Free The The Name of the Star by Maureen Johnson

delayed a bit by switching on some music and watching Jazza change. She put on jeans; I put on jeans. She put on a light blouse; I put on a T-shirt. She put her hair up; I put my hair up. She skipped the makeup, but there, I diverged. I also wore a black velvet jacket. This was a present from my grandmother, one of the few things she’d ever gotten me that I wasn’t skeeved to wear in public. Since I’m pretty pale—years of excessive sunscreen and being slowly bled to death by swamp mosquitoes—the rich black looked dramatic. I added some red lipstick, which may have been a touch too far, but Jazza said I looked nice, and she seemed to mean it. I also wore a star necklace, a gift from Cousin Diane.
    The refectory was only three-quarters full, if that. Lots of people, Jazza explained, just skipped Saturday dinner entirely and started their evenings early. I got to look at the clothing choices of those who had stayed, and was happy to see that I had been wise to copy Jazza. Nobody was wearing anything too fancy—jeans, skirts, sweaters, T-shirts. Jerome was dressed in a brown hoodie and jeans. We ate quickly and headed out. I was shivering in my jacket. They didn’t even need jackets. It was also still quite bright, even though it was after seven. We walked for several blocks, Jazza and Jerome chatting about things I neither knew nor understood, when Jazza began to look around in confusion.
    â€œI thought we were going to the pub,” she said.
    â€œWe are,” Jerome replied.
    â€œThe pub is that way,” she said, pointing in the opposite direction. “Which one are we going to?”
    â€œThe Flowers and Archers.”
    â€œThe Flowers and . . . oh. No. No.”
    â€œCome on, Jazzy,” Jerome said. “We have to show your roommate here around.”
    â€œBut it’s a crime scene . You can’t go into a crime scene .”
    Even as she said this, we caught the first glimpse of it all. The news trucks came first, their satellites extended. There were maybe two dozen of those. There was a whole section of sidewalk filled with reporters talking at cameras. Then there were the police cars, the police vans, and the mobile crime scene units. Then there were the people, so many people. Some sort of cordon had obviously been put up, so the people grouped around it. There had to be a hundred or more, just watching and taking pictures. We made it to the back of the crowd.
    â€œJust let me get some pictures, and we’ll go to a real pub,” Jerome said, zipping off and squeezing through.
    I stood on my toes a little to try to catch sight of the Flowers and Archers. It was just an ordinary-looking pub—black, large windows, cheerfully painted wooden arms over the door, a blackboard sign out front advertising a special. Only the dozens of police officers swarming around it like ants gave any indication of the terror that had occurred here. I suddenly felt uncomfortable. An unpleasant chill went up my back.
    â€œCome on,” I said. “Let’s stand back.”
    I almost walked straight into a man who was standing right behind us. He was dressed in a suit with a slightly too-large jacket. He was completely and smoothly bald. His lack of hair highlighted his eyes, which were feverishly bright. When I apologized, the eyes grew wider, in what appeared to be shock.
    â€œNot at all,” he replied. “Not at all.”
    He stepped aside to let me pass, smiling widely.
    â€œPeople are treating this like it’s a party,” Jazza said, looking at the people standing around with bottles of beer, taking photos on their phones and holding up video cameras. “Look how happy everyone seems.”
    â€œSorry,” I said. “Jerome said not to tell you. And I forgot when you started explaining all of the asking-out stuff.”
    â€œIt’s all right,” she said. “I should have realized.”
    Jerome jogged back, beaming.
    â€œI