“She’s a dance instructor,” says Teddy, jangling his building key. “And she just happens to have a Broadway Boot Camp class that starts … this week.”
“You’re kidding.”
Teddy tosses his keys in the air and catches them, the closest thing to coordination he and his overly tall body are capable of achieving. “Nope. So if I were you, I’d take up Cooper’s offer for dance classes. Two birds, one stone.”
“And one flawless human geocacher,” I say. “Seriously. Thank you.”
He pauses just outside of our building, phone still in hand. “You’re welcome. But also, I can think of one way you can repay me.”
I already know where this is going, but I humor him. “What’s that?”
Teddy’s eyes are bright, his eyebrows rising into his messy flop of hair. “Just got a GeoTeen push. Someone tucked some used DVDs into a corner of the Highline. I’ve got coordinates.”
I don’t bother reminding Teddy that neither of us even owns a DVD player, and we are subscribed to so many streaming services between our two households that we collectively own every movie ever made. A new cache is decidedly less about the prize and more about beating other people to it. And if there is one thing Teddy can count on me for, it’s crushing the competition.
I pull his phone from him, glancing at the numbers. “We can get there in ten minutes if we run.”
Teddy grins. “Last one there’s a rotten Newsie!”
We take off into the night, two newsboy-clad dweebs darting in and out of the way of other New Yorkers, whooping and leaping up to tap street signs, dragging each other by the arm whenever one of us pulls ahead. I’m half gasping, half laughing, and fully out of my own brain—there are no versions of Millie to be, no moms to dissect, no lingering guilt or confusion or things lurking under them I don’t know how to name. There is just the one person I’ll always know how to be: the West Village’s biggest dreamer, New York’s noisiest human, and Teddy Granger’s best friend.
CHAPTER SIX
I pride myself on my lung capacity, but it’s nothing compared to Oliver’s. When he sees me walking into the waiting room of Check Plus Talent the next morning, he lets out a sigh long enough to blow up an entire pool floatie.
“Good morning to you too, sunshine.”
I’m in a weirdly good mood, courtesy of several Eggo waffles slathered in peanut butter and jamming to the Anastasia original Broadway cast recording on the way here. (Number six on my List of Dream Roles to Get Before I Die, so it’s important to keep it fresh.) That, and the high of beating the seventeen other GeoTeens in pursuit of the DVD collection, which means we made off with a copy of Deadpool. (We did end up spending another hour cleaning up litter all over the Highline, as is the GeoTeen way whenever there’s a new cache hidden by one of the app’s supervisors. But at least we were semi in character for it.)
In any case, even the sight of Oliver looking annoyingly put together and handsome in his khakis and pale blue button-down shirt isn’t enough to burst my emotional balloon.
“I was hoping I hallucinated you yesterday,” he mutters.
I glance around the room, wondering where Steph is. “No such luck,” I tell him, shrugging off my bag and depositing it on the chair next to him. “I’m gonna pee. Watch my stuff.”
“That’s not my—”
I put a hand on his shoulder and then pat it, making him glower. “Thank youuuu!” I singsong, darting down the hall to a dark green door that can only be the restroom. I walk in more with the intention of making sure all my curls are somewhat tamed and my eyeliner hasn’t smudged than actually emptying my bladder, but there’s already someone in front of the mirror.
“Oh!” Steph’s face brightens at the sight of me, but not fast enough. Her hair and makeup are as immaculate as yesterday’s, straight out of an Instagram beauty tutorial, but even that isn’t enough to un-redden her eyes. “Good morning, Millie.”
“Morning,” I say back, embarrassed at how pleased I am that she remembered my name. “How’s … life?”
I ask it in that way that makes it abundantly clear that I know she was crying, and to her credit, she doesn’t try to bullshit me. She tilts her head at my reflection in the mirror and says wryly, “Oh, you know. Little of this, little of that.”
“Is the … ‘that’ okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah,” she says, her voice stronger on the second one. “It’s not anything important. I’m being a drama queen.”
As the crown princess of drama, I can’t help getting sucked in. Not necessarily because I want to collect gossip (although that is a known hobby of mine), but because of the Millie Moods. Because maybe this is something else we have in common—getting swept up in things other people brush off. Making mountains out of molehills.
In my defense, I’m five foot four. Molehills are slightly larger to me by default.
“Been there,” I say breezily. “What about?”
Steph hesitates. I don’t move a muscle, planting myself to the floor the way I was trained to do for auditions—no “traveling,” as Mrs. Cooke says. Sure enough, Steph’s mouth twists to one side, and I know I’ve got her.
“Just—there was this audition. And I didn’t go. I don’t even … I was just tired, I guess.” There’s a rueful look in her eyes, and then she elaborates, “I thought they were going to cast it much younger. And then an old friend of mine from school got it. And I’m just—upset with myself, is all.”
“Because you’re better than she is?”
Steph lets out a genuine laugh. “I guess that wouldn’t be polite of me to say.”
A yes if I ever heard one. I smirk at her in the mirror.
“Well,” I say, “that’s good, right? More motivation to get out there next time.”
The smile on Steph’s face softens. “I think I’m starting to run out of ‘next times.’”
“If someone who looks like you is saying that, we’re all screwed.”
She holds herself a little straighter, that pageant-girl poise coming back to her. “Aw, hon. You better be careful or I’ll keep you in my pocket.” She winks at me. “But you better skedaddle. Georgie will be here any minute.”
“Right.” I linger for a beat, not even sure why. It’s not like I can say anything worth saying in the five seconds we have. But Steph shoos me toward the door and I head back out, stopping short of the waiting room when I hear the lash of Georgie’s tongue.
“I said to be here at nine.”
Oliver is in full damage-control mode. “Yes, Miss Check—”
“Georgie,” she corrects him. “What time is it?”
“Um—eight fifty-five A.M.”
I don’t move a muscle, don’t even breathe. Bless this ridiculously oversize potted plant for hiding me and the big full-skirted dress I paired with Heather’s boots today.
Because here’s the thing. That intimidating vibe I felt in Georgie’s office yesterday? Apparently was fully warranted. I did a quick Google search of her last night, and she’s catapulted enough of the most recent generation of Broadway performers into stardom to fill a calendar. She wrangled connections to get clients into famed writer and director Gloria Dearheart’s workshops before anyone could have ever known she had two shows bound for hugely successful runs at the Public Theater, for one thing. She plucked Broadway’s most recent Cosette out of a crowd at Marie’s Crisis on a weekday night (rumor has it she has a debut album on the way). She’s also single-handedly responsible for putting baritone heartthrob Baron Levait on the map.