A couple of our friends we’ve known forever shout that they have to catch the bus but that they’ll call us later so we can all get together. I wave back, even though I know that while they have included me, they really mean they are going to call Rose. Which is why, instead of turning her invitation down, I say, “You know what? Sure. I can study today.”

The bridge will be there later, but unless I’m careful, Rose might not.

The clouds are thick and misty gray as we walk to her building. It sits on a block that has been completely redesigned by the City Pride Department. All the buildings and flowers and the occasional tree by the curb complement each other. Rose lives on the top two floors of a five-story building created out of off-white stone and rose-gold steel—a modern twist on the older architecture in this part of town.

Even with rain threatening, the colors chosen for the building make it appear as if it is almost glowing from within. The whole street has that same warm feeling. While I love my neighborhood, with its redbrick bungalows and cobblestone-edged sidewalks, this area helps me understand how effective the City Pride Department’s work can be and how creating this kind of environment for everyone really does improve lives.

Rose uses her key to activate the elevator, which shines in metal of the same hue as the outside of the building. Rose pushes 4, and moments later we are walking into the beautiful red-and-white living room. Art screens filled with various covers of Mrs. Webster’s fashion e-zine grace the walls, along with a colorful rendering of the Chicago skyline that I watched my mother create years before.

“I’m sorry,” Rose says from behind me. “I should have come up first and shut that screen down.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.” I shake my head and stare at the strokes that so vividly brought the city to life. My mother had given Mrs. Webster a canvas version of the same image. Part of me wonders whether she turned it in to the government-recycling program, the way most people have done with their old art. I hope not. I turn away from the screen and try to smile. “Can we study while we eat?”

For the next several hours I almost feel as if time has turned back. We make sandwiches and work at the sleek black kitchen table while we eat her brother’s stash of corn chips that he thinks no one else knows about. And we study. Longer than I would like, but Rose is a taskmaster. She forces me to read her essay on how designating English as the national language helped foster cooperation and a sense of shared identity. Then she drills me with writing prompts for my English Composition class tomorrow. The slamming of the front door causes us both to look up. And when Isaac appears in the kitchen doorway and lets out an annoyed sigh, I am glad to tell Rose that I have to get home.