Metaphor, I think but don’t say. “I don’t know what my dad would say about hustling a classmate.”

“Oh, bullshit. You absolutely know what your dad would say.” He chuckles, settling back behind the counter. “And yet you’re here talking to me.”

I think about the hunger Dad always talks about. You need that hunger in this world. Heck, this entire city is a weird ant farm that proves that fact every single day. Who makes the food, standing on their feet all day for less than the legal minimum wage (because “go home if you don’t like it”); who delivers the food, biking it across icy sidewalks in thirty-degree weather; and who collects it at the door without tipping because the sashimi was three minutes late. Whenever I ride the subway past “116th Street, Columbia University,” I don’t want to find myself with a sinking feeling in my stomach, thinking what could have been.

But.

There’s Haltiwanger Hunger, and then there’s eating your friends alive like a weird quicksandy swamp. And somewhere between Corinne blackmailing me and saying good night to her on the steps of the Wyatt last night, she somehow fell into the friend category.

On the ride home, I get a video from Lion. It’s a New York I never see. A few seconds in, I realize that it’s the view from the rooftop of River Heights, filmed through Lion’s grainy phone. Even with the poor resolution, it’s absolutely stunning.

Nine

“Check your phone,” I say, sidling up to Corinne, causing her to jolt like a possum.

She frowns, looking suspicious, but her face immediately lightens up when she sees the photos of Palm Tree I took this morning.

“I figured you’d want to see him at full cuteness. He’s always the hit of the park.”

“That’s adorable, thanks!”

I see her save the photos on her phone, but she stops smiling as soon as she runs out of photos and casts me another glance. “Did you want something else?”

“You’re very suspicious of people,” I note.

Afua and Isabelle, two friends of Evie, nod at me as they walk past. I wave back. There’s nothing conspicuous about it, but something about their shared smile makes me think that I should follow up with Evie.

“As per your recommendation,” Corinne says, “I’ve now seen enough movies to know that one of the most popular guys in school being nice to me out of nowhere sounds some pigs’ blood alarm.”

“I’m not the most popular guy in school,” I scoff, leaning against the lockers. “Am I?”

She bites back a comment and settles for giving me a side-eye equivalent of a Bitch, please.

“I’m not being self-deprecating. I’m like number seven. Tops. There’s Oliver, Abdel, Marvyn . . . John-Paul . . .”

“You keep track?” she asks.

“Obviously.”

She laughs, shaking her head.