Excerpt:

“What does he look like?” Anne Marie scans the students making their way to the dining hall. I showed her the note, but she still thinks I’m trying to pull one over on her.

“I don’t know,” I admit with a sheepish grin.

She pivots to face me. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I didn’t think to ask. I only know he’s supposed to be in a navy blue Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts.”

Anne Marie and I met during spring semester last year, and if she weren’t living off-campus, I would have roomed with her in heartbeat. She’s smart, studious, a little zany in the best of ways, and has a great sense of humor. But she’s also a local resident, which means she commutes so she won’t owe her firstborn child to the student loan debt collectors someday.

I, on the other hand, will probably owe my first two children and a dog, especially if my plan for grad school works out. And that’s even if I manage to land a stipend or a teaching assistant role. Field scientists don’t make a whole lot of money, but they get to see some really cool stuff.

“Raelyn, I think you’re playing me.”

“I’m not! I swear. I didn’t think to ask what he looks like. For all I know, he might have given up on me and gone inside already. Or gone home.”

Anne Marie lifts one white-blond eyebrow. “I was two minutes late. Two. He wouldn’t leave if you just happened to be two minutes late because of me. Let me see the note again.”

I pull it from the pages of the book and pass it to her. She scans the contents again, shakes her head, and hands it back to me.

“Pelicans,” she mutters.

“What?”

“There’s no one here wearing pelicans. It’s six-twenty. You’ve convinced me to eat cafeteria food and we’re waiting out here for your imaginary friend like a couple of lunatics. I love you, RaeRae, but we’ve got to get food.”

Something inside my chest falls with her words. I know she’s right. If Elliot wanted to meet, he would have been here. But the only other kids I see are kicking around a soccer ball on the grass in front of the dining hall. None of them are wearing pelicans.

“Fine,” I grumble as I shove the note back inside the library book and stalk to the door of the dining hall. “Let’s go.”

I’m sure I’m terrible company right now; my aura has probably morphed into a soul-sucking, void-tinged black. I can’t help feeling like I’ve been completely duped. Did I really think I was going to meet a guy I’ve been talking to through a magic book? I should have my head examined. Maybe the stress of sophomore year is getting to me.

We follow the dinner crowd through the food line, pick out meals and drinks, and find seats at one of the few empty tables before Anne Marie ventures to speak again.

“I believe you, you know.”

“What?” I’m not fond of the sullen tone in my own voice. I’m being a big baby.

“I’m just saying. I believe you’ve got some sort of weird communication with this guy. I don’t know how, but… I mean, the alternative is…”

I scoop a forkful of mashed potato and stare at her, waiting, unsure if I really want to hear what she’s suggesting. As if I haven’t already considered it myself.

“What’s the alternative?”

“That you’ve got Dissociative Identity Disorder and you’ve manifested a second personality to pass notes back and forth with.”

Anne Marie delivers the words confidently and only when she’s finished speaking does she have the good sense to look ashamed. My mouth falls open in response to her wild theory, but before I can speak, she sits back, hands in the air on defense, one still clutching her fork.

“I’m not saying I like that explanation, just that it’s an explanation.”

“An explanation.” I stare.

Anne Marie puts her fork on her plate and leans forward, her eyes wide with intrigue. “I want to see this in action, Raelyn. I’m coming with you after Psych tomorrow.”

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, Anne Marie and I share our Abnormal Psychology class, which is probably why she’s quick to try to diagnose me with DID. Anne Marie hopes to be a psychologist someday. She’s fascinated by all things psychology—abnormal, forensic, child, criminal, she soaks it all up. Her favorite shows, however, are true crime documentaries and she’s recently grown most obsessed with criminal psychology. It should bother me that she’s interested in studying me as a subject. Still, I’ll actually be a little relieved if she sees what I’m seeing. In real time.

“And then maybe we can also find out if he’s cute.” She shoots me a wide grin.

“You have issues,” I tell her.