Thankfully, for Megan’s sake, we all found seats, and we were only a few stops from our destination.

As she sat rocking side to side with the motion of the express train flying through tunnels, Megan plugged into her music and closed her eyes.

“Sweetie? Are you all right, honey?” her mother asked, concerned that her daughter wasn’t joining in with our chatty conversation about movies and TV shows we could think of that were filmed in real or fake New York subway systems.

“Not counting those holiday movies you’re always watching,” Lily said to Trina.

“No fair!” She grinned.

“I’m okay,” Megan said, hanging on to the pole for dear life. Then she squinted her eyes. “Is that . . .”

We all followed her gaze. There, sitting on a seat wearing headphones, was a celebrity influencer we all recognized.

“It is,” Megan breathed.

“Down here with the masses,” Riley pointed out.

Megan’s whole attitude shifted. Hopefully, this meant she’d be more pleasant over dinner, I thought.

“Welcome to the legendary Greenwich Village!” said Vanessa with a flourish as we exited the subway and made our way aboveground.

We oohed and aahed our way around the neighborhood, exploring the shops, the architecture, and the epic people-watching.

“Now, this is my type of area,” said Megan, admiring the uniqueness of everything she laid her eyes on. “Fancy.”

“Does that mean the subway trip was worth it?” I teased her.

“Duh, of course,” Megan said. “All real New Yorkers take the subway.”

It was good to see her feeling better. Even if that meant I’d have to keep a sharp eye and ear out for her shady remarks.

“Well, when you try the food at the restaurant we’re going to, you’ll agree it was all worth it,” said Vanessa.

And she was totally right. I’d never had Turkish food before. The chicken kebab plate I ordered was so good! Like, how could I have made it through life without this deliciousness? I felt like calling my parents and demanding they answer that question. I pulled out my phone to take a picture of my food. Then I paused.

I’d missed two texts while we were underground: from my dad and from Zora asking me how New York was. Which made me realize: Eliza still hadn’t returned my text messages. I’d sent her three. In the first one, I’d asked where she’d gone. I mean, I’d thought she’d wait for me to finishing taking those team photos. But when I’d looked up, she’d disappeared. The next text was to send her a link to an article posted on a dancers’ website about the nationals that featured a photo of Dance City midperformance. And the third text was sent just to ask her if she was okay. It wasn’t like her to ghost me like that.

She really must’ve been ghosting me on purpose.