“Jesus.” Miranda pulled out an earphone. “You almost knocked me over.”
“Sorry, I didn’t see you.” Rose’s voice was higher than normal, weak. She was trapped, and only a couple of seconds went by before recognition flickered over the girl’s face.
“Rose.”
“Miranda.”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“I promised a neighbor I’d walk her dog while she’s away.”
The tough teenager from the park had transformed back into a kid. The makeup had been scrubbed off, and an oversize blue hoodie overwhelmed her thin frame. The rims of her eyes were red, but it was hard to tell if that was from crying or a heavy hand with the makeup remover. Her left hand was dug deep in the pocket of her hoodie. Hiding something.
Miranda stared at the ball of fur in Rose’s arms. “Can I pet the dog?”
“Sure.” Rose knelt down and put him on the floor of the landing, where he sniffed the air before placing a tentative paw on Miranda’s thigh.
“He’s cute.” She gave his paw a shake. “My mother won’t like the fact that you’re here.”
Rose resisted the temptation to say that she’d been here first. “This is the last walk,” she lied. “Then I’ll be gone. What are you doing here?”
The girl pulled an e-cigarette out of her pocket. “You want a hit?”
“What’s in it?”
“Vape. Tastes like cotton candy.”
“I don’t get it. Why don’t you just eat cotton candy instead?”
She rolled her eyes. “Jesus. You sound like Dad.”
“Yeah, I’ll try it.” Had it come to this? Fake smoking in stairwells with Griff’s kid. Anything to keep her talking and not snitching.
Miranda swung her legs around and held up the e-cigarette. Rose perched on the stair beside her and took a small hit, then made a face as the vapor rolled over her tongue. “Tastes like cotton candy that’s been dipped into a vat of chemicals.”
Miranda laughed and lifted the e-cig from Rose’s fingers. “You get used to it.”
“How are you, Miranda?”
“Fine.” She scratched at one of the tiles on the wall. It fell off easily, along with tiny flakes of plaster. “If you don’t mind being mental.”
“You’re not mental.”
“Oh, please. Like you have any idea. Don’t sit here with me trying to be cool so that I won’t tell them that I saw you. It’s too pathetic.”
She was right. Rose had lost her mind. “Look, I was trying to be nice. Your dad and I . . .” She trailed off. What was there to say?
“He dumped you. I heard.”
“What did you hear?”
Miranda gave a tense smile, pleased to have the upper hand. “Look. My father will never leave my mother now. And not because of my fucked-up problems. He used you as arm candy when you were on TV. Dating a hot future anchorwoman was good for his image back then. But for the job he wants now, he has to be a family man. Griff Van Doren has large ambitions. You were just a phase. A blip.”
The truth hit her with a thud. He needed his ex-wife’s connections if he was going to take City Hall. Connie’s family ran in the right circles, could influence his race for mayor. In ways both positive and negative.
Rose scooped up Bird and stood. “I gotta go.”
Miranda let out a guttural sigh. “Don’t be mad, Rose. Trust me, I’m on your side. It’s better for me if they’re split up. Easier to manipulate the situation, get what I want.”
They stared at each other for a moment. The girl’s skin was smooth, her lips so pink. She was just a troubled kid, yet Rose was standing in a stairwell listening to her as if she were some wizened old sage. Between the two of them, Rose wasn’t sure who was more screwed up.
“Miranda!” Connie’s voice echoed down the stairwell.
Without a word, Miranda rose and headed upstairs, her combat boots heavy on each tread. Only when the fire door slammed shut did Rose continue on her way.
CHAPTER TWENTY
New York City, 1952
The next couple of weeks passed peacefully, as Darby found a groove that allowed her to juggle her classes and hours of homework but still visit the club. She studied with Maureen and the twins on Monday and Tuesday evenings, and headed downtown after dinner on Wednesday through Saturday. Sunday was spent in bed, recovering. At the club, the first few hours were devoted to Sam in the kitchen, while Esme worked her shift. Mr. Buckley wouldn’t allow Sam to experiment with the menu any further, but he hadn’t raised a fit about his hijacking the kitchen, either. In the meantime, Sam was making great progress with his spice book, and Darby had promised to type it up for him once it was completed.
Even better, Sam had kissed her several times in the back alleyway. She might have allowed him to take it further, but they were never alone. The memories of being with him tantalized her as she lay in bed after sneaking into the Barbizon, waiting to drop into a dreamless sleep.
One Wednesday morning at Gibbs, her shorthand teacher called out her name. “Please report to Mrs. Tibbett’s office.”
Darby looked up from her desk, surprised.
“I’m sorry, why?”
“I don’t know the answer to that. She’d like to see you now.”
Darby stood up and gathered her books. She’d passed all her tests this week, albeit not with the high marks she’d been known for in high school. But still.
Mrs. Tibbett’s office looked down on Park Avenue, one of the few two-way avenues in the city. Cars lined up bumper to bumper at the traffic lights, tearing away when they turned green, only to stop again a few blocks later. Like an inchworm with tires instead of feet. If inchworms had feet.
Mrs. Tibbett gestured for Darby to take a seat.
“Miss McLaughlin, are you all right?”
Darby coughed. “Yes, I’m fine.”
“I’ve warned you before about your distracted behavior, and your teachers tell me that you’ve been having a difficult time adjusting. Is that right?”
“I did have a difficult time, in the beginning. But I’m enjoying class very much now. I think in the next month or so, you’ll see I’ve made real progress.”
“I see.” She looked down at a piece of paper on her desk. “Your scores are low. Very low.”
“Right. As I mentioned, I got off to a bad start. But I promise you I’ll make it up. I can do the work.”
“What exactly has been the problem?”
She was unsure how to continue. “It’s not what I expected. All the drills. I find it difficult to concentrate because the work is . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Dull?” Mrs. Tibbett’s mouth softened, ever so slightly.
Darby sighed with relief. Presumably, other Gibbs girls had experienced similar pains adjusting to the program. “I’m afraid so. It’s awfully repetitive. But I’ll get used it. I’m already getting used to it.”
“My dear child, not every girl can be a Gibbs girl. It takes a certain can-do-it-ness. It’s about serving others, not thinking of ourselves.”
Or thinking for ourselves. Darby didn’t say it out loud, just nodded.
“You may know that I sent a second notice to your mother last week, indicating that you were doing poorly. And after hearing from the other teachers during midterm conferences, we’ve decided that it’s best if you don’t finish out the year.”
Darby’s chin dropped. “I’m sorry?”
“You’ve been given many chances, but we don’t want to waste our time with a girl who shows up late and half asleep, performs badly, and feels she’s above the role of secretary. We think you’d be happier elsewhere.”
She’d walked into a trap.
“No, you don’t understand,” Darby sputtered. “I didn’t mean the work was dull, not at all. It’s my dream to be a secretary, and you see, my mother has spent all of her savings on my tuition. I can’t fail.” She imagined Mother reading the letter of expulsion, knowing that none of the fees were refundable, and a cold sweat enveloped her. She reached out a hand and gripped the edge of the desk. “You can’t tell Mother. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Please. Tell her that I’m still enrolled, that it was a mistake.”