I chose the easiest complaint. “There will be photographers there who might see this as, like, my introduction to the . . . scene. Or whatever.”

“The scene?”

Wrong direction. She leaned forward.

“Are we talking, like, high society here, or . . . ?” At my expression, she slapped the bed. “Oh my God, we are. And this would be . . . what? Your debut? Holy shit, this is so happening!”

In fact, Jules was clearly so determined to ensure that this was happening that she skipped the second coat of paint on her left foot and immediately shimmied into gladiator sandals, dragging me behind her down the hall to her living room.

“I haven’t decided about this!” I laughed, stumbling in my worn-out penny loafers. “I don’t want to buy a dress for no reason.”

“The reason is so I can live vicariously through you, do not deny me, hi, Grams!”

Jules’s grandmother stepped out of the kitchen, holding a pile of mail. Her face lifted at the sight of me.

“Oh my God, is that Ruby Chertok? I’ve seen you go by, down on the street, but you’re so tall.”

“Yeah, she’s an Amazon, minus battle skills,” Jules chirped. “We’re friends again! All is right with the world!”

I snorted, but she wasn’t wrong. Nearly everything did feel right, including, improbably enough, the prospect of going dress shopping.

Out on the sidewalk, I turned to her. “What did you mean by ‘living vicariously’? You’re the one who’s out every night—”

“Not every night. Never anywhere nice.”

She walked faster, avoiding the conversation. I took the hint.

The truth was, pieces of Jules’s life that had felt to me like fun facts as a kid carried more weight now. Where my house was crammed with instruments, dusty books, and moldering antiques, Jules’s “trendy” mid-century furniture was chipped and faded from decades of actual use. She lived with her awesome bohemian grandma because her parents were addicts who couldn’t take care of her. Her mom had been born in that Central Park–adjacent house, grown up there, gone off the rails there, left her child behind there, and the rent had remained largely unchanged.

Our street was the same. Our lives were different. I needed to stop whining about party invitations.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked, the hiss of a stopping bus rattling me back to the here and now.

“Cravat.” She pointed up Columbus. “It’s a boutique on Seventy-fifth. Everything is, like, the tiny side of sample sizes, so . . . perfect for you.”

When we stepped inside the cheery, spare shop, a girl in the back perked up. “Hey, girl! Love those shoes.”

Jules kicked one foot behind her, posing like a pin-up. “You know where I got them.”

“Do you shop here a lot?” I asked.

Jules looked at me like I was crazy. “I work here.”