“My family is from the Dominican Republic. My parents were born here, but my abuela, my grandmother, was born there. She lives with us and made these tamales.”

Yaz picks off the tape holding the foil together with her long, bright green fingernail. The smell of corn and chicken hits my nose and wakes my stomach up. I watch as she peels the shell off and takes a bite. I do the same and the spice burns my nose, but the sweetness cools down my mouth. I want this moment to last forever.

“My family’s not rich like Riley’s, not even close,” she says.

I nod, thinking of the hedge-fund penthouse. “Same. I can’t imagine living like that,” I admit.

She unpeels another tamale. “But I will be someday. I’ll be rich and famous. And buy my family a big house.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

She leans back, resting her head against the wall. “Of course.”

“I heard your dad was some record producer,” I say.

She pauses, thinking. Finally, she says, “He’s not.”

“Why lie?” I ask.

“Because people at this school like rich people with powerful parents. They get all hot and bothered in proximity to fame or power or whatever. So I lied. But I’m trusting you with my secret now.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” I say, wondering if I should tell her mine.

“Thanks, Auggie.”

I sit back and think. We both walk around with lies to protect our image. Yazmin Guzman is opening up to me. Her attention feels intoxicating.

“Auggie,” she says in a cute voice. I still loathe Auggie, but do love hearing her say it. “Can I ask something?”

“Sure,” I say, on guard about what she’s about to ask.

She moves closer. “Can you not audition for Rizzo?”

I recoil. To the end of the bench. I didn’t expect that. “Chill,” she says, moving closer to me again. “Let me explain.”

I drop my shoulders and try to relax. She continues, “I want to be Rizzo.” She puts her arm around me. “And you could be my Kenickie.”

The temptation is so real, but my parents would not approve.

“What do you say?” She’s close enough to kiss me. “Will you be my Kenickie?”

“I’ll think about it,” I say.

“You do that,” she says, getting up and putting her backpack on. “I’m out. Talk later?”

“Talk later,” I say. She leaves me holding the tamales.

5:15 P.M.

The subway from SPA to Brooklyn takes about forty-five minutes. There’s only a small body of water between Brooklyn and Manhattan, but the two boroughs can seem like two different worlds. Brooklyn is calmer and slower—and cooler. Better thrift stores. Less-crowded sidewalks. Everyone looks so low-key hip without trying, even parents pushing strollers.