We transfer to the 1 train and get off at the 79th Street station. The stores are mostly locked at this time of the night, but the signage is bright. I realize now that I’ve never technically walked home with a classmate before.

“So,” I ask as we walk. “How’s your mom handling the dog?”

“I think she likes him more than me,” Corinne admits. “Neither of us are dog people. And between the books, the bound thesis printouts from grad students, and the dog supplies, we’re starting to run out of space. I’ve checked the city restrictions online. We’re getting close to the fire hazard status.”

“Your mom’s a teacher, right?” I ask.

“Columbia,” Corinne answers distractedly, checking something on her phone. “Well, she was until last year. She’s Dean of the English department now.”

I become very aware of my face, controlling every muscle of it as best as I can. If there’s an eye twitch, Corinne doesn’t register it. How did I not stumble across Chantale Troy’s name during all those nights spent browsing the Columbia website?

Holy crap.

“Look!” Corinne says, snapping me out of it as we turn the corner to the Wyatt street entrance. “Forty-eight followers now! I had, like, thirty-two this morning. I guess I was tagged in a photo.”

“Congratulations.”

“I know you have, like, fifteen hundred, but this is still cool,” she grumbles.

Corinne smiles and pockets her phone. Two minutes ago I might have added that these numbers are utterly meaningless, and most important, followers are not friends, but seeing how happy Corinne is, everything feels different somehow. I guess it’s not every day someone who lives on the top floor looks at my life with envy.

“It is cool,” I acknowledge. “People liking you is a good feeling, regardless of the scale.”

We reach our building. Corinne is faster on the draw to get her lobby key out since, I realize, she’s been walking with her keys between her fingers like Wolverine since we got off the bus. Ma does the same thing: NYC late-night walking safety 101.

“Evie isn’t my girlfriend,” I answer her, finally. “We just—I don’t know—fool around sometimes. It’s a thing,” I continue, coughing awkwardly at the topic. “An understanding if you will.”

“Just hormones and an understanding?” Corinne nods pensively.

“Something like that.” I shrug, suddenly feeling like a case study.

“So, have you had sex bef—”

I quickly raise a hand. “Nope, stop. Again: reading the room is going to be essential to your journey.”

She shrugs and extends an arm at me. “Well,” she says. “Our deal is done. Congratulations. You’re off the hook.”

I take the handshake with some apprehension. “Really? You’re not going to . . . blackmail me into bringing you to every event and helping you become prom queen in a few months or something?”