“You say that like it’s uncommon.”

“And the laughs keep coming. If you’re done…”

“I am,” Scarlett said.

“I actually do need you. It’s incredibly important.”

“Did you get the part?” Scarlett asked, sitting up and taking notice.

“You will only know the story if you come and meet me in the park at four. By the Mad Hatter statue.”

THE SCENE PARTNER

For a day that started off with no real prospects, this was turning into a whirlwind.

First, there was a subway ride uptown to the hotel, dragging Marlene all the way. She rattled off the prearranged “I just ran into them on the street” story to her dad, which was accepted without comment. Marlene looked murderous, but she didn’t contradict it. Scarlett changed her clothes and sailed through her chores—washing sheets, sweeping the lobby, breaking down the grocery delivery boxes for the recycling, wiping down the brass fixtures in the elevator, vacuuming the second floor hallway. She made it back into Lola’s dress and to the park just in time.

A few minutes later, Spencer came barreling along, illegally cutting across some grass, on his scrappy, duct-taped-covered bike. He was glistening with sweat when he stepped off and dropped it on the lawn.

“Did you get it?” she asked.

He couldn’t answer for a minute, because he had grabbed the water bottle off his bike and guzzled half of it back with such force that the other half ended up running over his chin.

“I just rode all the way up from the East Village in about ten minutes,” he said, putting his head back and taking a deep breath. Then he wrapped her in a huge, sweaty hug, dripping water on her from his chin. This was answer enough.

“Where were you when I called?” he asked. “And why are you wearing that dress?”

“Lola lent it to me. And I was just having lunch at the Algonquin Hotel.”

“Of course you were,” Spencer said, releasing her and sinking to the ground. “I must have forgotten your normal Tuesday schedule. The other guy, my scene partner, is on his way up. I have to be off book in two days. You’re going to help me learn my lines, right?”

“Don’t I always?” she said.

“Yeah, but it’s been a while. I thought maybe you changed your policy or something.”

Spencer pulled out a copy of Hamlet from his messenger bag and started leafing through it.

“Take you me for a sponge, my lord?” he asked.

Scarlett turned.

“Take you me for a sponge, my lord?” he asked again.

“No,” Scarlett said.

“That’s one of Rosencrantz’s lines. I don’t know what this means. Maybe it makes sense if you read the play. Maybe he turns into a sponge.”

“I think that’s what Hamlet’s about,” she said. “People who turn into sponges. Oh…I have a guest. In my room.”

“You met him? Her? It? Them?”

“Her. She took me out to lunch. She gave me this to run her errands.”