After a beat, Emmitt nods, his eyes narrowed with focus.

I nod in satisfaction. “Great.” Then I walk away, moving down the street. There are a lot of girls my age lined up, tucked into their sleeping bags and talking to one another quietly.

When I’m across from DELIS 48, I rest my arms against the barricade, leaning forward curiously. “Who’s on SNL this week?”

Two girls look up at me, taking me in. I remember being annoyed when people consistently asked us what we were waiting for, but it seems I may be one of the first to ask, because they don’t seem too bothered. “Ariel Nova.”

I stare at them for a long moment, unsure if I heard correctly. “Ariel Nova,” I repeat, my voice half-hysterical. “As in, Oscar-award-winning actor Ariel Nova? From Amaryllis and In The Shattered Places?”

“Yeah!” one of the girls says eagerly, gesturing to her shirt, where Ariel Nova’s face is plastered. “He’s promoting his new movie with Firebrand Studios.”

Oh God.

Of all people, why did it have to be the most famous actor in Emmitt’s upcoming film? Ariel is playing the villain, opposing Emmitt as the main character. There are already pictures of them floating across the internet, from early promotional materials.

Behind me, Emmitt stiffens. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him slowly pull up his hood, shadowing his face from view.

“Thanks,” I say to the girls, offering a pleasant and slightly forced smile, before walking back to Emmitt. He was taking pictures of the line while I was talking, but now he looks hesitant.

“They’re not going to recognize you, inshallah,” I say quietly, but I’m not too sure. “You can keep taking photos.”

Emmitt searches my face, and I don’t know what he finds—maybe he’s choosing to trust me, like I asked him to earlier—but he nods. “Can you ask them for permission?”

“Yeah, definitely,” I say and return to the barricade once more, offering them another apologetic smile. “Is it okay if my—” I pause, trying to find the right word “—friend takes pictures of you guys? It’s for a photography contest.”

The girls look over my shoulder to where Emmitt is holding his camera to his face, taking a picture of the street signs.

“Sure,” one of them answers, her eyes drinking Emmitt in. I resist the urge to step in front of her. “But why didn’t he ask us himself?”

“He’s shy,” I say, though I’ve never met someone as forward as Emmitt is. “But thank you for your permission. Really.”

I turn and walk back to Emmitt. He looks at me in inquiry, and I nod. He gives me a grin, and someone behind me whistles lowly.

When I reach his side, I realize the girls I spoke to before are looking at us now. And so are the girls beside them.