She shakes her head like she didn’t mean to say that much, and I guess I’m not surprised. That’s always been a weird quirk of mine, and Heather’s, too—people just start confiding in us sometimes, without even really deciding to. Must be something with our faces.
“And we’re still on great terms and everything, but I ended up moving back down here to be closer to my mom, and for a while Javi was still in our Hell’s Kitchen apartment, so it made sense for Chloe to stay at her school in Midtown … but he’s moving to New Jersey, so she’s transferring this year.”
“Transferring where?” I ask.
Beth tilts her head out the window toward downtown. “She got into the student lottery for Cornelia Arts and Sciences.”
Thank god I don’t have any coffee in my mouth, or I’d have choked on it. “Oh my god. That’s my school.”
Beth’s eyebrows disappear into her bangs. “Really? I thought you two went to Stone Hall.”
I lean forward, her excitement contagious. “Nah, that’s just Teddy. I was supposed to go to the public school down the street from CAS, but I got into the lottery, too.” That’s the whole deal with CAS—it lets students specialize in an arts or science track from the start, but it’s still a public school. Admissions isn’t based on where you live in the city, but a random drawing every year. “It’s a great school; she’s going to love it.”
At least, love it the way it is now. My own excitement for getting into the student lottery in eighth grade could never have prepared me for the veritable Hunger Games we walked into at the start. But it’s a much more Chloe-friendly zone now.
“Oh, this just makes my day,” says Beth. “You wouldn’t mind looking out for her, would you? Maybe showing her around campus?”
“I’d love to. I’d—I’m…”
A rock drops in my stomach.
“I’m not actually going to be there next year, I don’t think.”
Beth tries to keep it off her face, but I can see the quick flicker of disappointment. “Oh?”
“I got into Madison Precollege.”
Beth doesn’t react the way I’m hoping she will. In fact, she doesn’t really react at all.
“For musical theater,” I elaborate. “It’s this competitive program—it blends the last year of high school with the first year of college, so you can get out even earlier.”
“Oh!” Beth perks up. “Well—that’s fantastic. Congratulations.”
And there’s what I was hoping for. I have at least one potential mom in my corner on this.
“But I’ve got so many friends at CAS who would love to meet Chloe,” I say quickly, before I can let that thought derail me. “Some in the theater department, in chorus, in dance—”
“Chloe loves to dance. She’ll only take classes her cousins sign up for, though.” Beth runs a hand through her bangs. “It’s great that we have family so close. But I wish I could get her to branch out more.”
“Well … this summer I’m in a dance class,” I tell her. “It meets in Brooklyn twice a week. There are still openings, and it’s totally Broadway-themed. Chloe would probably like it a lot.”
“You wouldn’t mind if she joined you?”
I don’t even let myself think it fully through. “Of course not,” I blurt, so desperate to be in Beth’s good graces that I entirely forget the point of the dance classes is to get into Farrah’s.
Okay. Well. It’d be a complication, but a small one. And if Chloe really is my sister, then it’s basically my job to help her out, right? I mean, I’ve never been anyone’s sister before, but it can’t be all that hard. Just make sure she doesn’t get eaten by anyone on the L train and pack an extra snack.
“Besides,” I say, “I could use an ally in there. I’m not the best dancer.”
Beth blows out air. “You’re telling me. Two left feet,” she says, pointing at herself. Then she unexpectedly reaches across the table and squeezes me on the arm. “Thank you so much, Millie. I can’t tell you how relieved I am.”
I wish I could tell what I was. It’s all churning in me at once—my own relief. But also the lingering disappointment. And also the guilt that’s been churning just under the surface since my dad left.
Or maybe it’s all the caffeine and sugar jumping rope with my organs right now.
“Let me get your number,” she says. “What’s your last name?”
I could tell her. I could drop the name “Price” and see if it makes her flinch. I could ask her point-blank if she’s my mom—the same way I could ask any one of them.
The idea makes me shiver. I tell myself it’s because I don’t have time right now, anyway. I have to get to my internship.
“Queller,” I tell her. It’s Teddy’s mom’s maiden name, and the fake one he put down for Farrah’s dance class.
“Millie Queller,” she says. “It’s got a nice ring to it.”
It does. But then again, so do all the new personas I’ve taken on over the years. I’ve been chameleoning so nonstop since the “Little Jo” debacle that it almost feels natural to make up one more version of me.
But as we say goodbye and I finally get some distance from her, that gnawing guilt takes a bite, and I know exactly why—the personas were lies I told myself. Now it looks like I’m willing to lie to everyone else, too.
CHAPTER TEN
“You angel. How did you know how desperately I needed this?” says Steph, taking the iced vanilla latte from my hand and then slurping through the straw like it’s an IV.
I’m early. And I’m also technically not supposed to be bringing Steph coffee unless it’s been noted on my Check List. But the first week of the internship is almost over, and I’ve barely spoken two words to Steph that weren’t “hi,” “bye,” and “does this say macaron or macaroon?” (Georgie has highly specific taste in desserts.) If I’m ever going to have a chance to get to talk to Steph, it’s going to have to be off the clock.
“Late night?” I ask, plopping on the green chair closest to her desk.
Steph eyes the elevator, but Georgie hasn’t come in yet. She leans forward conspiratorially, the blue in her eyes soft against the pale yellow floral of her dress. “Kind of.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Excuse you,” says Steph through a smirk. “It was a business dinner.”
“What kind of business?”
“A friend of a friend who’s kind of a…” I can see her deciding whether or not to name-drop, because I know that face. I’ve watched enough YouTube clips of interviews with performers to spot it a mile off. “Kind of a known name,” she settles for, “is trying to get a show off the ground, and wanted to cast some people for the table read.”
My emotional investment in Steph’s performing career might be misplaced, but I can’t help it. Not when she might be the closest I’ll ever get to squinting into a crystal ball and seeing my future. “And?”