The Gloaming Girls

EPISODE ONE (PART 1/6)

The first thing I notice about Emory Ghosh is that she has beautiful hair.

This is not the first thing most people notice about her.

Emory's reputation precedes her. As the daughter of the second-smartest person at our university, she has big shoes to fill, but as it turns out, that's alright, because the only reason Emory Ghosh's mother is the second smartest person is because the smartest person is Emory herself.

The most brilliant mind, the pride and joy of the Carthwright University faculty. Intern extraordinaire for the leading tech company in the city.

When people look at her for the first time, they usually don't notice her hair.

But today, it's all I see, because when I enter the dorm room we're supposed to share, she has her back turned to me, and where she stands in the sunshine facing the closet, her black hair catches the beams of light, illuminated. For several seconds I stand in the doorway, mouth hanging open.

I've never seen Emory Ghosh with her hair down.

She speaks first, without turning, in the quiet voice I've heard so many times in interviews. "You're Olyss Glass."

"Yes."

"Are you going to come in?" Emory laughs, and for a brief moment some of my anxiety dissipates and I think that maybe our first interaction isn't going to be painfully awkward after all, but the moment is short-lived.

As soon as I step into the room, she clears her throat. "You can forget about whatever awkward thing you were going to say about asking what I need."

The statement isn't angry.

I glance at her back, where the pattern of her shirt has stationed a half-moon over each shoulder blade, then let my gaze drift out the window. The empty windows of the opposite residence stare back. "I—they said I was supposed to be..."

"My aide?" She snorts. "I don't need an aide."

"But..." I let my hands hang by my sides, tracking her movement as she hangs three identical shirts, aligning the shoulder seams perfectly on the hanger, spacing them evenly one inch apart in the closet, measuring with two thin fingers.

"But they said I was going to need a roommate that would also be an aide," Emory finishes my sentence for me. "Do I look like I need an aide?"

I'm overcome by a sudden impulse to blurt out you look like you need to chill out, that's what, but I bite it down.

She lets out an enormous sigh. "Did they say what happened?"

Emory closes the closet doors and turns around, finally, to face me.

I almost miss it. A less perceptive eye might not even notice, because technically Emory is looking at me, but I know that it's irrelevant, because even if her eyes are on me, she's not seeing me at all.

I say, quietly, "You're blind."

"Did they tell you?" I swallow. "No."

"You catch on quickly, then," she says, dryly, and adds, "Good. I asked them not to."

I have about one million questions, but I can't sort through them fast enough to ask.

She takes a step forward, one hand on the closet door. "Alright, Olyss Glass."

I resist taking a step backward.

"Let's get a few things straight. I don't say any of this to be mean. I'm just saying it so we both know. I don't want your help. I don't need it. And I really, really don't want your pity. Okay?"