“Oh, it’s easy,” I said. “You just have to smell it. The soil with the most minerals smells kind of like metal.”

“You guys are in Horticulture?” Bonnie asked. “I’ve always wanted to take that class, but it’s so hard to get into. I love flowers, though.”

“Really? I didn’t even have to apply,” I said pensively. “We’ve only learned a little about flowers. So far it’s been more about soil biology. A lot of stuff about root systems.”

“What do you do if you don’t learn about plants?” Rebecca asked.

“We learn how to plant things, not about the plants themselves.” I tried to explain, but they didn’t seem to understand. “The other day we did learn about the soil that produces medicinal plants,” I offered.

Save for the twins, all of the girls gave me confused looks. I guess it did sound kind of silly when I put it that way, but they didn’t know what it felt like to bury something where you knew only you could find it. They didn’t know what it felt like to know exactly which location had the best soil for a certain flower, which minerals rendered weeds edible, which rock deposits gave moss antibiotic properties. I shrugged and kept walking.

Attica Falls was the only town within walking distance from Gottfried. It lay just beyond the campus and was comprised of one main street, Attica Passing, that branched off into side alleys lined with grungy stores, dilapidated houses, and barns. There was a general store, which sold groceries, hunting and camping equipment, and small gifts like balsam fir, locally made maple syrup, and fruit preserves. Across the street was a gas station that only dispensed diesel, and was used primarily for purchasing cigarettes, lottery tickets, and bags of ice. And then there was Beatrice’s, a diner.

Once we got to Attica Passing, everyone dispersed, and Nathaniel and I loitered around the street, deciding where to go first. That’s when I spotted Eleanor’s brother, Brandon, walking into Beatrice’s. Without thinking, I pulled Nathaniel into the restaurant.

Beatrice’s was a dingy old diner that served pancakes all day. They also served other things—eggs, corned-beef hash, meat loaf, and a variety of dishes made with canned tuna fish. Our waitress was in her early forties. She had bottle-dyed red hair sculpted around the top of her head in a way that defied all laws of physics and probably required half a bottle of hair spray. A plastic name tag that read Cindy was pinned to her left breast pocket.

She looked us up and down and then walked us to a table at the other end of the restaurant.

“Actually,” I said, “can we sit over there?” I pointed to the booth on the other side of the wood paneling from Brandon Bell, who was sitting with the rest of the Board of Monitors.

“Fine,” the waitress said with a sigh. She tossed our menus on the table and read out the daily specials in a monotone that was too fast for us to understand, then disappeared behind the double doors of the kitchen.

“What are you doing?!” hissed Nathaniel. “Stalking the Board of Monitors?”

“If Cassandra is dead—”

“Which she might not be,” Nathaniel added.

“—and if the school knows, and is covering it up by saying she transferred, then the Board of Monitors might know.”

“And you think they’re going to talk about it out of nowhere, right here at Beatrice’s?”

“Well, we’re not going to hear anything by sitting on the other side of the room.”

The booth was sticky with syrup and grease, its upholstery cracked down the middle, revealing a spongy yellow interior. I took off my jacket and mittens, and sat down. A wood panel was the only thing that stood between our table and the Monitors’.

Their voices were muffled through the wood. I leaned over and pressed my ear against it. Nathaniel did the same, but to no avail.

“I can’t hear anything,” he mumbled. “What are they saying?”

I put a finger to my lips. Nathaniel gulped down his water, held the empty glass against the panel, and listened through it. “I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t make it out.”

“Oh, give it to me,” I said, grabbing the glass from him.

A junior named Max Platkin was talking. “I would kill,” he said, “to get out of that class. It’s so boring. The prof is practically dead anyway. She can barely sit up straight.”

The table laughed. I gave Nathaniel a shocked look, until I processed the rest of his sentence, and then rolled my eyes.

“Well, next year you’ll be a senior and you can finally opt out of Latin,” Ingrid said. I imagined her tossing her silky black hair over one shoulder.

“Yeah, plus, the headmistress wouldn’t like that,” Schuyler joked. “Killing professors isn’t exactly on the menu.” But just as Schuyler finished his sentence, our waitress approached and pulled a skinny green pad out of her apron. We sat up straight and looked at our menus.

“What do you want?” she said, chewing a piece of gum and not seeming to notice or care that we were eavesdropping on the booth next to us.

I scanned the menu, eager for her to leave. “I’ll have an omelet with sausage and cheese. And an orange juice.”

She scribbled down my order and looked at Nathaniel.

“Just water. And granola.”

“No granola,” she said. “Just pancakes, eggs, hash, or tuna.” She waited with her hand on her hip while Nathaniel flipped through the menu.

“White toast?”

Cindy nodded. After she left, we resumed our positions by the wood paneling.

“She keeps talking about Renée Winters,” Genevieve said, with a hint of disgust. “Asking me to keep an eye on her and her boyfriend.”

I almost gasped when I heard my name. Nathaniel gave me a questioning look, but I ignored it. “Who is she?” asked Schuyler.

“She’s a sophomore,” Genevieve continued. “Apparently she’s the best in her Horticulture class.”

“She’s my sister’s roommate,” Brandon added.

“I spent some time with her in October. She seems nice, but forgettable,” Genevieve said. I glared at her through the wall. “Other than that she’s close with Dante Berlin. The headmistress is highly interested in them.”

Brandon interjected. “Well, obviously. He was friends with Vivian, Gideon, and Yago. He was probably in love with Cassandra too, just like Benjamin.”