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either to explain her response to the car in the parking lot or as an answer to Nia’s question about why she’d contacted her.
    But subtlety wasn’t exactly Nia Rivera’s middle name. “And how, exactly, did you get Amanda’s stuff?” she demanded.
    Louise looked down the length of the coatrack. “Is this hers?” she asked.
    â€œWhat are you talking about ?” Nia demanded. Callie put her hand on Nia’s arm, but Nia turned to her and angrily shook it off. “She texted me!” she snapped at Callie. “And now she’s acting like I’m crazy or something.”
    Louise ran her hand over her nearly shaven head and looked at Nia like she wouldn’t have minded eating her for lunch.
    Before Nia could say anything else, I stepped between the two of them. “Do you mind if we look through this stuff? I mean, will we interrupt your inventory?”
    Louise turned her head slowly and squinted toward me. I realized I was holding my breath as I waited for her to decide.
    When she walked away, I felt my heart sinking with a sense of having failed, but then, without turning around, she said, “Speaking of inventory, I wonder what’s in all those pockets.” And then, she disappeared from view.
    Nia was fuming. “That woman is so totally—”
    Callie still had her hand on Nia’s arm, but it didn’t look like they were about to come to blows anymore. “Look, obviously she doesn’t want to tell us anything directly,” Callie said quietly. “But she has Amanda’s stuff and, like you said, she did contact us. So she is telling us something.”
    â€œWhat do people have against just communicating things directly lately?” Nia asked from between gritted teeth, and without her saying it, we all knew she wasn’t just talking about Louise.
    I’d never realized how many places girls have pockets. Amanda’s skirts had side pockets and front pockets, decorative pockets that didn’t open, decorative pockets that did. Some of the pockets had pockets, and at one point I put my hand in the pocket of a blazer and pulled out a small purse that was attached to the lining of the blazer by a long string.
    Inside the purse was a pocket.
    I don’t know what we expected to find in the pockets, exactly, but the more mundane pocket-y things we pulled out of them, the more depressed we got. Here and there—between the pennies and the forgotten vocabulary sheets, the gum wrappers, and the used-up ChapSticks—we found the occasional thing that could only have come out of a pocket that Amanda had owned. A delicate handkerchief with a border of flowers embroidered into the shape of a graceful A; a quill with a thick blue feather atop it; a small book with pieces of paper that Callie and Nia explained were covered in something called dusting powder.
    â€œIt’s so you can powder your nose,” Callie said. Laughing, she ripped a piece out and touched it gently to the tip of Nia’s nose. “There. Much better.”
    â€œOh thank god—I was feeling soooo shiny.”
    Callie ripped off a second sheet and reached toward me. The paper felt smooth against my skin, and I closed my eyes slightly at the gentle pressure of Callie’s fingers.
    â€œHey!” Nia’s voice was excited, and Callie and I looked to see what earned a “hey” from unflappable Nia. She was pulling something out of the pocket of a hot pink raincoat.
    â€œMovie tickets,” I said, recognizing the familiar shape. I read the name and address of the theater off them. “They’re from Los Angeles.” I looked from Nia to Callie. “Did you guys know she’d lived in Los Angeles?”
    They both shook their heads as Callie read the title off the ticket in Nia’s hand. “The Rudolph Valentino Film Festival.” She looked up, startled and pleased. “Rudolph Valentino. Amanda Valentino. I