I stopped myself from asking if either of them thought college admissions boards would look less favorably upon an extracurricular partnership. I said, “No. We’re a club. Mercy will be here.”

“One can hope.”

Outside, a click and a low-volume, high-pitched whine of a small mechanism, its whirr ended with a second click. Mr. Stephens yanked open the front door. A rush of air filled the vacuum, swiping the cigarette off his lip, but he caught it deftly.

Mercy Brown had her back to us as she faced the hearse. She turned leisurely, revealing a cubic Polaroid instant camera held in one hand and a developing photo with the other. She asked, “Do we get to ride in that later?”

Mr. Stephens said, “If we’re fortunate, we all will eventually.”

Mercy walked inside (Mr. Stephens holding the door open), breezing between us to the staircase. She placed the photo on one of the stairs and said, “It’s still developing.”

“You must be Mercy. Thank you for coming, but I would’ve preferred you arrived more than twenty minutes ago.”

She idly adjusted her shouldered canvas bag. “I’m sorry, and it won’t happen again.”

Mercy wore an oversized green army jacket that was too long in the sleeves, the cuffs swollen by her rolling them over. Punk band pins and patches decorated the coat’s chest and shoulders. Blocky combat boots weighed down her feet, their green-laced tops disappearing under her pegged jeans. Her face was round and pale, boxed in by shoulder-length light-brown hair that hung loosely, a style in stark contrast to the big-hair ’80s. Aside from the lack of hairspray and makeup, her appearance was otherwise not remarkable. (I do not mean that in a judgy, beauty-standards way, though I would grant that might be impossible for me to guarantee despite my sincerest ongoing efforts.) Let me try again.

Please do.

Mercy was neither tall nor short. She was not skinny (like me) and was not obese. She had no scars, no birthmarks, her face had symmetry but not so symmetrical as to be unnatural, and her facial features were in proportion with the size of her head. I would never describe her (or anyone) as plain because I don’t know what plain means. Maybe the best way to describe her is as follows: she looked like someone who would get declarative-sentenced with “I’ve met you before.” As such her age was undeterminable. She could easily fit within a ten-or even twenty-year range, whereas I looked much younger than my seventeen years old. If she told me then that she was nineteen or twenty-nine or even thirty-nine or any number between, I would not have been shocked.

Mr. Stephens asked, “What school do you attend?”

“North Shore Community College. Part-time.” Mercy nodded at me and asked, “Art?”

“Yes, hi, thanks for coming. So, you’re a photographer? Our club could definitely—”