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“Not exactly.”
Her dad makes a clucking sound. “You realize how many people would kill for an in like that?”
“Maybe I’m not feeling especially murderous,” she says quietly, her cheeks pink. I can tell it’s not the kind of conversation you want to have with your parent while your former friend/current nemesis is in the room. She clears her throat, straightens her spine. “Dad. This is Barrett Bloom, from Island? She was also on the paper.”
Not sure what her dad has heard about me over the years, but he’s purely professional as he holds out his hand. “What can I do for you, Barrett Bloom from Island? Please, sit.”
Lucie and I take the two chairs in front of his desk.
“I’m researching a piece about important professors in UW’s history,” I say, unfolding the article from my bag. “I found this online, and I haven’t been able to find any other information about her. Which is especially bizarre in… you know, the age of the internet.” Once again, I manage to sound like a senior citizen using a computer for the first time. I should not be allowed to talk about technology.
He takes the article, eyes lighting up with recognition. “I remember this. Dr. Devereux—she was a real firecracker. Made a lot of waves.”
“That’s what everyone seems to say. At least, the couple people who’ve been open to talking to me about her.”
“She did make quite a few enemies in her department, if I recall. Her class stirred up some controversy. And you couldn’t find anything else about her online?” He turns to his laptop, I imagine running a quick search. A wrinkle appears between his brows. “Huh. I know for a fact we had a number of pieces on her—we do for all our Luminaries. They’re prominent people in the arts and sciences we choose to honor each year.”
“Do you know what might have happened to her?”
His cheery demeanor falters. “Afraid not, Barrett Bloom. Wish I did.” I wonder if repeating the first and last name is a trick to remember people’s names when he talks to them. “We haven’t been in contact since… well, it probably wasn’t too long after this article ran. Our foundation makes it a point to check in with all our Luminaries every few years, though, so I can ask around for you. And I ought to check with our tech team about those articles.”
My heart sinks. It’s unlikely he’ll be able to get back to me by the end of the day, and he won’t remember this conversation tomorrow. “That would be great,” I say, trying to sound upbeat. “Thank you.”
Mr. Lamont turns to Lucie. “Classes going well so far?”
“They seem okay,” she says. Then, speaking to her hands tangled in the hem of her sweater, she adds: “But… I have an audition tomorrow for that troupe I told you about.”
At that, her dad’s brow furrows. “The dance troupe? I thought we discussed this. No non-academic extracurriculars your first year. Nothing that detracts from your studies. Maybe we can reopen the conversation once you declare a major.”
“In journalism,” she says flatly.
He fixes her with a tight grin. “What else would it be?”
“Plenty of people major in dance,” she says. “And go on to have successful careers in a variety of fields.”
I get a flash of memory: two years ago, Lucie performing at Island’s annual arts assembly with a dance she choreographed herself. I’d even been impressed, though we were no longer speaking at that point. And I recall her mentioning dance class when we were friends back in middle school, but for the longest time, I’ve associated her solely with journalism.
I’m not actually sure I’ll write for it this quarter.
Journalism was always more of my parents’ thing.
Mr. Lamont snaps those sharp blue eyes to me. “What are you majoring in, Barrett Bloom?” he asks, and it kills me to say “journalism.” My teeth are gritted, and I can only look at Lucie out of the corner of my eye. I should have lied.
“I know I could manage it with the rest of my classes.” Lucie’s smaller now, shoulders hunched into her chair.
“Lucie. The answer is no.” Then he puts the CEO mask back on. “Good to meet you, Barrett Bloom. Best of luck with the article.”
“I’m sorry about that,” I tell Lucie on the drive home. “With your dad. I hope—”
“It’s fine.” Lucie stares down at her fingernails, picking at her black nail polish.
“It doesn’t have to be. I know we’re not—I don’t know what we are. But I swear, the last thing I want to do is judge you.”
She seems to consider this, but she doesn’t glance up from her hands. “It’s just—I had my audition piece all prepped. You probably don’t remember the dance I did sophomore year—”
“I do,” I say, surprising even myself when I say it out loud.
“Oh.” She clearly wasn’t expecting that response. “Well—it’s been updated, and it’s more complex, and I’ve added onto it. But that’s what I built it from. Maybe it’s silly, that I’ve been working on that one dance for so long, but it’s tough to know when you’re done with something, you know?”
