Not even when a full-scale renovation crew had pulled up overnight had the street in front of 2 Silverspiers Manor been this full, and this time it was only a single super stretch limousine had put that entire fleet of cars to shame.

Checkerboard patterns ran up and down its exterior just like the one from earlier, but unlike the one from earlier, this limo needed an entire additional set of wheels partway up its chassis. Wearing the second-nicest clothes he owned (his Dad's button-up that gangled on his arms, lest his crisscross of still-red scratches be clearly visible, a pair of school-issue shorts and their matching boat shoes) the checkers of the limo felt like eyes, weighing him down under its dozens of pairs of gazes, scandalized by how embarrassingly underdressed he had to be.

The only person outside was a chauffeur dressed in black and white. The warbly intercom made everyone sound the same, so Cliff's initial relief that it hadn't been the entire Scarsborough family hadn't been waiting out front to ambush him was replaced by a ticking apprehension as he closed in on the passenger side door.

Bette beamed at him once their eyes met and scooted over so he could slide in. It took him a minute to get over the fancy step while balancing his tray of coconut bars, and he paused in embarrasment when what he thought was a gentle seating was apparently much harder than he thought, causing an audible thump! to bang out. The AC was blasting, but he had to hold the food several inches above his lap so the paradoxically heated seats didn't melt them into fruit juice.

The back seat was more like the back sofa, and it ringed the interior of the limo, stretching far forward enough for two beds to have comfortably fit inside end-to-end. A low profile flat screen TV played screensaver images below the headrests of the driver and shotgun seats and neon minifridges seemed to know someone knew had entered, as one in the base of a seat within arms reach opened itself invitingly, showing a selection of drinks Cliff had seen his classmates savoring.

But he knew better than to just dive in. In fact, he became aware all at once of Bette watching him, a satisfied smirk on her face.

Impossibly, she looked fancier than usual. There was something weird about her eyes and skin that made the former look hazel-er and the latter look even whiter. Her hair was done up in a way that reminded Cliff of Hollywood actresses on the red carpet, and underneath the heavy-looking fur draped around her shoulders was a a blue dress so shiny he could see his own himself costumed like a hobo in it if he glanced for too long. "Going for a casual look?" She asked.

"Yes," Cliff said, thankful for a line to use if anyone else asked him why he looked like that. "Casual."

Between them, Bette waved her hand, and in response an armrest sprouted from a recess in the sofa. She pressed a glowing button at its center and a small ding issued from somewhere in the limo. The engine purred to life and the soaring T-shape of 2 Silverspiers Manor began sliding out of view.

The dead emptiness in his midsection made him feel like his stomach had refused to board the limo with him. A deep twitchy sensation bounced around where it otherwise would have been, darting quicker and quicker as the road lights passed by. This was it. He was on his way. Officially do or die.

"Looks pleasant," Bette said. She laughed directly in his face when he whipped around, half having forgotten she was even there. She leaned over to better eye the tray in Cliff's hands like you might a preschooler's drawing. "What do you call it?"

"Coconut bars," Cliff said.

The smile on her face was still award-winning, but she gave a small, monotone Hm. "I would've expected something more... exotic. You know, like last time."

Cliff's skin bristled at the confirmation that she did indeed remember what had happened before, and he tried to force out a laugh but stopped abruptly when he couldn't get it to sound natural. "W-well, it was super short notice you know, and you can forget all about last time once everyone tastes these little numbers."

"Is that right? After all, you're just full of surprises lately," she said. It was like the glamorous aura around Bette had dimmed the tiniest bit, but Cliff was sure he was imagining it. She sat back upright and laid her hands in her lap.

When she didn't say anything further, only continuing to stare out the window closest to her, the sound of the asphalt streaming by beneath the wheels filled the air. Cliff cleared his throat awkwardly. He let his eyes wander around the limo once more-the chauffeur wasn't going to strike up a conversation with them, there was no doubt in Cliff's mind he was paid well to do the exact opposite. But something struck Cliff as odd.

"Weren't your parents going to ride along?" He asked.

"Believe me, Mother and Father wanted to see this place and confirm things with their own eyes as much as I did, but they decided it best to stay behind to greet guests as they arrived. Imagine the Dean showing up and being snubbed by every last one of the hosts!" In her reflection in the mirror, clearer now against the darkening sky outside, Cliff saw her smirk. "The looks on their faces when I brought that fact up were priceless. I never get to do things they don't."

From overheard conversations, Cliff was well aware that Scarsboroughs were not lacking for amazing experiences. Other kids would chatter excitedly about having vacationed in faraway tropical destinations or enjoying sport events from so close up you could see the looks of triumph or defeat on the players' faces. Then, when they inevitably realized she hadn't yet joined in, they'd form a circle with Bette in its dead center. They'd listen as she talked about private perfomances from musicians and theater actors, personal invites to enjoy royal art collections and more than once she wouldn't tell them anything; just show everyone videos of her family sitting shoulder to shoulder with famous celebrities at premieres and fashion shows.

And naturally, once this went off without a hitch... Cliff saw himself walking in on the first day of sixth grade, flanking Bette Scarsborough. Everyone's jaw hitting the floor, them swarming and begging to find out what what VIP events the two of them had enjoyed. They'd exchange knowing sidelong glances and wouldn't tell. The uproar would be glorious. He couldn't imagine another silent moment sitting by himself at Wolfton.

"Yes, Miss Scarsborough?"

Cliff whipped around. For one wild moment he thought Bette might have had a secret talent for ventriloquy and a sudden preference for referring to herself in the third person. Lucky for him, she was still looking out her window, but the window now reflected an expression of mounting horror.

The armrest had reappeared between them, and she was holding the button down as she spoke. "Duvall, what's going on?"

"We have arrived at your estate." The male voice said, lighting up the button underneath her finger. Cliff noticed that the same blue hue encircled the driverside headrest.

"I can see that! Where are Mother and Father and the Dean and-and everyone! We should have made it back with more than enough time before the hors d'oeuvres, but it's completely dark out there!"

"I do not know. I sincerely apol-"

With a yank of her hand like she'd just noticed the armrest was filthy, Bette let the button go and the male voice and lights cut instantly, all while she muttered sharply under her breath in a way that made Cliff think twice about reminding her he was sitting a foot away. From the cup holder of her door she produced a smartphone and held it up to her eye. The color on its screen changed and she angled the bottom towards her face. "Mother and Father!"

The screensaver on the TV backing the front seats changed from a mountain vista to an abstract, artsy portrait of two human figures whose muted expressions side by side almost produced a whole smile. When the TV stopped ringing and returned to a slow-zooming image of rolling sand dunes, Bette cried out in frustration and repeated the call process.

Again, it rang and rang with no response. Cliff had a little difficulty seeing around her, now that her hands were held out and in front of her, and he had no way to see above her, considering he was several inches shorter than Bette. It wasn't until she doubled over in frustration did he get a look at what was beyond her window. His heart did a flip when he thought he shade brush past the window, but just as soon as it had come it was gone. The Scarsborough estate, difficult to make out with the cabin of the limo being so brightly lit and it being completely dark, must have been making him jumpy with its horror-esque appearance. In the night he could only really be certain he was seeing at least three stories of hard shapes and swooping gables to go with them, all barely perceptible against the dark gray sky.

On the fourth attempt, she closed the call and tried it again. Now, within a moment of dialing out, the portrait was replaced with the walking talking image of the man who could only have been her father. Wherever he was, it was brighter than outside - ornate chandeliers hung above him and the terrace encircling him was filled with mingling, equally-well-dressed adults. He was facing away from the screen, apologizing for the interruption until the moment caught sight of his daughter. His face brightened into loving surprise, and for a second Cliff thought he still had some of the bitter aftertaste of the failed bars on his tongue.

"Hello darling-"

"Father." A box in the corner showed what the camera in Bette's phone was capturing: Bette's pleasant expression looked like it had been sloppily painted on her face. "The theme of tonight was 'Oscars Ritz', not 'Darkroom.' Now please open the gates for us. We can still salvage this. I just have to change and-"

Cliff waved, but just as he thought, Mr. Scarsborough gave no indication of being able to see him.

The screen whirled around to a woman who must have been Mrs. Scarsborough. Cliff was conscious of the fact that her lips were moving, and that right next to him Bette had to have been responding... but just like her her husband her face had lit up at the sight of her daughter, and though the effect was somewhat muted by the ugly mud-color door in the background framing her, her happiness at seeing her child never left her face.

The bitterness in Cliff's mouth was making him nauseous, but couldn't look away. His transfixion was broken only when the screen went black as the call ended.

"The Dean. They're at the Dean's." Her tone was hollow. The fur scarf was sitting askew on her shoulders and she reached up, forefingers shaking against her temples. "It's over. I'm finished."

This was new. The same way it was new the first time his Dad had promised to spend his day off with him and proceeded to spend 24 hours at work. The bright beacon of excellence who showered her classmates in praise and basked in twice as much of it from the adults around them had disappeared.

"Is the Dean's place far or something?" Cliff asked.

She froze instantly, like he'd hit pause on her. "No, Cliff. The Dean's DC home isn't far. But I'm not going. I'll have Duvall take you back too-"

"Hold on!" Cliff said, "What are you talking about? Why aren't-"

"It's ruined!" She turned on him like she was brandishing a weapon. "I didn't tell anyone about the mignardise. It was supposed to be a surprise. Right when the servers were going to apologetically announce an early end to the courses, I was going to unveil you with it and save the day."

Cliff hefted the tray, feeling like he needed to prove it hadn't evaporated at the news of the change of venue. "Why exactly can't we just do that now? I still have it right here."

"Did you not hear anything my mother said?" The look she gave him made Cliff's cheeks burn. "On the most important day of my life our five star state-of-the-art security system failed minutes after I left, and the Dean wasn't going to eat anywhere he wasn't protected. Let me assure you his DC property is very well protected, and not by shoddy electronics, but by actual security guards."

"If there's some kind of Donor's Dinner protocol thing I have to do-"

"Yes, Cliff. The guest list. Unless you can somehow get your name on there before we arrive, there's no chance you'll be let in." She popped her door open and moved to get out.

"Wait!" He said. She groaned, but did as he asked. "You can't go in, tell the Dean about me and just get me on this list?" Cliff couldn't imagine a favor that small being beyond what the golden girl of Wolfing could ask of the faculty member that liked her the most.

"He'll say no. You've never been to one of these Cliff-I have. If you're not eligible for the Donor's Dinner, you can't come. None of this was a problem when the dinner was being held here, but now it's all over."

Bette slumped in her seat as she spoke, the will to even move seeming to seep out of her. His big second chance was over before it ever even started because of a mechanical mess up? How was THAT fair? He wracked his brain for some way, any way, to salvage this.

She had tugged her fur scarf the rest of the way off and was moving to close the door behind her when Cliff said, "I can do it."

"It's not worth it. If something goes wrong-"

"Nothing will go wrong." There was one tiny detail. Something at the edges of his memory that he knew would help him. "I'm telling you, I can make this happen."

She didn't entirely look convinced, but she did slip the furs back around her neck and take her seat again. Bette pressed the armrest button and Duvall, likely having heard her earlier outburst, got the limo in gear and began driving.

After she shot him her tenth iffy glance on the ride over, he focused on the tray of still, thankfully, unmelted coconut bars in his arms. He could do this. He knew he could. And he knew he could because... because...

Cliff wished he could roll the sleeves up on his shirt. Or at least untie it at the neck. It had been his Dad's back when he was in High School but he could have sworn it had shrunk four or five sizes in the time they had been on the road. He was trying to keep his breathing steady and even but the more he thought about how he would pull this off the tougher that became.

Lights blinded him, cutting through the summertime darkness. Shielding his eyes, Cliff turned to their source. A vast, lush garden lay outside the door, and beyond it was a stately two-story brick home more fit for a palace in the UK than a metropolitan street in DC. A hundred feet away, two guards in hi-vis stood watching them right back on either side of door a much earthier color than the surrounding bricks.

And he knew. He knew exactly how he was going to make this happen. In fact, he was more sure about being able to get the coconut bars to the kitchen than he was about the response they'd have from the guests.

"Cliff." Behind him, Bette was being let out by Duvall. He elbowed open his own, making sure to stay behind the hedges as she came around and stood at the arched entryway. "Put the mignardise in the kitchen and meet me in the dining room. I can smooth everything over from there. And please, do not get caught."

But worry and doubt were the furthest things from his mind. Once Bette had started walking, Duvall drove off, and Cliff found himself standing on a long road he'd never seen before, alone. The houses dotting the other side of the street were all grand in their own way, with multi-car garages and elaborate lawn decorations, but nothing compared to what he'd already seen of the Dean's property.

He simply turned and headed down the sidewalk, counting his steps as he did so. One... twelve... twenty-five... He had to shove into the leaves when an SUV, gold against the black of night, came past, and waited until it turned a corner and its headlights disappeared. Forty-three... sixty-eight... and at seventy paces there was a break in the foliage right where there should be. Beyond it, dull yellow figures congregated, and so he slid down and waited.

The crunching of gravel behind him and the swinging of a flashlight beam confirmed he'd timed it right. When the light swept away, he waited thirty seconds, peeked around and saw the coast was now clear. He stepped, and a rocky crunch sounded off beneath his shoe, gluing him in place, waiting for a horrible moment to be descended upon. When nothing happened, he started again, moving gingerly along the gravel be, he crept off the sidewalk and down the path, heart nearly bursting unhelpfully in his eardrums whenever his weight shifted too much and a grinding of pebbles beneath his feet threatened to expose him. Cliff kept low, watching across the top of the bushes that hid him from view as more and more newly arrived guests, some adults in pairs, others with kids that must have been other students at Wolfton, made their way laughing and joking down the main arched walk.

Finally, he sidled up to the brick wall that made up the front of the home, peering over the bushes that separated him from the guards at the front door. To his right, there was a heavy wooden groaning and the tinkle of a bell. Footsteps scuffed and he hugged the wall as tightly as could.

"...seriously called it the 'service entrance'," a tinny female voice was saying. "Who does he think we are? Over."

Another dull yellow figure appeared at the edge of the wall twenty feet away. Cliff fought for his hands and legs to stop shaking, worried that some tiny knocking sound against the brick wall would give him away.

The dull yellow figure made a motion he couldn't make out, and there was a singsongy chirp that made him realize he was hearing a walkie-talkie. "It ain't so bad. 'Specially if you're getting double time and a half for agreeing to work tonight. Though they're definitely getting their money's worth out of us, doing three times the work to pick up the slack..."

On cue, he headed farther up towards the sidewalk, exactly like the last person had some five minutes ago, not bothering to chck the front that the door guards clearly had covered.

Quick as he dared, Cliff rounded that same corner and slunk past the service entrance the guard had come out of. It wasn't the right one, he was fairly certain. He needed to make his way around almost the entirety of the grounds-that would be shorter and easier than trying to snake through the actual home to get to the kitchen. Expectedly, patrols were considerably lighter the further he got from the front. Only once did he have to slip behind a hedge trimmed in the shape of a prancing three-legged unicorn to escape the lazily wandering beam of a flashlight.

Even before he'd gone around the corner, he could see soft light issuing from the back of the home, much more than any of the windows far above his head or at the front end provided. As he approached, something stinky and acrid invaded his nose, and it took him a second to place it as cigarette smoke.

A lady's voice grumbling became clearer once he was just a step away from the back. "Call me up last-minute, will you." Cliff heard a sharp inhale and a rough, cough-laden exhale. "Make me feel like the world is ending over the phone and when I get here tell me it's going to be hours of this at five thirty-five an hour or I'm fired? Fire this."

Something purple and sparky flipped through the night air. Cliff moved to follow the owner of the voice inside and stopped short.

In his way, still stinking of smoke, was a tall woman in a striped waiter's uniform tugging at the strings of her apron. Cold dread crashed through Cliff. It was all over. Once she looked to her right, she would see him, almost literally a thief in the night, skulking around the premises of a security-crazy wealthy man's home. The incredible stupidity of what Cliff was doing hit him as hard and as real as if the wall had collapsed on top him.

He would not be walking in to Wolfton Preparatory Academy as a sixth grader. He probably wouldn't even be going home tonight. But the thing that made his eyes water and his sinuses thicken was how close he was. On the other side of this wall was the kitchen. If only she'd gone back in... if only waited a little longer... if only the security system at the Scarsborough's hadn't failed... his second chance for eveything was gone.

He waited. He couldn't make a sound even if he wanted. His eyes swam and he took halting, mute breaths and just watched and waited for her to make the move that would be the end of him. Dully, the bustling sounds of dinner preparations were obvious, epsecially coupled with the thinning and widening and sloping and darkening of the shadows that belonged to the people moving around inside.

But that infinite second turned into a tense minute. Which became an odd several minutes. Curiosity broke through his despair and Cliff followed her gaze-to nothing to but an ugly cherub lawn ornament and an indescript expanse of night beyond it.

Thump!

At the tip of the where the cherub's arrow would be, a pair of orange dots became apparent. The woman took a step back, and Cliff was half-tempted to follow her, but something about the color stuck to him.

Unbelievably, the lady retreated the way she'd come, never taking her eyes off the orange, and he strained his ears until he was absolutely certain he'd heard the sound of footsteps turn into heels digging into the grass at a run. Calm settled over Cliff's nerves. He'd narrowly escaped certain doom. He could turn back now and not put his future at risk. But if he flaked, the dinner would be ruined, and it would be Bette's fault, especially after she didn't even want to risk it in the first place.

He shook his head and started to turn around, then realized how silent it was outside. How quiet it would be back home. The way he'd spend the rest of his time at Wolfton alone and mute, unable to add a single thing of interest to the conversation...

He planted his foot. The orange tilted, and turned from pinpricks into coin size as their owner, a tiny jet-black kitten, ambled down the cherub's arm, hopped to its loincloth and then disappeared in its drop to the flowers.

"I don't where you came from," Cliff said, "But you just fixed everything for me."

He went around and saw the back service entrance, a white plastic door completely out of place with the high class feel of everything else.

"Mrow," came a tiny voice.

The black kitten stared up at him. It shook as if it were chilled, and Cliff hesitated. Up close, he saw how thin it was, its fur sagging on its skin. "I'm certain one couldn't hurt..." he said. Cliff uncovered the coconut bars and plucked one from a row. The cat arched its back dangerously when he tried to hold the food out to it, so he settled it a foot in front of it instead and backed away.

As he did, without taking its eyes off him, the kitten stalked forward. It sniffed apprenehensively at the length of solid fruit sugar and, thankfully, decided it was indeed food and gave it a lick. The cat gave a mewl of what was apparently delight and forgot all about Cliff as it tore into the what he'd hoped was one of many recent meals.

There was a large cheer inside, and a lot of the shadows suddenly disappeared. Cliff tried the door handle, and it came open easily. Without a second thought, he rushed inside.

The kitchen was as big as his room back home, and empty of any personnel. The Wolfton Preparatory colors of beige mixed fashionably with the stark marble decor of the fridge and countertops and tiles. But he saw his mark. On the far side were several tables separated into seven distinct sections, the three to left stacked smartly with half as much food as the three to the right, and the last, seveth, one clear of anything save a note he only became aware of as he approached.

Reserved re: Scarsborough, it read.

Cliff set his dish down on top of it. Then, realizing it looked amateur next to the setup of the others, grabbed a dish from the first section, filled only with crackers topped with different kinds of fruit and meat, and trashed it all. He set each piece of his mignardise into the setpiece and then placed that in the seventh section.

Cliff wiped his hands, admiring his job well done. All that was left was to find Bette in the dining room and it would be job well done.

He turned, and was greeted by Mr. Scarsborough, gaping at him.

"Perfect! Hi, Mr. Scarsborough, I'm-"

A second cheer, deafening without the barrier of the door, went up at the exact same moment he recoiled from Cliff's outstreched hand. From the O shape of his mouth it was obvious Mr. Scarsborough had yelped.

"Who are you?"

"I'm-I'm Cliff. Cliff Noa. I rode over here with your daughter-I've been her classmate since first grade. In the limo I couldn't get a chance to introduce-I made-brought the meenyardeez, see?"

"Our daughter picked that course up, thank you very much," said a woman's voice. Mrs. Scarsborough had come around the side of the industrial fridge, frowning. "A fact we were coming to confirm ourselves. How dare you take credit for her thoughtfulness."

Heat rose around Cliff's neck. "What? No, she..."

But Mrs. Scarsborough had seized him around the arm, her nails digging into his skin. "Now I do not know who you are but I assure you the police will find out."

"Wait!" Panic turned the heat around his neck icy. "Just ask Bette! She'll tell you she knows who I am! She can explain everything!"

Mr. Scarsborough shook his head. "Well... he does look to be Bette's age... but I'd hate to pull her away from the party..."

"Please!" Cliff looked from Mr. to Mrs. Scarsborough. "She'll tell you I'm not stealing or playing a prank or anything!"

The two of them exchanged a look. "I'll keep him on the terrace and out of sight," Mrs. Scarsborough said. "Make sure no one else hears about this. If they find out the Scarsboroughs were involved in a breach of the Donor's Dinner of all things..."

Mr. Scarsborough paled. He disappeared around the fridge and back to what Cliff assumed was the party he was so incredibly close to getting to. For her part, Mrs. Scarsborough began dragging him into an adjacent hallway lit with crisp white lights that burned his eyes after being outside in the dark for so long. It was agonizing to hear the laughing and conversation just on the other side of the residence grow deader and deader as she pulled him into a room he recognized from the background of Bette's call with her parents.

The foyer was carpeted red, and the steps on either side of the hallway they exited wrapped around and up to the terrace overlooking the front door. She half-marched, half-carried him up the steps and once they'd hit the top, she held him there, looking over the side every so often to check for the rest of her family.

"Father, what is it?" Bette's voice was full of laughs. "A surprise at the Donor's Dinner of all places? The suspense is... is..."

She'd caught sight of him mid-step. Mrs. Scarsborough let Cliff go and he massaged his sore arm with one hand and gave Bette a wave with the other. "Hey," he said.

Her parents congregated behind her, watching like he was a wild animal, one they couldn't guess as to if would strike or retreat.

"He says he's your friend from school," Mrs. Scarsborough said.

"And that he brought the mignardise tonight, not you," her husband added.

Bette turned her back on Cliff. "My friend? I don't know what he's talking about."