Taylor’s whole body flushes with shame for having ever made fun of Willa, for calling her trailer trash. This new knowledge doesn’t excuse the way she behaved back then, but the middle of a thrift store doesn’t feel like the right place to apologize. Or maybe she’s too embarrassed to do it.

“Madelyn Davies is the worst,” Taylor says instead.

Willa laughs. “Right? But that’s not really the point. I hated the way people talked about me—as though being poor is the most awful thing you can be—so I decided to give them something else to talk about. If I always looked great and my clothes were on-point, they couldn’t laugh anymore.”

“A very good strategy,” says the white-haired lady behind the cash register. She’s rocking a buzz cut with red Harry Potter–style glasses and a giant silver stag’s head pendant. She reminds Taylor of her maternal grandma, whose favorite saying is from a Dylan Thomas poem that goes “Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” Grandma drives a Corvette convertible and takes her miniature schnauzer nearly everywhere she goes, even to places where no dogs are allowed.

“You wear this dress, darling,” the shop lady says to Willa. “And I guarantee no one will be laughing.”

“Thank you.” Willa’s cheeks dimple as she smiles, then turns to Taylor. “So, what’s for lunch?”

“It’s Sunday, so . . .”

“Please say tacos, please say tacos, please say tacos.”

Taylor laughs as they head to the door with their purchases. “I’m thinking . . . tacos.”

“It’s like you read my mind.”

They find a hole-in-the-wall taqueria selling dollar tacos—crunchy chicken for Taylor, soft al pastor for Willa—which they eat while walking up Broadway. Taylor takes pictures of the Empire State Building and the triangle-shaped Flatiron. They snap a touristy selfie in Times Square, then window-shop their way along Seventh Avenue to Central Park. They pass a line of horse-drawn carriages waiting for fares and take pictures with a white horse named Rosie. Inside the park, Taylor sinks down on the grass beneath the shade of a leafy tree and kicks off her shoes. “My feet are killing me. I’m definitely taking my bike to Kent so I don’t have to walk across campus.”

Willa stretches out on her stomach, propping her chin on her hand. “Have you gotten your housing assignment yet?”

“They’re supposed to be out in the next couple of weeks,” Taylor says. “What about you?”

“Not yet, but I haven’t checked my mail since Oswego, so . . .”

“You don’t sound very excited.”

Willa shrugs. “I guess I am.”

“But you’ve been working your whole life for this.”

“That’s kind of the problem.” Willa stands and slips her feet back into her shoes. “We should take the subway when we go back to the boat.”