“Hey! That package is not addressed to you.”
Oliver looks over at the slippers-clad, gray-haired, stooped-over man who just poked his head out of the first-floor apartment in alarm. Lucky for him, the generation above baby boomers happens to be one of the key demographics susceptible to my Millie charm. I offer him the brightest smile I can muster.
“We’re picking it up for Steph. She gave us the key.”
He squints at me, his voice gruff. “You her niece or something?”
I can already tell “we’re the interns” isn’t going to cut it with a guy like this. So before Oliver can open his mouth to tell the truth, I reply without missing a beat, “Sure am.”
The landlord’s brow uncreases considerably, searching my face. He gestures up to his own eyes. “You got the same … look.”
I cling to the words like Saran Wrap. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. That look like you’re gonna cause some trouble,” he says, but with some marked affection in it that makes me think Steph’s probably lived in this building a long time.
Oliver lets out a scoff. The landlord turns to him. “And you are?”
Might as well have my cake and annoy the hell out of it, too. I grab Oliver’s hand, squeezing it tightly enough to crack my knuckles. “My boyfriend,” I say, beaming up at him.
Oliver’s eyes widen just enough to let me know that whatever quasi-bonding moment we had out on the front steps is effectively over, and I am dead to him once more. “I’m not your—”
“Well, technically we just started dating, but he’s been begging me to go out for so long, and you know what?” Oliver’s stare is burning with such intense annoyance that I probably need sunglasses, but at least he doesn’t let go of my hand. “He finally wore me down.”
The landlord cackles. “That’s a Fedotowsky girl if I’ve ever seen one. You tell that Steph to quit working so much; I haven’t seen any of those boyfriends of hers around for a while. Used to get a big kick out of ’em mooning after her.”
I flash him another grin and flip my hair back, untwisting Oliver’s fingers from mine. “I’ll be sure to let her know.”
“And you take care of her, young man!”
“Duly noted,” Oliver grumbles, lifting his side of the package.
I grab my side merrily, Steph’s landlord waving me out, Oliver giving me murder eyes. The instant the door closes behind us, he mutters, “So much for our truce.”
“Truce?” I flash him a wicked smile. “We said we’d stay out of each other’s way. Not that we wouldn’t have any fun.”
Oliver stares at me, then out into the middle distance of the street, like he’s trying to glance into the future. “Jesus,” he says, evidently having seen it. “This is going to be the longest summer of my life.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Heather. I love and appreciate you. But I do not need a chaperone for the L train.”
My aunt takes an aggressive bite of her egg-and-cheese bagel, still blinking herself awake. It’s five thirty P.M. on a Thursday, but basically breakfast time for her. Our fellow commuters, who are dodging sesame seeds left and right, do not seem to appreciate Heather living this particular truth.
“I feel like if you’re physically leaving the island of Manhattan, I am at least somewhat obligated to make sure you don’t end up getting kidnapped by anyone who puts oat milk in their coffee,” she says through a mouthful of cheese.
“I’m going to a dance class that’s, like, three feet from the station,” I remind her. “Besides, it’s Brooklyn. I’m not cool enough to be kidnapped.”
Heather scowls. “You’re plenty cool. You’re wearing my boots.”
“You’re right. I take it back. The oat milkers may steal my shoes.”
“Speaking of, you got your jazz shoes in your bag, right?”
“Yup.” By some small mercy, I remembered them after sleeping through my alarm this morning. It’s only day two of the internship and I’m so wiped out that I’m pretty sure if I let myself blink too long I’ll fall asleep. “Brought my tap shoes too, just in case. I’m not really sure what to expect.”
“Yeah, that’s the other thing I’m nervous about,” says Heather, pausing her bagel consumption. “This ‘Farrah’ woman doesn’t have any kind of online presence.”
“Uh, Heather, the website for the Milkshake Club is basically a graphic from before I was born. And Dad’s a computer nerd who could probably fix it like that,” I say with a snap of my fingers.
Heather pouts. “I love that little graphic.”
I roll my eyes. “You only love it because what’s-her-face made it.”
Heather raises a warning eyebrow at me. In my defense, “what’s-her-face” is a much kinder nickname for her ex Jade than the ones she probably deserves after yanking Heather around all these years—saying she didn’t want to be exclusive but accusing Heather of cheating and pitching a fit when Heather’s college roommate was staying with us for a few days. Asking Heather to move in, then saying she had to “find herself” before up and moving to Europe—without Heather.
That was a few months ago, and Heather told me and Dad that she was officially finished with Jade. Heather’s phone screen (and email inbox) tells an entirely different story. I’m about to mention the several texts I’ve seen pop up with Jade’s name on them, but Heather seems to anticipate this and beats me to the punch.
“My point is, at least we have a website,” she says quickly. “Where did you find this dance class anyway?”
My eyes cut to Heather’s boots. “Uh—Teddy found it.”
Which is technically not a lie, even if he was more looking for my mom than an affordable dance class option. Farrah seems to do most of her advertising for classes on her personal Facebook page or by word of mouth, so it’s not like she’s completely off the grid. But Heather’s right. A casual Google search won’t really pull her up. And trust that I’ve tried.
“Leave it to the GeoTeen,” says Heather fondly. Just then the L train finally spits out into Brooklyn, and she starts wrapping up her bagel before we reach our stop. “Listen, I know you’re probably still bummed about this whole precollege thing, but I’m glad you’re taking Coop up on this.”
I nod, too guilty to say anything.
“You should give him a call when you get back tonight. He’s been dying to know how the internship’s going.”
“’Course,” I say. “Yeah. I will. Just been … busy.”
The doors slide open, and I scamper out before Heather can call bullshit on that. Aside from the internship, I guess I’m not actually busy. Or I shouldn’t be, at least. But between the working hours and the hours I spend geocaching with Teddy and the hours I’m secretly getting my stuff together for the precollege despite what every adult in charge of me has said about it, there really isn’t much time to spare.
Plus the whole looking-for-my-mom thing. Enter: this dance class.
The address takes us to a little studio above a chicken-and-doughnut place that smells so good it’s a miracle we even find the staircase through the haze. Still, I can see Heather scrutinizing every corner of the building, from the flimsy, handwritten BROADWAY BOOT CAMP sign duct-taped to the wall to the flickering light at the top of the paint-chipped stairs.