She snorted, but I saw her hand go protectively to her Balenciaga motorcycle bag. Knockoff, I thought. “They’ve all got a jones for the Lolita look,” she agreed. “And polyester.”
I drummed my unpolished fingernails on the table, realizing that a manicure was going to have to happen pretty soon. “So, where do you live?”
“Upper East Side. Worst side ever. One subway line for two million people. Germ central. You?”
“Soho,” I said, jerking a thumb over my shoulder like she didn’t know where it was. “It’s right on Prince.”
“Nice. Loft?”
I nodded.
“We’ve got this ridiculous prewar thing. It’s so ugly and old.” She wrinkled her nose. “My dad refuses to move, but he travels all the time, so it’s not like he’s even there to see the ‘classic crown moldings.’” She made finger quotes around the last words, then sighed. “I want a loft on Prince.”
I just nodded again, but inside I was doing cartwheels. This girl was so easy! Most people don’t start talking like this, which told me one thing: she was lonely. The fact that she had been sitting by herself only added to my suspicions.
I was pretty sure I had just made my first friend.
“So,” she said brightly, “who do you think is cute here?”
No time like the present.
“You know who I really want to meet?” I told her, leaning in like a conspirator and dropping my voice a little. “Jesse Oliver.”
Roux looked unimpressed. “Are you kidding me? You have a bad-boy thing?”
Honesty was definitely the best policy here. “I tend to thrive in exciting situations.”
She rolled her eyes. “Jesse’s the equivalent of beige housepaint that thinks it’s really neon pink.” She paused before adding, “But he is cute.”
The word “beige” made me sit up a little, but not as much as the word “cute.” “So you like him?” I asked. The last thing I needed was a rivalry with some faux-French, knockoff-bagged high school girl over a guy that I didn’t even want in the first place. That sort of thing was just not in my wheelhouse.
“Oh, God, no.” Roux waved away the idea with her hand. “I’ve known him since we were, like, four.”
Phew.
“So will you introduce me?” I asked. I knew I sounded a little eager, but one morning of high school had taught me the importance of getting this assignment over with as fast as possible. “He’s cute. He’s just my type.”
He was so not my type.
“Sure,” Roux said. “I don’t know where he is today, though. He ditches a lot.”
Excellent news! If my target ditched school, that meant I could, too! “Cool.” I shrugged. “Whenever. It’s cool.”
The sooner, the better.
Chapter 3
After a mind-numbing afternoon filled with a chemistry teacher who clearly knew nothing about chemicals and a US history class pop quiz that I aced even without reading the source material, I was ready to go home.
I followed the herd down the stairs toward the wrought-iron gates. I saw something taped to one of the spires: a plain white business card with the letter A directly in the middle. On the back was a drawing of a pagoda.
I grinned. I would know that card anywhere.
Angelo was in town.
Union Square was a sensory mess, so many people and stores and styles. It was like a spy’s fantasy. Even if I ran around screaming, “I’m a spy! I’m an international safecracker and your safety is in my hands, mwah-ha-ha!” everyone would probably ignore me. Or throw spare change, who knows?
The streets got calmer and the trees got closer together as I walked up Irving Place and passed a tea-and-coffee bar. Angelo liked espressos, so I stopped in and used my dad’s twenty-dollar bill to buy two doubles. If he didn’t like them anymore, more for me. I needed a caffeine kick, anyway. The first day of school had flattened me.
I knew where Angelo would be even before I saw him: on the northwest side of Gramercy Park, near my favorite birdhouse. (It’s shaped like a pagoda, which cracks me up. Like the birds can even appreciate architecture.) The heavy gate was locked, of course, and I set down one of the espressos so I could dig a paper clip out of my backpack. The lock looked old, but I knew it wasn’t. They changed the locks every January 1. The key alone costs $350, and a replacement is $1,000.
It’s so funny that anyone would pay that much for a key when you can get an entire box of paper clips for two dollars.
But when I went to jiggle the lock, I realized that it was already open. Not enough so that anyone else would notice, but I frowned and put my paper clip back. Breaking into things is half the fun, after all.
“You cheated,” was the first thing I said when I saw Angelo.
He turned and smiled at me, folding his copy of The Guardian newspaper. He had gotten grayer since the last time I had seen him, nearly a year ago during a stopover at DeGaulle in Paris. His eyes were a little bit crinklier, but he was as impeccably dressed as always. Dark suit, lavender tie, and pocket square.
Of course he had a pocket square. Some things never change.
“How am I supposed to practice my skills when you leave the gate open?” I said, though I couldn’t help but smile. “Nice pocket square.”
“Thank you, my love,” he said, then stood and hugged me. “Oh, you’ve gone and grown up.”
“Pfft,” I said. “I’ve been a grown-up since I was, like, four. Here,” I added. “Double espressos.”