"Seriously though, I am telling you that I very nearly died. Do you even care at all?"

Noah laughs at that and tugs on my arm so that we stop walking for a minute. "Evie, darling," he says, adjusting my scarf, "I am ever so grateful that you are still alive. But are you sure that you didn't really die? I mean, to be saved by Rafe Archer. You must be in heaven." Noah sighs emphatically, pretending to fan himself as I roll my eyes.

"Noah Covington! I, unlike you, am not crushing on Rich Boy Archer!" Stalking off in false exasperation, I grin inwardly, knowing that his apology is coming any second.

"Oh Evie. I'm sorry. I won't say another word about it. Okay? And I'm not crushing on Archer." But a wicked smirk betrays him. "You are".

*

It's been a few days since the "Astoria Eviction" occurred (as Noah and I are referring to it by) and I am yet to find a suitable study spot. Noah says that I am wayyy too persnickety and that I should just go to one of the school libraries. I don't want to tell him the truth about how claustrophobic I feel surrounded by hundreds of students I don't know, so instead I just mumble yeah, maybe I am persnickety, but it doesn't change the fact that I am still without the perfect place to do my homework. We're walking together on the pavement, arms looped, threading our way through the oncoming rush of Astorian housewives, all dressed in designer activewear with tightly coiled up yoga mats hanging off their arms, as they make their way to a 9 AM Pilates session. As we pass The Henley Hotel, I pause to stare wistfully at the gorgeous Steinway grand piano in the foyer and long to play it. It's been forever since I last so much as touched a piano. A boy sits at the stool before it, his fingers dancing across the keys. His dark hair almost the same colour as the black keys of the piano. As if sensing someone watching, he ceases his playing for a second, catches my eyes and winks. I flush and clutch Noah's arm even tighter.

Eventually, we make it to Robinson's Bookshop, a quaint store with a kind of old fashioned charm and musty grandeur about it. It's also my place of work. Well, one of them anyway. From 9 AM to 12 PM on Tuesdays, as well as a few hours after class most afternoons, I work here. It's peaceful, quiet, empty of crowds and filled with books. The 'perfect place to study' as Noah says, and although I agree that it is a good place to get my homework done, nowhere is better than the Astoria Library.

But the bookshop sure does beat my scrubby little studio apartment. You get what you pay for, I guess. Although the rent isn't exactly cheap. It never is in Astoria; I was very lucky to find an apartment that I could afford to live in but it meant that I'd have to pick up an extra job, so in addition to working at the bookshop, I tutor a few students from the Astoria High School on the side, and that gets me enough money to pay the bills and rent as well as sustain my millennial lifestyle of soy spiced chai lattes every morning with Noah.

Noah leaves me on the doorstep of the bookshop and I tell him good luck for the date with the boy he's meeting. He laughs and winks. "Do I need it?" He calls out, and then he's swept into the cold mist and I enter the bookshop. Mr Robinson is in the back sorting out some new orders and I greet him, handing him the coffee that I picked up for him, as well as his glasses which I know he is about to ask if I've seen. His eyes crinkle as he takes both the drink and the glasses and he smiles.

"Oh Evie, what would I do without you?" The hours pass quickly enough. We do get a few of the yoga ladies who come in with the intention to buy a new selection for their reading club but spend twenty minutes gossiping and eventually only purchase a few cookbooks. No doubt, they'll be back tomorrow to actually buy some scintillating reads for the month. Other than that, business is slow, as it usually is. I finish off editing my Oscar Wilde essay and make a checklist of the remaining homework I have. At 12 PM, on the dot, Noah walks into the bookshop, the little golden bell above the door signalling his arrival, and we walk to the University together. Stuck in the endless banality of schools and schedules, I daydream about the day I finish my degree. In reality, I don't know what I expect to do with my life. Maybe become an anthropologist, or perhaps a historian or museum curator in a science museum or something - pfft who am I kidding; according to the internet, there are no long-term career options for someone with an arts degree- but I still don't quite know what I am doing with my life yet.

As I'm staring out the window, I hear the lecturer say my name and I immediately snap to attention. She's reading out the names of all the students who are present. After my incessant daydreams, I have no idea what's happening in my history class and I hesitantly look to the girl beside me, a person who I wouldn't exactly call a friend or an acquaintance, but something in between. She notices my raised eyebrow and whispers that we have a partner assignment that is worth fifteen percent of our mark for the semester. I start to panic a bit. What if I'm with someone who does no work at all? Even worse, there is an odd number of people in our class! What if I'm by myself? But I forget to think about the worst possibility of all. What if I am with somebody I absolutely despise?

The lecturer reaches for little slips of white paper with famous historical figures on them. "Henry Avery," she says. And then she pulls out two more pieces of paper. "Evangeline Leger and..." she drags the 'and' out dramatically, "Rafe Archer". Of course.

*

As the class ends, I hurry to catch up to Archer who stalks out the door without saying a word to me. "Rafe!" I shout after him several times before he turns to me and viciously spits out "What?!" Seriously? Did his parents not raise him right or something? Surely Archer Senior, the CEO of Archer Enterprises taught his only child some manners. Nevertheless, my parents taught me manners, so I remain polite...ish.

"Dude! Are you for real? Did you not hear anything that was just said in class?" Nevermind that I missed most of it too. Not that anyone noticed, I hope. Unfortunately, Rafe is a little more observant than he seems.

"Actually dude,"  he says, mockingly, "I did catch everything, unlike some people. And the project isn't due for months."

Oh. How awkward.

Time to cover up my mistake. Raising my chin defiantly, I attempt to control the blush that has coloured my cheeks. "I know that." Pffft. "But I want to get it done as soon as possible. I mean, seriously? I don't want to have to spend all my free time for the next few months with you! Let's just get it done!"

Rafe raises his eyebrows superciliously. I've noticed that he does that a lot. Ohmigosh. How do I know that? How much time have we been spending together?!

"Fine."

"Huh? That's it? Fine... no witty rejoinder?"

Rafe responds with an expletive two word sentence and I laugh.

"Very Oscar Wilde." I smirk and then I leave. Obviously, I know that we haven't agreed on a ... date. A study date obviously, to discuss Henry Avery. But Rafe's gonna have to suppress his ego and call me, or meet me or something. If I'm stuck doing a group project with him for months, Rich Boy Archer's gonna have to suffer at least a little bit, and if that means he's gotta swallow his pride and ask me for my phone number or whatever, then so be it.

*

Twenty minutes after my Archer Encounter, I'm having lunch with Noah who, due to our weird schedules, has no classes today. We're sitting in the gazebo in the Japanese gardens and sharing the leftover Pollo e Avocado pasta that I made for dinner last night. After finally persuading him to move on from any more discussions about Rafe, Noah is lamenting his disastrous date. Apparently the boy he met was "Not cute whatsoever, unlike your Archer, Evie darling".

He cuts off my sputtered protests to morosely declare that the boy "Jimmy or Josh or something," was extremely rude had an outrageously poor sense of style and that the entire premise of the date was utterly hopeless. I pat Noah's shoulder sympathetically and, to perk him up, tell him that we can go shopping this weekend. Well, window shopping in my case. I don't have the seemingly unlimited funds that most Astorians have. Noah, on the other hand, is both an Astoria native and the son, no, scion, of the Finnish fashion goddess Natalia and the renowned British photographer Nile Covington, two of the most respected fashion magazine editors and photographers of the world, respectively. Fashion is in his blood. (Perhaps even literally- he once told me that as a child, he'd thought those Anya Hindmarch stickers were actual bandaids!) He's an aspiring fashion designer and already has an internship secured with La Maison de Viktor & Rolf next year. Even though he does have some pretty stellar connections -in addition to his parental situation, his sister Nova was just on last month's Vogue España cover- he does work really hard, and his designs are breathtaking. A cross between the exquisite tulle daydreams of Giambattista Valli and the effortless class of Dior haute couture. He is determined to make his dream of becoming a creative designer come true. His designs are beyond gorgeous, how could they be anything but? And he is so sure of his future that sometimes I envy him. But it's very hard to dislike Noah. He's so kinda and accepting and he is probably my closest friend right now. Not just in Astoria but probably in the world. He dramatically twirls his fork in the fettuccine and sighs.

"Oh well. There are an infinite number of better dressed fish in the sea." He winks, I smile and we finish eating the pasta before I dash off to meet my students.

*

Madeleine Duvall and Lucas Montague are going to be detectives one day. They already have a name of their agency ready -Duvall and Montague Investigations today. Last week it was DM Detective agency, but I thought that sounded like an anonymous instagram tip off page- and a very fine gold embossed business card that Madeleine presents to me with a flourish when the butler opens the door of her parents' manor house to let me in. I suppress a giggle noticing that Lucas is wearing an actual monocle and Madeleine is wearing one of her father's smoking jackets. They are obviously joking, playing the part of their little detective personas but they truly cannot wait to be adults. However, right now, they're both fifteen years old and stuck in high school. Even though their parents are very supportive of their career aspirations, they've made it very clear that their children must fly through school with As in every class, and that's where I come in. Although both extremely bright and clever kids, they were practically flunking English when I first met them due to their absolutely ghastly teacher, Mr Montgomery. A world renowned chess player and famous cellist, Astoria High was desperate to acquire his services. Unfortunately, all that time devoted to musical and sporting endeavours left very little time for his students. Fortuitously, (even if I do say so myself) my tuition has proved invaluable to Lucas and Madeleine (and, uh, how can I say this politely... very valuable for me; because of my pupils, I can actually afford to splurge on avocado toast brunch with Noah every week!) and they are no longer failing English but topping their class. Twice a week I meet with them. Thursday afternoons at Montague Manor and Tuesdays at Duvall Manor.

When I'd first moved here, I'd been very anxious to not only meet my students but also hesitant to meet them at their homes. I'd never set foot in a 'manor house' before, but eventually I got used to it. The Duvall and Montague families are not snobs, much to my (prejudiced) surprise. And after working with them so closely for the last couple months I've grown to adore Lena and Lucky. Initially, they seemed so different! Luke's caramel brown skin and coal black hair juxtaposed Lena's pale features and straight blonde hair immensely but that was where the contrasts ended. They were both extremely outgoing, charismatic to the point of near manipulative (but in a cheeky kinda way), and seriously intelligent. They'd already solved a few "detective cases" in the last year and Madeleine often boasted that they'd solved a murder mystery. I wasn't sure what to believe, but honestly, with these kids, I wouldn't be surprised.

We're discussing Gregory Peck's intentions in To Kill a Mockingbird when the rain starts. It buckets down endlessly and I resign myself to the fact that I am going to have to walk home in it. I have no doubt that Madeleine's parents will repeatedly offer to let their chauffeur drive me home, or that Luke's driver will try to drop me off but it feels wrong to accept a ride. I don't know. I guess it's not just accepting a ride. It's more than that. I don't belong here in Astoria. And to be carted around in a 1954 Bentley R-Type Continental makes me feel like I've taken off my typical unflustered, unbothered cool girl persona mask to swap it for another one. A different façade to convince people that I am an Astorian. I don't want that. Because I most certainly do not feel like an Astorian. And I don't want to live somebody else's life... that thought troubles me immensely.

And that is why I end up walking home. Caught in a torrential rain with nothing but a flimsy black umbrella to battle the hurricane-like winds with. Thankfully, I did wear a hooded jacket today, otherwise Madeleine's mother would have forced one of her gorgeous bespoke Burberry trenches upon me. It's not that I dislike these designer things, it's just that I feel like I'm playing a contrived role when I wear them. Like I'm defying my own morals. And if remaining true to oneself means stumbling home in a flood then I'm okay with that. Kinda. (Yeah, nah, not at all.)

It takes nearly an hour for me to reach my apartment and by that time, I feel as if I will never truly be dry. But I comfort myself with the thought of a hot shower. Honestly, sometimes nowadays it feels like the only thing I'm living for is showers.

I fish my keys out of my satchel and shove them into the rusted keyhole of the front door of my apartment, eager to escape the rain. Madeleine's often told me that kids in her class think that the place is haunted. And yeah, I guess it does look that way. The paint is peeling off the elaborate Tudor style façade and there is an unkempt tangle of ivy that creeps up the side of the building. It's not a very homely kind of place but I guess it is my house. Also, it's actually more affordable than the dorms in the university. Home sweet home. Bashing the front door shut behind me, and leaning back on it, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. I just lie against the door for a minute and try to think about nothing at all, before climbing the battered staircase and tumbling into my apartment. As scrubby and dilapidated as the building is, I do like it. It's my one anchor to normalcy in this alien community. Its run down exterior doesn't even try to disguise itself as an Astorian. If I were braver, maybe I'd do the same -actively rebel against Astoria's social expectations (by like, actually protesting, and not just jaywalking.)

I remember that I'd meant to video chat my parents tonight and after a quick shower in which I attempt to lather and scrub away the events of the day, I collapse on the couch and dial my parents. Since I am such a peasant, I don't actually have wifi in my apartment. I have to make do with leaning as closely as possible to the West wall of my living room where I can, uh, piggyback on my neighbour's Wi-Fi. In my opinion, anyone who doesn't have a password on their Wi-Fi is practically asking to have someone else hitch their signal.

Anyways. Cross legged and leaning against the wall, I open my laptop up and am almost instantly met with the chirping dial of my parents video chatting me. The lights flicker out and my screen glitches as the storm rages outside, harsh droplets of rain lashing against the wide window. In the darkness that follows a flash of lightning, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass. The girl that stares back at me is pale, anxious. I blink hard, wiping away that nervousness and replace it with a confident smile. I give the girl in the window a flirtatious wink, albeit a forced one, before the lights come back on. Then my screen unfreezes and my parents' smiling faces greet me. They're sitting in the kitchen, shrouded in a warm yellow glow and they start peppering me with questions instantaneously.

"Eva! You haven't called in so long! Are you okay? How are you? How's school? How's Noah? How's work?" Even though the weather has got me feeling a little bit gloomy, I can't suppress the smile that tugs at my lips as my mother and father continue chattering like excited birds. They really are very sweet. After answering the majority of their questions, I interject to query them about their lives. The bakery's going well. My father has been experimenting with a new macaron recipe and my mother has started drawing plans for some new biscuits with an Autumn leaf design. I do miss the bustle of the bakery, sometimes. Even the perpetual smell of flour and the way that I'd always find a light dusting of it on my clothes after helping my parents out. We talk for nearly an hour before my father yawns tiredly and expresses his need to go to bed as it's "another early day in the bakery tomorrow!" And he says goodnight. My mother and I talk for a while longer before I muster up the courage to ask the question that's been at the forefront of my mind all evening.

"Have you seen Kiki?" A sorrowful expression washes over my mother's face straightaway.

"Oh Evie. I visited a few days ago. But Flower, you need to let go. You know what happened."

The use of my mother's pet name makes me a bit teary. My parents thought it was cute to have a daughter who worked in a bakery nicknamed 'Flower', or 'Flour'. Kiki thought it was quaint too. But that was before The Fight. Even though the last thing she had said to me was that I was her "sworn arch-nemesis" and that she never ever wanted to see me again, that she'd rather die than see me again, I still missed her. It's hard to let nearly two decades of friendship go like that. I open my mouth to reply. I'm not even sure what I want to say, but before I can even let the words tumble out of my mouth, the screen glitches again, the lights flicker and then the electricity dies.

The videochat shuts down on my laptop and the Wi-Fi symbol disappears from the top of my screen. I close my laptop and lean my head against the wall, enveloped in darkness. But I don't mind the dark. It means that no one, not even my reflection, can see me cry.