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“I’m just grabbing something from my dad’s office,” she said, but she didn’t move. “What’s going on?”

I took a deep, calming breath. I couldn’t make it look like I was unhappy or stressed-out. Not in front of the boss’s daughter. Also, I couldn’t tell her that her dad forgot his anniversary. What if she went back and told her mom? I’d definitely get in trouble. “Your dad asked for my help planning a surprise anniversary party for your mom. I just . . . I have a lot to do for it, and I’m not entirely sure where to start.”

Her eyebrows popped up, and her mouth widened into a perfect O of surprise. “Where to start? Julie, planning parties isn’t as easy as people sometimes think it is! You should’ve gotten started earlier!”

I gritted my teeth. “I know.”

She glided to my side, the scent of her flowery soap filling my nostrils. “Don’t stress out. Stress only makes things more difficult. Here, let me help.”

Help from Emerson Leigh? I couldn’t help thinking of my five-year-old niece asking to help when my mom cooked lunch for the family. Yes, it was adorable watching her mix up her bowl of ingredients, but there was usually twice as much flour flying all over and sticky things stepped on and tracked everywhere.

But before I could tell her I didn’t need her help, Emerson Leigh was pointing at my list with one polished pink fingernail. “For the restaurant, I’ll call Haversham’s on the Upper East Side. My mom loves their brunch food, and they have a nice private room in the back with this parrot portrait she just adores.” She picked at the finger. “And she already has a Swarovski crystal parrot, but I know this hot up-and-coming artist who would rush-paint a parrot picture for her in exchange for my dad buying a big piece later on. Everyone will love that.”

I goggled at her for a moment before remembering that, right, she’d been her sorority’s party planner. “Wow. Thank you.”

She beamed at me. “You’re very welcome.” Then plopped down on my desk, treating me to an excellent view of her crotch. “It’s going to be tough to get good invitations printed at this short notice, but here are some ideas . . .”

Over the course of the next hour, Emerson Leigh tackled basically the entire party. The things she said she was too busy to do or couldn’t handle, she wrote down in a color-coded list for me. I estimated that it would take me maybe a couple more hours. “This is amazing,” I said. “You’re so good at this.”

She hopped up and dusted her hands together. “Why do you sound so surprised? I’m good at a lot of things. Like making actual dogs do downward dogs.”

“Right.”

She disappeared into her dad’s office and emerged a few minutes later with a stack of framed photos in her arms. I’d looked at them enough times while in Mr. Decker’s office to know that they featured him with all sorts of prominent figures, from Joe Biden to Hillary Clinton to Mitt Romney to George W. Bush. (Mr. Decker played both sides of the aisle.) I didn’t ask, but Emerson Leigh explained anyway. “I’m doing research on celebrities and political figures to see who has pets so I can try and get one of them interested in my business.”

For once, I was kind of sorry that she didn’t hang around a little while longer.

13

Sunday morning found me waking up at eight o’clock even though I didn’t need to leave my apartment until eleven. As Marcus snoozed away in the other room, I rubbed my usual tinted moisturizer on my face and some highlighter on my cheekbones. Usually after that, I didn’t do much more than sweep some mascara on my eyelashes. I liked to tell myself—and sometimes my followers—that I didn’t want to distract from the food, but really I just didn’t like the feeling of too much stuff on my face.

But today I darkened the outside of my eyes with eyeliner, swept what I hoped was a complexion-flattering gold eye shadow up to my brow bone and dotted on a little bit of white at the inside corners of my eyes (the video I watched said it made your eyes look bigger), and pursed my lips for a rose-colored lipstick. Nerves jangled in my stomach as I regarded myself in the mirror once I was all done. My face looked like an accentuated version of its usual self, every feature highlighted, but it didn’t look like art. Not like Jada’s face did.

My worry was interrupted by Marcus banging on the bathroom door. “I’m going to pee in the kitchen sink if you don’t hurry up in there.”

The makeup had taken longer than I thought it would, but I’d fortunately done the hard work of picking the perfect outfit the night before. Jada tended toward floaty, feminine, sparkly clothes, and I had quite a debate with myself out loud (and with Alice over text, who could not have been more clear about how much she didn’t care) about whether I should try to imitate Jada or do my own thing as usual.

I looked down at my blouse and dark jeans. Admittedly, my blouse was a little fancier than my usual sweaters, with a cinched waist and puffed sleeves. But maybe I’d gone in the wrong direction. Would I look good enough next to Jada Knox? Did I feel good enough? Did I ever feel good enough? Did anyone ever feel good enough?

I sighed. This is not the time for existential questions. But my phone beeped, reminding me that I had to leave right now if I didn’t want to be late, so good enough it had to be.

I didn’t spend a lot of time on the north edge of Central Park. But as I sat there trying to read my book without being able to focus and just people-watching instead (for the first and probably only time ever, the subway had actually delivered me somewhere ahead of time), I got to see firsthand how beautiful it was. The flowers and elaborate statue fountains of the Conservatory Garden. The turtles sunning themselves on the shores of the Lake. The Frederick Douglass statue standing majestically in the middle of traffic. So, when it came time to meet Jada beside that statue, I actually had something to say besides Oh my God, thank you.

She was easy to spot in her long gauzy white skirt and sparkly red crop top. Diamonds winked at me from her belly button and her ears, which, since she’d pulled all her braids back into a high ponytail, were on full display. They were delicate, shaped like seashells.

Julie, stop being so weird about her ears. No matter how beautiful she is.

She was already talking and smiling at the same time, something that had taken me ages to be able to do without looking like I was constantly grimacing. “Julie, so nice to meet you!” she said, coming in for a hug. She smelled a little bit like the ocean. “Thanks for coming out with me today.”

“I should be the one thanking you!” I said, then remembered that I’d planned to start off with something else. “It’s beautiful up here. I walked around the Conservatory Garden before we met up, and it was like being on an old English estate.”

“I’m glad you like it up here!” She smiled at me. “I love that collaboration you’ve been doing with the reviewer at the Scroll. I’ve pushed for ages to do something like that with one of the major critics, but they snubbed me.”

I gaped at her as we began walking. I had no idea where we were walking to, but I’d follow her anywhere. “They snubbed you?”

She shrugged. “Yup.”

“I’m just surprised,” I said. “You’re the big name in New York food reviews on social media. You have, like, four hundred thousand followers! You’d think they’d all be jumping at the chance to link up with you.”