“Where did you go to school?” Janelle said.

“Wherever we were. The commune had a good school. If I could do anything—got rich or something—I’d start a commune. This place would make a good commune. So, tell me about your love lives.”

Ellie punctuated this command by setting the bottle on the floor with a clunk. Stevie felt a queasy chill. This was not her favorite topic.

“I broke up with my girlfriend,” Janelle said, staring into her mug. “That’s when I reprogrammed the microwave.”

“Creativity can come from things sucking,” Ellie said. “I was in a rut last spring and I saw Roota in a pawnshop in Burlington. I had to have her. I didn’t have the money at the time, but I found a way. I made a little art, I got a little cash, I got Roota. We’ve been together ever since.”

She patted the saxophone.

“I’ll tell you something else,” Ellie said. “This place turns people into bunnies. It’s the isolation. Trapped up here on the mountain, snowed in. When the power goes out, things get freaky. What about you?”

This was to Stevie.

The champagne bubbles reached Stevie’s brain just then. Sitting in this high-ceilinged turret in the semi-dark, with her new friend Janelle and this strange but amusing artist dyeing herself pink . . . she was filled with warmth and a kind of slow relaxation. She would just be honest.

“I never met anyone who I was really . . . I don’t know. I don’t come from a very interesting place. Like, my parents are . . . do you know who Edward King is?” Stevie asked.

“The senator?” Janelle replied. “That asshole?”

“That’s the one,” Stevie said.

“Who?” Ellie said.

“Edward King is a jackass from Pennsylvania,” Janelle said. “He’d like to roll everything back to the bad old days.”

“My parents love him,” Stevie said, leaning back against the radiator. “They work for him. His local office? Is our house.”

“Oh my God,” Janelle said. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“It’s not the kind of thing you put in a message,” Stevie replied. “But I did what I could to help. I went into the volunteer document the night before the last phone bank session and changed all the numbers. They made a lot of interesting calls. Krispy Kreme headquarters, the Canadian Embassy, Disney World, the Scientology Celebrity Centre, SeaWorld . . .”

“Beautiful,” Ellie said, tipping back her head and laughing. “I love it.”

Ellie had removed her ring and set it on the rounded edge of the tub. As she laughed, she swung out her arm and knocked it off the edge. It rolled under the tub.

“Oh shit,” she said.

Stevie got down on the floor and reached around under the tub. As she pulled her hand back, something scraped against her skin.

“Be careful,” Ellie said, putting the ring back on. “There are some old pipes or something under there. They’ll cut you.”

This seemed like something Ellie should have said before Stevie shoved her hand under the tub. Then again, Ellie did seem like the type who jumped before checking if there was a pool under her, and probably provided advice in the same style.

“So,” Stevie said, “that’s where I come from. And my parents are kind of obsessed with me partnering up with someone. To them, dating is one of the highest achievements of teenage life, so . . .”

“Understood,” Ellie said. “Then do what you want up here.”

“Definitely,” Janelle said. “I mean, my parents are kind of the opposite. They’re all about school. School now, girls later. And now I’m here, so . . .” Janelle let out a long exhale.

“We should get ready to go,” Ellie said, standing up suddenly and bringing an end to the conversation just as Stevie had fully eased into it. Her clothes dripped heavy and pink. “I’m coming for you in a few minutes. It’s time for the party. Go get ready!”

In the warm darkness of the hall, Janelle and Stevie hunkered for a moment.

“What the hell was that?” Janelle said. “I mean, I like her? I think? But the stuff with the poem, the French stuff, living on the commune, the no TV thing. I don’t know.”

“Maybe this is what we came for?” Stevie said.

“Maybe,” Janelle said. “Something about people who make a big deal out of not watching TV. I guess I never hung out with a lot of art people. Do you think this Wi-Fi thing is going to be a big deal? Seriously, I need my TV. I’m going to have to figure something out. There has to be a way to get a strong connection. Okay. I guess we get dressed. See you in a minute.”

In her room, Stevie confronted her clothes, pawing through them quickly. She had not anticipated a party situation this early. She was never exactly party ready. When people at school looked online for party outfits and looks, she was genuinely confused. There were people who seemed not only to understand these things, but to accomplish them. A striped top, a wide-brimmed hat, shorts for that “special beach weekend.” Lipsticks for fall, jeans that were perfect for a hayride, pendant earrings for that holiday party and snowball fight. Who lived these lives?

The party outfit was going to be black shorts and black tank top. Stevie owned no jewelry. Her concession to the occasion was a pair of red flip-flops.

Janelle appeared at her door dressed in a baby-blue dress covered in lemons, with matching lemon earrings, and a gentle lemony perfume. This was all acceptable from Janelle, because it made sense. If Janelle could build a machine, she could build an outfit.

Random, discordant bleating came from upstairs. Ellie was playing her saxophone, and one thing was clear—she did not know how to play.

“Oh,” Janelle said, looking up. “That may get old, fast.”

“Is this ‘party’ enough?” Stevie asked.

“You look great,” Janelle said, and it sounded sincere. “I just, I got nervous. I wear my lemons when I’m nervous.”

A moment later, Ellie, still pink, still drippy, came down the stairs, nudging a reluctant and unhappy Nate. She had saxophoned him out of hiding.

It was time to go to a party.

7

THE SLOW SUMMER TWILIGHT WAS FALLING AND THE FIREFLIES ROSE out of the grass and bobbed around as pockets of people made their way to the party, which was being held in the yurt. The Ellingham Great House windows caught the last of the dying sunlight, the windows glowing orange and gold. Ellie led the pack, blasting away on Roota in a series of off-kilter squawks that made the birds fly out of the trees as they passed.

“David needs to get here,” she said. “You’ll love him. He’s the best.”

As they went through one of the many wooded areas with statues, Ellie stopped for a moment in front of one of the statues, reached into her bag, and produced a small spray can. She painted the words THIS IS ART onto the torso in dripping blue letters, replaced the can, and kept skipping ahead and bleating on the sax.

“Someone has a case of the try-too-hards,” Nate said in a low voice. The yurt was packed when they arrived. There was a hum of voices coming from within. Ellie peeled back the canvas opening and raised Roota high. A group of people on a small sofa in the back cheered, and she joined them. Within a minute, she was wrapped in a black boa that had materialized from somewhere. A first year was in this group, striking in black lipstick and a shaggy red dress. Her name, Stevie would pick up as the evening went on, was Maris Coombes, and she was an opera singer. Stevie learned this because she kept emitting high, clear snatches of arias.