City Love(24)

“No. You inspired me. I really liked your act.”

“That makes you entitled to a magician’s secret.”

“Sweet. I love secrets.”

“You can’t tell anyone. Magician’s code.”

I cross my heart. “Promise.”

He comes up close to me. His eyes pierce mine.

“Distraction,” he whispers.

“Care to elaborate?” I whisper back.

“The key to magic is distracting the audience. You want them to focus on something else while you’re working the trick.”

“How did you pull off that orange flag thing?”

“Sorry, that’s classified information.”

“Do I have to be a magician to find out?”

“No, but you might have to come out and see me again.”

Again with the piercing blue eyes. My heart skips a beat.

“That’s a definite possibility,” I say.

“How can we make it definitely definite?”

“Promise to tell me another secret next time.”

“Deal. I can also promise more witty repartee.”

“Then I’ll definitely be back.” I could totally hang with him all day. But it’s time to meet Rosanna at the arch. “Catch you later.”

“Looking forward to it.”

As I walk away, he reaches out to me. His hand brushes my arm for a second. A shiver goes down my spine.

“I’m Jude, by the way.”

“Darcy. Awesome meeting you.”

“It was awesome meeting you, Darcy.”

Jude is a good guy. He’s warm, outgoing, funny, and sharp as a tack. The kind of boy I’d fall in love with if I were still that kind of girl.

I’m proud of myself for laying some sweet game on him. There’s no reason boys should get to call all the shots.





TWELVE

ROSANNA


D CALLED ME FIVE MINUTES after I left the party last night.

Me: Hello?

D: Miss me yet?

Me: Who is this?

D: Donovan. D. The guy you were having a scintillating discussion about weirdos with?

Me: Oh yeah. That guy.

D: I wanted to make sure you’re getting home okay.

Me: Um, sure. My apartment is only a few blocks away.

D: Just watch out for weirdos.

Me: Will do.

D: So have you given any more thought to having dinner with me?

Me: You mean . . . in the last five minutes?

D: Specifically within that time frame, yes.

Me: I don’t know. . . .

D: Sounds like you might need some convincing.

Me: Convincing of what?

D: That you want to have dinner with me. I think you know you do deep down. But sometimes awareness has to be coaxed to the surface. Also, I’m not taking no for an answer.

Me:

D: Okay, why do I keep coming off as a creeper when I’m trying to be smooth? All I’m saying is this: I had fun talking with you and I’d love to see you again.

Me: Thanks. That’s . . .

D: Do you have plans tomorrow night?

Me: No.

D: Then you’ll have dinner with me?

Me: Yes.

So we’re going out tonight. I’m still not sure how it happened. One minute I was all prepared to let him down easy. The next I was too shocked to invent fictional plans.

I didn’t want to be flattered. But I was totally flattered.

On the way to dinner, I stop at an ATM for emergency cash. I really have to set up a new account at one of the major New York banking chains. One of them had a sign in the window offering a special promotion for signing up. I’ll go check that out tomorrow morning. There’s no way I’m going to keep getting slammed with withdrawal fees. Doing a mental calculation of grocery money for the weekend, I decide to take out twenty dollars. I tap in the amount and wait while the ATM whirrs. It spits out a twenty. I fold it into my busted wallet, then take my receipt.

The receipt says I have seventy-three cents left in my account.

Um. That’s impossible. I can’t have seventy-three cents left. All the money I have saved is in this account.

But that’s what the receipt says.

I moved to New York determined to make it work. Despite crunching the numbers before I moved and discovering that my camp salary would cover housing and not much else, I convinced myself that being frugal would prevail. I moved here refusing to be afraid. Of course I was still afraid. But I squashed that fear under the hope of creating a better life. Or I thought I did. Now I realize that I’m still afraid. Really afraid. New York City without money is a scary place.

Seventy-three cents.

This is happening.

Frozen in front of the ATM, I hastily wipe away tears. I’m mortified even though no one can see how much money I have left.

Breathe. You can do this. You’re getting paid tomorrow. Everything will work out.

Reminding myself that failure is not an option is all it takes to get it together. I fold the receipt into a tiny square and stash it deep in my bag.

D said we’re having dinner at the Waverly Inn. We’re supposed to meet at the bar in ten minutes. My stomach is in knots as I walk down Bank Street. When I researched the Waverly Inn, I found out it’s one of those überschmancy places that’s impossible to get into. Otherwise known as the polar opposite of my scene. The place will be packed with trendy hipsters. Probably even celebs. My wardrobe is not ready for this. I’m teetering awkwardly in the only remotely nice pair of shoes I have, which are sporting a loose right heel for this evening’s excursion. And of course my only decent top was ruined by Nasty Girl last night. I don’t own any dresses. Whenever I needed a dress back home, Mom would let me borrow one of hers. So I’m wearing my second-best top, which is so far below my best top in both quality and appearance that I’m embarrassed for D to see it. Maybe I should have taken Darcy up on her offer to enhance my wardrobe this afternoon. She wanted to buy me new clothes, but there’s no way I could have let her do that. We just window shopped in Soho instead. Picking out things I liked and pretending I could buy them if I wanted to was actually fun.