Free Last Seen Leaving by Caleb Roehrig Page B

manicured lawns, with a main building that housed the administrative offices and cafeteria, and a handful of outbuildings that contained classrooms, segregated by subject matter. The architecture was spare and modern, all glass and travertine, and a network of walkways crisscrossed the landscaped green that stretched between the various destinations. A handy map outside the main office showed me where to find the theater, and I headed off to look for it.
    It was a bit of a gamble, assuming the pink-haired girl would be there when I found the place, but I didn’t really have a better strategy. I knew from Tiana that January had met the girl through the drama club, and I knew from January that the play they were working on had rehearsals every day after school. It was reasonable to think the girl might still be there—and if she wasn’t, someone else would be, and I could at least get her name.
    The theater was in its own building, it turned out: a fancy-looking, two-story edifice with a fountain out front composed of three bronze nymphs frolicking in a birdbath. A plaque on its base honored a couple called Harmon and Eugenia Davenport, presumably for having the most upper-crusty white-people names in the history of Michigan, and I wondered how much cash they’d donated to Dumas.
    I passed through an immaculate lobby of gleaming white stone and followed the sound of voices into a vast auditorium. Cushy scarlet chairs swept down a gentle grade to the apron of the stage, which was set with ornate furniture, freestanding French doors, and empty picture frames that seemed to hover in space. It was a little abstract, maybe, but it looked expensive and professional, obviously meant to suggest a sitting room in some rococo palais somewhere. Meanwhile, over at Riverside, the drama club was struggling to build a set for Hamlet out of last spring’s set for The Glass Menagerie .
    The voices I had heard were coming from a clutch of students draped over chairs at the back of the theater, gossiping excitedly with one another in an overlapping cacophony I couldn’t decipher. The second they took notice of me, however, they quieted and stared, making me feel self-conscious and unwelcome. Not one of them matched the description of my quarry. Clearing my throat, I ventured, “I’m looking for an Asian girl with pink hair … you guys know her?”
    â€œReiko?” A girl in a cashmere sweater blurted the name with a confused inflection, but I couldn’t tell if she was surprised I was looking for Reiko, or if she wasn’t sure which pink-haired Asian girl I meant and had guessed one at random.
    â€œShe’s probably backstage,” offered a boy with an effeminate voice. His eyes probed me from head to foot, like sonar equipment searching for sunken treasure, and I mumbled an awkward thanks before heading off. He was cute, and his obvious interest in me was simultaneously exciting and unnerving.
    In the end, I literally almost stumbled over Reiko. Pawing my way around a velvet curtain that extended into one of the wings, I stopped just short of crashing into a low, moth-eaten sofa on which three girls were sitting and talking. Once again, the conversation died the second I appeared, and the trio stared up in surprise. The girl in the middle had bright pink hair and black nail polish, and when she saw me, her eyes first widened and then narrowed suspiciously.
    â€œAre you Reiko?” I asked. She nodded but said nothing, while the other two stared at me vacantly. “Um … can I talk to you for a minute? In private?”
    For a moment, she didn’t react, as if she hadn’t even heard me, and then she abruptly pushed herself to her feet. Speaking to her friends, and pointedly not to me, she announced, “I’ll be right back, you guys. Don’t go anywhere.”
    Still not acknowledging me, she marched straight to a door in the wall, shoving against a crash bar and