Chapter 6: Parking Services

Camille Doran drafted me onto the Founders' Gala committee on Thursday, in the student council room, with a smile that could have sold insurance.

"You're a numbers person," she said, and handed me a laminated seating chart. "Nobody else here can add."

"I can add," said the treasurer, a boy at the end of the table.

"You added the head count twice," Camille said kindly. "Twice."

I took the chart because I didn't know how to say no to someone that nice.

The gala was the biggest night of the college year, a dinner for donors and alumni in the field house, with sixty tables and a stage and a screen.

Griffin was giving the rowing team's award speech, so he was on the committee too.

He came in last and sat across from me.

He hadn't spoken to me since the stairwell.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," I said.

That was the whole conversation, and it felt like a car crash.

Camille turned to the chart.

"Miranda, you'll be at Table Fourteen. It's a lovely table. It's right between the stage and the donors, so you'll have a wonderful view."

I looked at the chart.

Table Fourteen had a small label in Camille's neat handwriting.

PARKING SERVICES.

"Is that the whole table?" I asked. "Parking Services?"

"They're so grateful for the invitation," Camille said.

I tapped before I could stop myself.

"The Parking Services table has a ticket for every plate and one for the bread."

Across from me, Griffin made a small sound in his throat.

"Maybe I could move?" I said, out loud. "A different table?"

"Of course!" Camille said, and I watched her wipe it off with a dry-erase cloth. "You'll love Table Twenty-Two. Facilities."

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