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the library (on those occasions I’d leave as soon as possible, before the geek army got around to pushing my books onto the floor or making fart noises around me), but that was about it as far as his social interaction with them went. He rarely showed up for after-school clubs, and never for dinner. Never. And he wasn’t picked up by his parents, either. On Fridays the visitors’ lounge would be teeming with local kids whose parents had come to take them home or out to dinner, but Peter was never among them. It seems that he just vanished every weekend, the way he vanished every evening.
    I thought about asking Verity and Cheswick where he went, but they had closed ranks against me. I’d been in school fornearly four weeks, and still no one was speaking to me. V and C would occasionally grant me a quick hello, as long as they weren’t near any of their friends, but if Peter were around, they’d sneer at me along with the rest of them. It was as if he had ordered everyone to shut me out, and they all obeyed.
    The worst of it was, I couldn’t even say that Peter was just a prick. Because he wasn’t. As much as I hated to admit it, he really seemed like a decent person . . . with everyone except me, that is.

C HAPTER
•
S IX

CAULDRON
    I might have spent the rest of the year feeling sorry for myself if Miss P hadn’t offered me an after-school job at Hattie’s. I didn’t want it at first—it had never been one of my big dreams to be a kitchen grunt—but at least it would take my mind off what a social failure I was at Ainsworth.
    “Come in, and welcome!” Hattie looked up from a pile of bright green scallions to smile at me. “So you’ve come to help me cook?”
    The music—it was the Rolling Stones this time—was so loud I could barely hear her. “Yes, ma’am,” I shouted.
    “Hattie. And I will call you Katy, as you wish.”
    “Thank you,” I said, though I’m sure she didn’t hear me over Mick Jagger.
    “Wash your hands and put on an apron. There, by the sink.”
    That’s how it started. No application, no time clock. I didn’t know how long I was expected to stay, or even if I would getpaid. All I knew was that I’d been ordered to work here, and I was in no position to refuse.
    “Now,” Hattie said, tossing the scallions into a pot. “Are you clean? Good. You can start with tuna.”
    “Like a sandwich?” I shouted.
    “Just like what you had, m’dear. But make it your own way. With love.”
    Love. Right. I scrambled around the kitchen concocting what I hoped was the perfect sandwich.
    “Is this okay?” I asked.
    She frowned. “Very pretty,” she said, “but where is the love?”
    I blinked. “Love?”
    “Yes, yes,” Hattie said. “After all, the Ainsworth women understand all about love. They have made it into an art.” Her brows knitted together. “Now concentrate!”
    Totally intimidated, I tried to focus on the sandwich. What did I love about it, I asked myself. It was good bread, okay. And I liked celery, although I couldn’t honestly say I
loved
it. I suppose a tuna somewhere had given its life for this sandwich, and I knew a few vegans who could work up tears over that, but still . . .
    “No, no, no!” She snatched the plate out of my hands and propelled me toward the swinging doors leading to the dining room. “Come with me.”
    At 3:30 in the afternoon, the place was still pretty empty. The old man I’d seen during my first visit here was sitting at a corner table across from his dog, who seemed to be communicating with a series of grunts, growls, and some occasional muffled barking. They both appeared to behaving a good time, absolutely engrossed in whatever strange conversation they were sharing.
    “That’s Mr. Haversall and Dingo. They come in every day now,” Hattie said. “But
this
is your customer.” She led me to a sour-looking man wearing glasses and a pinstripe suit.
    “It’s about time,” he said. He took one look at the sandwich I’d made,