“Don’t do it,” says Lachelle immediately, raising the glass to her eye again and squinting. “Three months ago, I did party invitations for one of the Real Housewives and it was a nightmare. Three redos from the time I started the job and I didn’t even see anyone get a drink thrown in their face. What a waste.”

“It’s not a Real Housewife,” says Cecelia, moving to peek over Lachelle’s shoulder. She hums approval at the practice Lachelle has already done. “I could tell.”

“She didn’t give you a name?” I don’t know why I’m even asking. New clients are not part of the plan, not until I make my deadline.

She looks over at me, shakes her head. “She left the name and number of her assistant. Said to call anytime.”

“Oooh, an assistant,” says Lachelle. “Yeah, definitely call her.”

“She seemed nice,” Cecelia says. “I don’t think she’d throw a drink in anyone’s face. She’d probably pay a lot. If she’s some huge star, it could be a big deal for you.”

“Yeah, I’m—” I pause, make a show of gathering my things while I gather myself. I haven’t told Cecelia yet about what I’ve been working on, especially since—given my gummed-up creativity—it may not come to anything. “I’m probably too swamped right now,” I finish, and it’s about as convincing as my denial about not having a date. Lachelle gives me that same mouth-purse.

“You’re sure?”

I cross my bag over my body, smooth down the front of my dress. No patterns, in case they make the situation with Reid worse, who’ll probably be back to the debate team thing today. A short-sleeved T-shirt dress, an emerald green that Sibby always says looks nice with my light brown hair, a denim jacket over top. Probably I should’ve considered whether the various enamel pins and buttons I have decorating the front pockets will be a distraction. One of them says Keep NYC Weird, which I’m guessing Reid won’t find hugely endearing given that New York’s weirdness has to be numbers one through one hundred on the “Reasons Why He Hates It” list.