Adrienne, her hair pulled back in ponytail so tight it took the corners of her eyes with it, looked him up and down. What did she see?

“Well, come on in, you two,” she said, stepping back, sweeping an arm for them to enter. “Ben said he wasn’t sure you were coming.”

“I wasn’t sure, either,” said Claudia. “I’ve been sick all week.”

Adrienne stepped back. “Are you contagious? You better not be contagious. You know we’re going to Mauritius next week.”

Claudia stiffened. “I’m fine now.”

Would they believe her? It was clear to him that she was hurting, that every word she spoke took effort, but maybe the dress and make-up was enough for these people.

The room they walked into was unlike anything Trevor had ever seen in real life. He estimated you could park half a dozen cars inside. At the far end, near some sort of atrium, Trevor saw full-sized trees. He counted six sofas and three chandeliers; the walls were covered in floor-to-ceiling tapestries that looked like they belonged in a medieval castle. The whole place had a citadel vibe: a suit of armor in one corner faced a life-sized horse constructed of what he guessed was driftwood in another. And above him, a second blonde, this one with her long hair hanging loose past her shoulders, stood on an interior stone balcony. A Juliet balcony, Trevor knew from years building sets for the community theater where his mom worked. He’d planned to hook up with the theater world at NYU, but the first show he volunteered for required a twenty-hour weekly commitment, and he had to bail at the end of September because he was so behind in classwork. The amount of reading alone was easily five times what he’d ever been given in high school. Even his roommate Boyd agreed that it was literally impossible to read everything the professors assigned. The difference was that Boyd, who had attended a private boarding school in Connecticut, seemed used to it, while Trevor was struggling. So no more extracurriculars except church. And no spring break. Unless you counted Claudia.

The girl on the balcony appeared to be taking a selfie. She shook out her hair, then leaned over the railing.

“Has anybody ever spit on you, Ben?” she shouted.

The ex, Ben, was rolling a joint on a leather sofa worn light and soft with age, but probably still worth more than any car Trevor’s family had ever owned.

“No, Lolly,” said Ben, not lifting his head. “No one has ever spit on me in my own house.”

Lolly laughed and cleared her throat like she was about to hock a loogie from the balcony.