“I’d better still have some hot water in there,” he adds in that tone he uses to put his foot down and that never sees any actual dropping of said foot. Dad’s just a big softie at heart.

Sorry, Dad: the hot water is a distant memory for another half hour.

Maybe Ma is not entirely wrong when it comes to my bathroom grooming habits—although, I take exception with the word “preening”—but there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s a necessity when you attend a school like FATE and occasionally frequent parties thrown by the likes of Evie Hooper.

Evie’s parents live in Tribeca, and her version of “a small hangout” is usually a full-blown, unsupervised bacchanalia. Fashion matters there. Her friends use these parties as occasions to cut loose and break away from the purple-and-gray uniforms. Everything is branded and shiny and aims to make the impression that our FATE uniforms can’t. Having money is not noticed at these parties, but not having it is.

After a scalding shower, I opt for a simple white T-shirt—label-less but by choice—and my big guns: my turquoise Jordans. A limited edition that somehow made it from Switzerland, where they were released, to a serendipitous fire sale at an East Village sportswear store going out of business last summer. Ming offered me three hundred dollars and his two firstborns to try to pry them from me. I only occasionally wear them to keep the magic alive, even though I would have them on all the time if I could.

I open the bathroom door.

“Finally!” My dad throws up his hands.

“Worth every second.” I grin at my reflection. “Bye, Dad! Enjoy your throne!”

“Home by two a.m., Henri!” Dad growls. “I mean it!”

“Love you too, Dad!”

Ming is already waiting for me at the Chambers Street subway station, eyes on his phone and wearing a plaid shirt with rolled-up sleeves and a popped collar. He is one of those kids who just effortlessly has a closet of branded items gifted to him by his parents that he can reach into and pick from when he gets spontaneously invited to one of these.

“Hello, my pretties.” He grins, greeting my shoes by actually bending down to speak softly to them as if they were babies in a stroller. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Stop talking to my feet, dude,” I say, motioning for Ming to bend his head while I un-pop his collar.

“Too much?” he asks, still letting himself be fixed.

“Entirely. We’re not time-traveling to 2008.”

Ming wasn’t explicitly invited, but he and I come in a pair; Evie knows that by now.

“So, Corinne Troy,” he asks. “How did that happen?”