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waitress asked.
    “Small,” Brooklyn whispered. “And a Diet Coke.” A cheer erupted from the Random Sport Guys.
    “There better be a Stairmaster at this hotel,” Brooklyn muttered.
    Once the obstacle of Brooklyn had been overcome, the waitress made swift progresstaking orders around the table, ignoring
the worshipful glances the guys threw her way.
    “This is so great,” Jac said. “We’re, like, getting school credit for eating. I wonder if they have cake here?”
    Jac had inherited her mother’s tiny frame, though I knew from close personal observation that she ate more than any human
being I had ever encountered and was especially partial to food groups in the chocolate family.
    “We check into the hotel after this, right?” I asked.
    “I think so,” Jac replied. “Ben—do you have a copy of the schedule on you?”
    What? Why was Jac talking to Ben? Because I hadn’t told her not to, I thought. I hadn’t told her that the plan was to pretend
Ben didn’t exist, because he had seen me talking to an invisible friend.
    “Yep,” he said. He reached into the pocket of his jeans, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and scanned it. I snuck a look
at his large brown eyes while he read, then held on to the table while the room lurched a bit.
    “After dinner we check in at the hotel and have unpacking and free time; nine o’clock we have to be in our rooms for the night;
and ten lights out.”
    “And tomorrow? Kat, are you listening?”
    Why wouldn’t I be listening? How did my best friend in the world suddenly develop a thick sponge of mush between her ears?
    I nodded. Ben hadn’t taken his eyes off the schedule.
    “I’m listening,” I said, so quietly I barely heard myself say it.
    “Tomorrow is pajama breakfast, then Mont-Royal and surrounding sights, and in the afternoon the Biodome.”
    “Which one are you looking forward to most, Kat?” Jac asked.
    Why had Jac chosen this time and place to become Oprah? Her perky questions and conversation-making were beginning to freak
me out. I was saved by the arrival of the bombshell waitress.
    “Mexican poutine, large, please,” Jac declared. “And a Coke.”
    “Italian small poutine, please,” I said. “And a root beer.”
    I examined the waitress’s gladiator boots as she directed her attention at my soul mate. And suddenly couldn’t stand her.
    “Regular medium,
s’il vous plaît
,” Ben said. “
Et aussi un
root beer.”
    “
Bon, merci
,” said the bombshell, and floated away, presumably powered by the sheer force of her good looks.
    I was getting ready to ponder whether Benordering the same soda as me was a) coincidence; b) a secret message; or c) subtle
mockery, when a man in a black suit approached our table and stood directly behind Ben, scowling. He had the thickest, darkest
eyebrows I had ever seen, and they were pushed together to emphasize his expression. He leaned forward, half through and half
around Ben, and spoke directly to me, pounding his fist on the table to emphasize each word.
    “
Je n’aime pas le poutine
,” he declared emphatically.
    Fool me once, shame on you and all that—but I wasn’t going to make the mistake again of thinking this guy was among the living.
I was sure there was no visible reaction on my face to his declaration that he did not like poutine. The guy whumped the table
with his hand one more time, then stood upstraight and took a step back. I gave him a look that said, “Back up off me, bro.”
    And Ben Greenblott turned in his seat and for the briefest of moments directed his gaze to the precise spot where the man
was. When the poutine-hater abruptly turned on his heel and stalked away, Ben turned back at the table and gave me a strange
look.
    Apparently I was not as clever as I thought. Ben had seen me react to the man after all. Correction—he had seen me react to
someone who for all practical purposes was not there.
    “I need to find the restroom,” I mumbled, standing up clumsily. Before