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smelled like overripe shoes)? Maybe she would try to explain that spiritual-corporeal melding thing to him .
    But instead Annabelle just said, “Um, sorry about that.”
    Then, after giving the boy a long look, she added, “I’m Annabelle.”
    She pulled out the chair next to her, inviting the boy to sit down.
    He smiled, big and toothy.
    â€œI’m not a vegetarian,” he said. “So I don’t think I’m supposed to take a spot here. But I wish I could have some of that sage dishI smell. It reminds me of this butternut squash soup my grandma used to make.”
    â€œOh, so you like that scent?” Annabelle asked.
    The boy shuddered. “No way! My grandma was a terrible cook. But she was the best grandma. That smell makes me miss her.”
    The boy looked at the ceiling, his eyes a little distant as he clearly lost himself in some happy, if foul-smelling, memory.
    When he came back to earth, he seemed to really see Annabelle for the first time, instead of just smelling her. His eyes went from murky to riveted. There was another long pause before he seemed to realize that he needed to say something. Anything.
    â€œI’m”—the boy’s eyes flickered to the big green V on our table—“not a vegetarian.”
    He’d said this once already. But this time, his voice was full of regret.
    Annabelle’s shoulders sagged a bit too.
    â€œWell,” she said, “I guess you better find a seat then. . . .”
    â€œOwen,” the boy said.
    He stuck his hand out, and Annabelle looked at it in surprise before giving it a shake.
    Owen laughed self-consciously.
    â€œSorry,” he said, “that’s another thing my grandma did—made me shake hands whenever I met someone new. I know it’s kind of dumb, but I can never seem to lose the habit.”
    â€œOh,” Annabelle breathed.
    I frowned at her back. Where was her lecture about honoring one’s heritage or whatever?
    As Owen headed across the dining hall, Annabelle watched him go with eyes as soft as melted chocolate.
    â€œAnnabelle,” I whispered to her. “Did you hear what the guy said? He’s not a vegetarian . Don’t you have some, y’know, opinions about that?”
    â€œHmmm?” she said vaguely. She was still staring after Owen, still speechless.
    I noticed people starting to walk through the dining hall and remembered how meals worked at Camden. A few people from each table fetched big platters of food from the kitchen’s service window. Then we ate our meals family-style off handmade crockery dishes and rustic cloth napkins. The idea was that tablemates would get to know one another more easily if they were constantly passing the potatoes.
    When I was a kid at Camden, everybody at my table quickly learned that Nanny took her iced tea with a brimming tablespoon of simple syrup, that my little brother lived on bread and butter alone, and that I would hog the drumsticks on fried chicken night.
    Today I figured I would hear everyone’s vegetarian backstories. They’d probably talk about caged chickens and overfed pigs and insist that tempeh tasted even better than steak. After that, skulking away to eat meat at one of the other tables would become an impossibility, or at least, incredibly awkward.
    With a sigh of resignation, I stood up to go fetch one of ourtable’s sad, tasteless, not-meat dishes. But as I turned to head to the kitchen, I narrowly missed crashing into a platter full of gloppy broccoli casserole.
    â€œAh!” I said, jumping backward.
    That’s when I saw who was holding the platter.
    It was that fiddle student, Jacob.
    â€œOh, hi,” I said. “So you’re a vegetarian too.”
    Jacob cast a fishy glance at the giant green V that marked our table.
    â€œYeah, but what’s with the scarlet letter?” he whispered. “I mean, even if it’s not red, it’s kind of in your