“Um. Miles,” I say. I know Mary Clarkson has famously been an advocate for legalization. Maybe she’s stoned.

“No, I mean your essay.”

It takes me a second to remember the weird essay I had to write to get this apartment. My eyes widen. “Wait . . . that went to you?”

“Always invest in real estate. That’s my best piece of advice.” She thinks for a second. “Also, third act problems are almost always first act symptoms. But that may not pertain to you.” She gives me a firm tap on the shoulder. “Hmmmm. Muscly. Good writer. Handsome. You might do very nicely for her.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I think I really ought to Google her and make sure she hasn’t recently been accused of erratic behavior. Mary Clarkson is a national treasure and we are all responsible for making sure nothing terrible happens to her.

“Her, uh, who . . . ?”

She nods her head in the direction of Zoey’s door. “Don’t be a star-bellied sneetch. Invite her to a frankfurter roast.”

“A star-bellied—?”

“Seuss, PhD, the early years, originally printed in Redbook magazine, though I assume you’re more familiar with the collection it appears in, the aptly named Sneetches and Other Stories?”

I have a vague memory of some cautionary tale about snobbery on a beach or something, but I don’t have the guts to ask whether a “frankfurter roast” is metaphorical. Before I can form any other words, she saunters away, tossing a “See you around, kid,” behind her back.

“Bye,” I say in a daze.

Mary. Freaking. Clarkson.

I take a second to collect myself before I practically skip out the door and across the street to Café Crudité, visions of mermaid costumes dancing in my head. As soon as I’m close enough to see past the glare, I spot the telltale arm warmers through the big picture window and grin. Even the bell that goes off when I open the café door seems to sound extra jaunty as I walk over and plant myself in front of Zoey. She seems to be absorbed in her work so it takes her a second to notice me.

When she finally looks up, I say, “You actually know her.”

“Um, hi,” she says. “And what? Who?”

“Mary Clarkson!” I say. “I saw her come out of your apartment. You weren’t kidding about knowing her.”

Her eyes narrow. “Why would you think that I was?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “She’s just . . . Mary Clarkson.” I flail my arms as an ineffective way to give those words their due significance. “And I thought maybe it was just part of our banter or something.”