The pictures he is willing to show her include a picture of a lacrosse game where the players and the audience equally share the shot, a rusting water fountain, and a dead bird on the front steps of the school, surrounded by various kinds of flowers. 

"Thanks. I'm really much of an artist; I'm much better at composition than creativity."

"I think photography is an undervalued art."

"Maybe you can inspire my next series. I haven't been as passionate about it lately." 

"I'd be delighted."

"Are you much of a photographer yourself? No one here will complain if you aren't, we mostly just use the club to do things independently anyway."

"I'm here pretty much because of spur-of-the-moment curiosity. My second choice for today was League of Legends. But I might be interested in learning photography."

"I don't know if I'm the best teacher. I'm not very patient."

"I learn fast. Up to you."

"Okay. What is it that makes these shots good? Or bad, don't hesitate to critique."

He gestures at the ones he's shown her.

"The bird's got a lot of feeling to it. I'm always at a loss trying to articulate my reactions to art. The water fountain... is it weird if I say it makes me think of Richard III? That's going to sound completely insane to anyone outside my head, isn't it."

"No, no, that's exactly what I wanted. Something that could be useful and desirable is instead ugly and despised. Water fountains are so ubiquitous, people expect them to work. What happens to one that doesn't? It's an obvious reference to Duchamp, and that gives it a nice sting of irony, too."

"Curtail'd of this fair proportion, cheated of feature by dissembling nature, deformed, unfinish'd, sent before my time into this breathing world, scarce half made up," she murmurs, quietly but enunciated with clear feeling, looking down at the picture of the fountain. "Yeah. I have a lot of feelings about Richard III."

"I see that," he says, breathlessly. 

He puts the photographs back in his bag.

"We should get you a camera, instead of just talking theory." 

She glances up at him and smiles. "Sounds good."

"Let's catch up tomorrow, okay?"

He packs up his things and rushes off. 

As soon as he enters the hallway, he knows he can't avoid this one. He's been trying so hard to be good, to avoid reminders. The hallways are getting fuzzy, everything is wrong again. 

He can hear them laughing now, muffled by the water over his head, in his ears, in his mouth. 

He doesn't exactly notice when he stops breathing, but then it happens again. He thinks he's still walking, but he can't find his bag, and his skin itches from the chlorine and she's so nice, doesn't she know what he is?

He wipes his face with his hands and promises to apologize to the janitor tomorrow. He steps out of the stall and checks his hair in the mirror. 

He goes home. 

Well all right then. She doesn't know any of these other people that well and they all seem absorbed in their activities; she doesn't have any more reason to linger here,

(of course she doesn't, not at all, no)

so she goes home, as is right and proper.

The cleaning service has been by. All is ready for the hour of the truffle.

Scott calls first.

"Are you all set for cooking buddies?"

"Yes! Be welcome in my home! We will make the most glorious of truffles!"

And soon they drive up to the house. 

Stiles knocks. 

The person who answers the door is not Solvei. She is instead a stunningly beautiful woman of ambiguous ethnicity in maybe her mid-twenties, with huge, gorgeous brown eyes and an enchanting smile. There's little to no family resemblance to be had.

"You must be Solette's friends!" she exclaims, in a noticeably foreign accent. "Come in, come in! Call me Ghyslaine. It's lovely to meet you. My dear girl has a gift; no matter where we move she'll have made a dozen friends before the first week is out. I see Beacon Hills is no exception."

"Yeah, Solvei made a lot of friends her first few days. I'm Scott, and this is Stiles."

He steps inside slowly, looking around the restored building.

"You work fast, I would never have thought anyone could fix it up like this."

"Ah, well, from the moment I saw it I knew I had to have it. Solette!" she calls, turning away from the door, and then some more words in - possibly French? Possibly weirdly accented French.

Solvei comes down the charmingly renovated stairs. "Hi, guys! I see you've met my aunt!"

Probably Thulic, since they're from Thule.

How long will it take to learn Thulic? 

"Yeah. She was telling us why she picked this house, out of all the burnt-down mansions in California."

Ghyslaine laughs. "It was just so beautiful!"

"And deeply morbid!" says Solvei.

"Well, you know. I don't think there's anything wrong with that."

"Please don't tell me you have an ambition to become Morticia Addams."

"I admit nothing," says Ghyslaine, a mischievous sparkle in her eye. Solvei sighs theatrically.

"It's nice that someone can live here after what happened. Kind of hopeful, I guess?"