, and I started gravitating toward Harriet and Florence at mealtimes, though they’re the year above us, and gradually bonded over alcohol and weed, usually smuggled in by Florence. Though I’m happy to make small talk with Harriet, who’s nice enough, she’s hardly someone I would choose to spend one-on-one time with. In truth, I find her quite dull.

Danni, however, does not seem to share my feelings. “Yeah,” she says, “I miss my friends, for sure. Especially my best friend.”

Well, if these two get along swimmingly, what does that say about Danni? At Molly’s party, I thought maybe I saw a spark of wit about her. Perhaps, sadly, I imagined it. I was, after all, hideously sober and bored.

“That must be weird. It’ll get better soon, though. You’ll forget all about your old friends soon.”

Danni lifts an eyebrow, bemused. “I hope not.”

Harriet scrambles. “No, I don’t mean forget forget. Just that you won’t miss them so badly.”

“Right.”

“Obviously you won’t forget them. God, imagine?”

As much as I want to distract myself from Molly’s iciness, this particular conversation is physically paining me to eavesdrop on, so my relief is monumental when Eleanor catches my attention. “How did last night go?” she asks me, and I can tell at once she’s not asking in the general sense.

“The same as usual,” I say, as quietly as I can get away with. “Passive-aggressive comments from half the people I spoke to, and pity from the other half.”

Eleanor winces. “I don’t know which is worse.”

“At least the pity is coming from a good place,” I say. “It’s the glee I can’t stand. When you can just tell they’re thrilled I misstepped, because they’ve been waiting for it since I was a toddler.”

“Misstepped is an interesting way to put it,” Molly says, very quietly, and I regret my word choice at once.

“You’re right,” I say calmly. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry for being honest about how you see things.”