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about that?
    And these dorm rooms, all that stuff
about not opening any drawers or closets, respecting the residents'
belongings and privacy, as if she had any intention of prying into
people's drawers.
    Quinn was grateful for the free room
and board. But why were they so strident?
    "Well, the whole thing beats me,"
Trish said, "but I'm going to keep my hands off everything in here.
Not even going to use the desk lamp."
    "Maybe we shouldn't even
get in the beds,"
Quinn teased in a near whisper. "Maybe we should just leave the
spreads pulled up and sleep on top."
    "You think really so?"
    "Or maybe should sleep on the floor,"
Quinn continued, wondering when Trish would catch on. "That way we
won't wrinkle the spreads."
    "Oh, I don't..." Finally she caught
it. She smiled. "You're putting me on, aren't you! I must sound a
little nuts, huh?"
    "No. Just nervous. Like
me."
    "You too? You don't show
it."
    Next to Trish anyone would look calm,
but she saw no need to point that out.
    "I guess I have a different way of
showing it."
    "So, aren't you going to
study?"
    "I don't think this is the kind of
test you can study for. But you go ahead. I think I'll take a
little walk."
    She strolled out into the hall and
headed for Matt's down on the first floor. The hall was almost like
an expensive hotel corridor, well lit, carpeted, and clean—no
graffiti, no cigarette burns, no litter. She wondered at the size
of the maintenance crew it took to keep things in this
shape.
    Tim and Matt had somehow
finagled a room together. Quinn begrudgingly admitted to herself
that she had warmed to Tim over dinner. She'd actually had fun
laughing at his unsuccessful attempts to conjure up some white wine
to go with the chicken francaise. She found him stretched out on
the couch, reading a Cerebus comic—and still wearing his shades. Matt sat with
his feet up on the table, listening to his Walkman. He looked up
and waved.
    Tim said, "Ah, the Mighty
Quinn. Welcome!" He plucked up a fold of a new sweatshirt he was
wearing emblazoned with The
Ingraham . "How do I look?"
    "'Like a patient etherized upon a
table.'"
    "Ah! A T.S. Eliot fan."
    "But what poem?"
    "'The Love Song of J. Alfred
Prufrock'—first stanza." He lifted his sunglasses and looked at her
cross-eyed. "You saw the comic book and thought you'd slip one by
me, huh?"
    "Not if it's a Cerebus , but isn't it hard to read with those
things?"
    "Very. Especially at night."
    "Then why wear them?"
    Matt lowered the headphones to the
back of his neck and answered for his roommate. "Because as Andre
Agassi says, 'Image...is everything.'"
    Quinn had her own idea about that:
Image had nothing to do with it; Tim Brown was hiding behind those
lenses.
    "How'd you two manage to get assigned
to the same room?" she asked, dropping into a chair.
    Tim said, "I traded with the guy who
was originally here."
    "You sure there's isn't a rule against
that?" Quinn said.
    "I didn't see one," Matt said, "but
I'll bet there's one somewhere."
    Tim put down his Cerebus and sat up.
"Hell of a lot of rules, don't you think?"
    "Their ball, their gloves, and their playing
field," Matt said. "So they call the shots."
    "Yeah," Tim said, "but
what's this deal with you've got to sleep over in the dorm the night before the
test? Where's that come from? If you don't like institutional food,
or you'd rather stay in the Holiday Inn, why should they
care?"
    Quinn had been thinking about that.
"Maybe they want us all to start off tomorrow morning on equal
footing. You know, same dinner, same amount of sleep on the same
kind of mattress, same breakfast, that sort of thing. Another level
of standardization for the test."
    Matt nodded. "Maybe. Their booklet
does say they've learned over the years that they get the best
results from their applicants under these conditions."
    "Well, I don't know about you guys,"
Tim said, "but this kind of thing makes me feel like some sort of a
lab rat."
    "Maybe the whole point," Quin said,
"is seeing if you're