“If you’re worried about me blowing your cover, I’m not going to,” she finally says. “I told you: you’ve fulfilled our contract. You have nothing to worry about.”

“I know.” And actually, I do know—but the chance to tease Corinne Troy weirdly got me out of bed this morning.

Truth be told, I’ve been spending more and more time with Corinne Troy.

I like spending time with Corinne Troy.

I like Corinne Troy?

No, too much. But we live in the same building and attend the same school; in hindsight, it’s almost strange that I did not notice her more before. It’s not just when picking up Palm Tree for his morning bathroom walks. I find myself noticing her pink hat everywhere these days. That pink hat of hers stands out quite sharply in the wave of students pouring out of the school at the end of the day and even occasionally on the subway ride home too.

I also have to admit that Corinne is . . . a pretty surprising human being as a whole. There is something about her that is dangerously unpredictable. You think you’ve got her completely figured out, accidentally launching her into a diatribe about the uglier, brushed-over parts of American history—which seems to be a particular area of interest of hers—and suddenly, she’ll be up on her feet and holding the subway doors open with both elbows to give turned-about tourists time to hop back on the train after they realize they’ve gotten off at the wrong stop. And when a Finance Bro in a fleece vest and EarPods scoffs loudly at the wasted seconds, she’ll throw him that silencing and distinctively Troy glare of hers. “The trick is to let them fear you might have razors in your hair and be ready to go absolutely off on them,” she whispers when she plops back into her seat, resuming a point about the Elaine, Arkansas, Massacre of 1919. I wonder how many simultaneous tabs she keeps open in her brain. It’s hard not to look forward to whatever she blurts out next.

“Okay, so . . . did you want something in particular?” Corinne now says, proving my point exactly.

“Not really,” I say.

“Well . . .” She slams her locker shut. “Want to grab lunch?”

“You’re asking me to lunch?” I repeat.

She nods as if processing. “Lunch,” she repeats. “Popular kids do eat, do they not? Or is eating not cool?”

I laugh. “Lunch is cool. There’s a halal cart one avenue block away. You can practice your new social skills by trying not to kill someone that stands in line in front of you for twenty minutes and still doesn’t know what to order when they get to the counter.”