“Nice ride,” I said, looking at it, a little surprised. Cary seemed like he was around my age, but then certain things—like riding a motor scooter around New York City—made him seem suddenly older, and like he was living a life outside of anything I’d experienced.
“Beats the subway,” he said with a grin as he pulled the helmet on.
“I bet.” I waved with my free hand. “See you around.” I turned and headed up the street. A moment later, Cary was standing in front of me—a little out of breath, as if he’d run around to be there. “Hey,” he said, glancing at his phone. “Listen. You still have a while before you have to be at the theater, right? When’s the show?”
“Eight,” I said slowly. “Why?”
“Well,” Cary said, “I mean, you could walk all the way up there and then… just wait around for two hours.” He arched an eyebrow. “Or.”
I laughed at his expression. “Or what?”
“Or you could hang out with me while I make deliveries, and then I’ll drive you right to the theater in plenty of time.” He gave me a hopeful, nervous smile.
“Oh,” I said, mostly to give myself some stalling time. Riding around on a scooter sounded like fun—and better than killing time in a pizza place or something that might not even sell me pizza because my bill was too big. But I had to keep my eye on the prize. I had to get to the theater in plenty of time. I didn’t want to be running in late. But I also didn’t want to be hanging around the theater in the cold for hours like a stalker.…
“What do you say?”
“I can’t be late,” I said firmly, and Cary’s smile became happier, the nerves washed away. “Like, I should probably be there at seven forty-five. Or even seven thirty. To be on the safe side.”
“Seven forty? Compromise?” he asked, and I nodded. “Okay,” he said, taking out his phone. “I’ll even set an alarm, so we don’t lose track of time.”
He showed me the alarm on his phone. “Good?”
I smiled at him. “Good.”
He walked back to his bike, unlocked the back compartment, and pulled out another helmet. He held it out to me and raised an eyebrow. “Want to take a ride, Kat?”
CHAPTER 13
Stevie
Half an hour later, as I limped toward Mateo’s dorm on 113th Street, I’d learned several things I hadn’t known before.
For one, heels were an evil, patriarchal invention, and I was never wearing them ever again. With Brad as my witness, I would spend all future dressy occasions in flats or boots and everyone would just have to deal with it. A blister had started forming on my right heel when I’d changed trains at Columbus Circle, and it was soon joined by a friend on my left toe that was throbbing and incredibly painful by the time I got off the subway. There were Duane Reades everywhere, and I was well aware they sold Band-Aids and blister pads, but I hadn’t wanted to break into my nineteen dollars. I needed to stay pretty frugal, in case I couldn’t get back into Mallory’s apartment. It would take me ten dollars to get a train ticket back home, and then I figured I could get a Stanwich Taxi with the rest. It would cost more than nine dollars to get to Teri’s, but I was sure I could borrow the rest from her to pay the driver. Of course, Kat had the hundred dollars, but Kat had left the subway, probably as soon as my train had pulled away, clearly not caring about what happened to me or how I was going to get home. So I’d just walked past the brightly lit drugstores, cursing the very invention of heels and also wishing that I’d done a better job of breaking these shoes in.
The second thing I’d learned was that everyone was friendlier if you had a dog with you. As soon as we emerged onto the street on the Upper West Side, random strangers were smiling at us as we passed, or pointing out Brad and saying how cute he was. And like he understood, he started strutting. When two girls who looked college-aged saw Brad, they immediately started cooing over him, and I took the opportunity to ask for directions to Mateo’s dorm. They told me where to go, and after they’d both taken selfies with Brad (he seemed pretty skilled at it, giving strong looks right to camera), I’d been able to find it, only getting turned around one other time.
There were fewer big buildings here, more sky, and Columbia gear in store windows and on people passing me on the street—the school’s name visible on hats and sweatshirts under open coats.
And the third was that if you look vaguely college-aged, you can, apparently, get into a dorm in New York City. Mateo’s dorm was pretty intimidating—the building was white sandstone with columns, and when I pulled the door open and stepped inside, I could see there were chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and a round desk in the center. But the desk was empty, a handwritten note on the top that read Gone for dinner back in 5.
Since asking some kind of official person to call Mateo for me—and at least tell me where in this building he lived—had been my plan, I was a little bit at a loss.
But then the door opened again, and two guys walked in, both wearing COLUMBIA CREW sweatshirts under open jackets. They walked over to the elevators, and I followed, hoping that maybe they could help me.
“Um,” I said, taking a deep breath and trying to tell myself that even though these were cute college guys who rowed crew, there was no reason to be nervous about talking to them. (Kat had a theory that the cutest college guys rowed crew, and when I tried to tell her this was entirely based on The Social Network and not even college guys who rowed crew looked like Armie Hammer, she would not be dissuaded. Also, who knows, they could have been tech crew. The sweatshirts were not very specific.) But I tried to tell myself that they at least would probably not try and rob me, so I could count whatever came next as a net win. “Do you guys know Mateo Lampitoc? He lives in this dorm?” My voice went up at the end, and I mentally rolled my eyes at myself. I was trying to break the habit—if I was going to clerk someday for a Supreme Court justice, I couldn’t be using upspeak. “He lives in this dorm,” I said again, dropping my voice lower than I probably needed to on the last word.
“Matty? Sure,” one of the guys said as the elevator doors slid open and I lifted Brad a little higher and hobbled in. I’d noticed he’d started panting a little, like he’d been doing on the train, so I was thinking that maybe different forms of transportation in general just made him nervous. Which was nothing to be ashamed of, really, I reasoned as I rubbed my hand over his head, pushing his ears down again the way he seemed to like. He was a very small dog, and there were fully grown humans who didn’t like elevators or trains. “He’s on the fifth floor. Five… C?”
“Five D,” the other guy corrected as he pressed the button for the ninth floor.
“Cool,” I said, pressing the button for five. “Thank you.”
“You’d better keep the dog out of sight,” the first guy said to me as the doors slid closed again and we started to move upward. “The Raptor’s on the warpath.”
“Ugh, really?” the other guy asked with a deep sigh. “Do you think he’ll make me get rid of my pizza box collection again?”
“He should,” the first guy said, shaking his head. “Because it’s disgusting, and there’s no way it can be hygienic.”