Chapter 4: The Pantry

The Oakes house had a long dining table and a staircase wide enough to drive a boat up.

It also had a hundred and one ways for Dash to be miserable.

He sat at the far end, between Rory and a sophomore who would not stop talking about derivatives.

Wilder sat at the near end, next to Tripp.

Tripp had put him there himself, with a hand on his back and a murmur in his ear.

Wilder turned his head every time Tripp spoke, tilting his right ear toward him and watching his mouth.

Tripp took it for interest, and Dash took it for something worse.

"He's laughing," Dash said.

"He's allowed to laugh," Rory said.

"At Tripp," Dash said.

"Tripp is funny. Sometimes. By accident."

"He's a snake."

"Then why did you let him come?" Rory asked, reasonably.

Dash cut his chicken into very small pieces.

Wilder laughed again, head thrown back, throat bare in the candlelight, and one of Tripp's hands settled on the back of his chair.

The fork in Dash's grip bent.

"Careful," Rory said. "That's the house's good silver."

Halfway through the main course the front door banged.

A girl with short red hair and a canvas jacket covered in pins walked into the dining room as if she paid rent.

She looked around, found Wilder, and lifted both hands.

Her fingers flew.

Wilder grinned, shoved back his chair, and answered with his own hands.

They were fast and loose and a little clumsy, but in a rhythm Dash had never seen on him.

The girl rolled her eyes and signed something sharp.

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