“Same.”

“We could study together,” Ava proposed.

Nat had three hours until her next class. “Good idea.”

The pair made their way to the library and found it packed. Clearly, they weren’t the only students trying to cram more than a month’s worth of information into their brains in a matter of days. The women moved to the student center and found it less crowded but exponentially louder. An improv club was holding a rambunctious meeting that made concentration impossible.

“We can go to my place,” suggested Ava. “I live in Chelsea. I’ll make tea.”

As they scurried west across chilly Twenty-Third Street, Nat wondered about her companion’s background. The beautiful clothes, the salon hair, the apartment in pricey Chelsea. They all added up to a rich girl. Nat’s middle-class upbringing had imbued in her a mistrust and mild resentment toward the wealthy. When her dad lost his accounting job at the manufacturing plant, he’d blamed his boss. That rich prick was out to get me from day one. This attitude was subtly reinforced by her mom and Derek, who rarely failed to make a snide comment about anyone who appeared to be financially thriving. Must be nice, they’d sniff, whenever a neighbor got a new car or a boat or took a tropical vacation. But this was New York. It ran on money. Wealth was to be admired, not sneered at.

Ava led the way into a tall upmarket apartment building where they were greeted by a weathered doorman who looked more suited to captaining a fishing boat than opening doors in a posh co-op.

“Morning, ladies.” His accent was familiar. Brooklyn.

“Hi, Pete,” Ava said, as they breezed past.

Inside the mirrored elevator, Ava stabbed the button marked PH. Nat refrained from gasping, but a penthouse in Chelsea? Even a tiny studio would have been way beyond Nat’s budget. How rich was this girl?

Her query was answered the moment they entered Ava’s apartment. It wasn’t a huge space, except by New York standards, but it was undoubtedly high-end. The unit had an open-plan living room, a designated dining room, and a sleek, modern kitchen. It appeared to have been professionally decorated, but Ava was artistic, stylish, creative. She may have personally chosen the low, slate sofas; the leather-upholstered wing-back chair; the creamy wool carpet with its subtle geometric design. But who had paid for it?

Ava led Nat past the smoked-glass dining table into the kitchen with its modern, top-of-the-line appliances. “Tea?” she asked, reaching for the stainless-steel kettle.

“Yes, please.”

As Nat watched her host fill the kettle and place it on the gas range, she thought of her own shabby kitchen and her own stove. It was scuffed and stained, two of the four burners inoperable. When she’d first moved into her run-down apartment in Bushwick, it had seemed quaint, charming, full of character. But now, in her classmate’s upscale pad, she realized it was simply a dump.

“Nice place,” Nat said, trying to sound casual, or, at least, not awestruck.