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Street Irregulars
    Some people, I’ve found, are almost bursting at the seams with the desire to let you get to know them better. Ask one innocent question, and within ten minutes, you’ll learn that their beloved pet Chihuahua suffers from halitosis, that their grandfather once wrestled an alligator, and that they secretly dream of being a Las Vegas showgirl. As entertaining as these people may be, experience has taught me that those who say the most are often those who know the least. Quiet people keep their secrets to themselves. That’s what makes them interesting—and generally worth the wait.
    I suppose it goes without saying that Kiki Strike was not a talker. In fact, on that first day we spent together, she didn’t say much at all, and I have to admit I was a little surprised. We shared at least one secret that demanded discussion, and I was anxious to hear what she knew about the Shadow City. But although it was clearthat Kiki had a plan, she didn’t choose to reveal it. I found myself following silently alongside her as she marched down Amsterdam Avenue, her eyes darting into alleys and doorways as if she were patrolling the street.
    That’s not to say that I didn’t insist on being let in on her plan the minute we left Luz. But Kiki simply arched an eyebrow and broke into a Cheshire Cat–like grin. Have a little patience, she told me, and refused to say another word. In the long silence that followed, I studied my pale companion and realized that I knew nothing about her—apart from the fact that she knew things she had no business knowing. I suspected she was well on her way to becoming truly dangerous, and the only thought that offered any comfort was the thought that I might not be in it alone for long.
    After our encounter with Luz Lopez, we made a brief visit to another Girl Scout meeting, this one held in a dark, wood-paneled classroom on the campus of Columbia University. The blinds were pulled, and the flames of a dozen Bunsen burners lit the room. Surrounding each flame were three or four girls wearing black leather aprons and protective goggles, which lent them the appearance of giant, wingless insects.
    At the front of the classroom, on a massive table, was a sinister-looking system of glass beakers and tubes. A strange liquid in a toxic shade of purple coursed through the coiled tubes, bubbled ominously in the beakers, and finally dripped into a bowl manned by one of the Girl Scouts. The entire room stank of marshmallows and grape.
    A Scout leader advanced toward us with a pair of metal tongs. Pinched between them was a sandwich bulging with melted marshmallows and dripping chocolate.
    â€œNice to see you back, Kiki. S’more?” she asked, thrusting the tongs under Kiki’s nose.
    â€œNo thanks,” said Kiki, recoiling from the s’more as if it were poisoned.
    â€œSuit yourself,” said the woman, turning to supervise a group of girls whose s’mores kept bursting into flame.
    â€œWhat’s the purple stuff in the beakers?” I asked Kiki.
    â€œPunch,” she said. “It’s snack time.”
    Summoning my powers of observation, I let my eyes roam the classroom. Aside from the rather unusual methods of food preparation being used, I immediately noticed at least two things that weren’t quite right. For starters, the Scout leaders who milled about the room, making sure that safety precautions were followed, were all extremely young. Judging solely by their faces, a couple of them weren’t old enough to be in charge. But even the most youthful of the Scout leaders had a helmet of silver hair and walked with the slow, painstaking gait of the elderly. It was as if new faces had been magically attached to ancient bodies.
    I also noticed, as I filled a paper cup with punch, that the girl standing by the punch bowl had been involved in an accident. She wore her hair in dreadlocks, and on one side of her head they