Chapter 1 — The Intake （Nora） #2
“Fair,” I said. “I once got quoted in a dining-hall ranking thread. Traumatic.”
She smiled, but it faded as she closed the folder and laced her fingers over it. Her eyes dropped to the small burgundy notebook sticking out of my tote—the one I carried everywhere, crammed with lecture notes, lesson plans, grocery tallies, and doodles in the margins.
Her voice dropped. Slower. Odd and personal in a way that didn't match the intake checklist at all.
“Keep that notebook closed around the facility, honey. Trust me on that one.”
The air in the little office seemed to stall. The vent hummed. My smile froze halfway on.
“Is that a tutoring rule or a ghost story?” I asked.
She held my eyes. Didn't blink. Didn't laugh.
“It's me looking out for you. Leave it at that.”
My fingers curled tighter around my latte cup. The cardboard sleeve crinkled. A cold prickle walked down my arms despite the warm air.
“Okay...” I said slowly. “Cryptic. Love that for me on a Monday morning. Super calming.”
“I mean it kindly,” she said, and something in her face softened, just barely. “You seem like a good kid. Just... keep it in your bag. All right?”
“Got it. Notebook closed. Anything else I should be scared of?” I tried to grin. It came out crooked. “Radiators? Whiteboards? Ghosts of midterms past?”
“No,” she said. “You're set. Room 214, four o'clock, starting Wednesday. Sign in at the desk. Come to me with anything.”
She stood, and I stood, and the meeting was over, just like that, checklist complete and the weird warning hanging in the air between us like smoke.
“Thank you,” I said. “Really. For the job. I need it, and I'll be good at it. I promise.”
“I know,” she said, nodding me toward the door. “Go sign out, honey. And straighten my pens if you must. I saw you eyeing them.”
“No clue what you mean,” I said with dignity. “I'm chill about pens. Extremely chill.”
“Mm-hm,” she said.
The hallway felt cooler than her office, or maybe that was just my skin. I walked back toward the lobby past the assignment board, my tote bumping my hip, my notebook suddenly heavy against my side like it knew we'd been talking about it.
The sign-in desk came into view, and I slowed.
The pens were crooked again, one rolled across the sign-in sheet. Someone had used the desk while I was in Marisol's office. Of course they had. This was a tutoring center, not a shrine to stationery.
I set the clipboard straight, returned the stray pen to the tray, and lined all three up parallel. Small click. Better.
“Normal people can leave pens at angles,” I reminded myself. “I simply choose excellence.”
Then I turned to the assignment board and found the fresh white card pinned under glass.
I turned to the assignment board on the wall beside the desk. Fresh white card in Marisol's neat block print, pinned under glass.
HALE — 214 — M/W/Th 4 p.m.
There it was. Real. My name penciled small in the corner of the card. Quinn.
My chest did a weird flip. Part nerves, part something else I refused to name. I stared at the card until the letters blurred, then pulled out my phone and snapped a photo so I wouldn't forget. Room 214. Four o'clock. Wednesday.
My phone buzzed in my hand almost instantly, like my sister had psychic notification powers.
Jessa: “how'd intake go?? did you get the job??”
I grinned despite the pen weirdness and typed back one-handed.
Me: “Got it. Peer tutor. Afternoons.”
Jessa: “pay??”
Me: “Sixteen an hour.”
Jessa: “Sixteen an hour? Babe, marry that job.”
I snort-laughed out loud, then clapped a hand over my nose. God, the snort. The horrible donkey snort I'd hated since middle school. The lobby guy glanced over. I waved like a normal person who definitely hadn't just snorted at her phone.
Me: “I'll propose at the next paycheck.”
Jessa: “who's the student? some freshman who thinks Freud's a rapper?”
Me: “Junior. Football player. Sports psych.”
Jessa: “ooooooh. cute?”
Me: “Professional. Saint-like. Notebook closed.”
Jessa: “what does that mean???”
Me: “It means your sister is a professional with boundaries. Enormous boundaries. The best boundaries.”
Jessa: “sure jan. does he have a name or is he just Football Guy?”
Me: “Beckett Hale. Backup QB. Do not google him.”
Jessa: “googling him.”
I stared at her texts, my thumbs hovering. The hallway stretched empty past the assignment board, doors shut, lights humming. The warning replayed in my head in Marisol's voice, warm gone serious, eyes holding mine.
Keep it in your bag. Leave it at that.
Me: “Nothing. Intake was normal. Mostly. Ish.”
Jessa: “mostly??? nora. spill. Now. Spill..”
Me: “Later. Chicago stuff good? You eating real food?”
Jessa: “deflecting. rude. yes mom. So, football guy. Details. Go.”
Me: “Love you. Gotta sign out before they fire me on day one.”
Jessa: “go get that sixteen an hour, tutor girl.”
I pocketed my phone and signed out with a flourish, then hesitated with the pen in my hand. Lined it up in the tray with the others. Parallel. Even. There.
“Stay,” I whispered to them. “Be good. No wandering.”
The radiator hissed softly, like it was laughing at me.
I shouldered my tote, checked that my notebook was zipped inside, and started for the front door.
The morning light hit the tile in a long bright sheet.
My shoes squeaked. The heavy door swung open under my hand with a groan, letting in a breath of warm late-summer air with an edge of fall underneath, cut grass and hot brick.
A campus bus sighed past on the street below.
Somebody laughed too loud on the quad. My tote strap dug into my shoulder and I hitched it higher, and my fingers found the notebook through the canvas, tracing its edge once before I zipped the pocket shut.
Closed. Like she had said. Whatever that meant.
Behind me the lobby sat quiet. Empty chairs. The sign-in sheet glowing white in the sun. The pens in their tray.
I looked back once, and my steps slowed, and the words followed me out into the light and stuck there, replaying, unanswered, while I stared down the empty hallway.
Keep the notebook closed around the facility. Trust me.