Jacobson, her mother had written along the puckered edge in red laundry marker in a tentative hand that now seemed a little tragic. Julie had looked at her with a dumb, dripping face, which she then quickly dried with a thin towel from home. It had been miraculous when Ash Wolf had nodded to her earlier in the night at the row of sinks and asked if she wanted to come join her and some of the others later. But if she called attention to herself in any way now, someone might start to wonder why she was here and really, she knew, she had no reason to be here at all. Julie Jacobson longed to unfold a leg or do the side-to-side motion with her jaw that sometimes set off a gratifying series of tiny percussive sounds inside her skull. The teepee, designed ingeniously though built cheaply, was airless on nights like this one, when there was no wind to push in through the screens. Julie Jacobson, an outsider and possibly even a freak, had been invited in for obscure reasons, and now she sat in a corner on the unswept floor and attempted to position herself so she would appear unobtrusive yet not pathetic, which was a difficult balance. They were only fifteen, sixteen, and they began to call themselves the name with tentative irony.
On a warm night in early July of that long- evaporated year, the Interestings gathered for the very first time.
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