When I rang the Stones' doorbell the following afternoon for our next research session, I felt my knees unstable underneath me. Janis had coached me through what to wear—a plain gray t shirt and some reasonably nice jeans. “Don't look like you're trying," she'd said, rolling her eyes. “You're hopeless sometimes."
“I'm always trying," I protested, knowing it was true. I always tried my hardest, no matter what challenge was in front of me. It's how I had gotten into Harlow. How I'd maintained a 4.0 this whole time. And it was the only way I could bring myself to step up to the Stones' front door again. I couldn't get the image of the Classics major, bleeding and shriveled in the bushes, out of my mind. And Watson's cocky smile.
Melinda answered the door, dressed in a smooth, slender pants
