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I’m too busy thinking over whether or not to bring them scones as well and nearly crash right into a man with a huge camera hanging down round his neck in front of my building.
“Oof! Sorry. Didn’t even see you there,” I say, sidestepping out of his way on the sidewalk as he blinks in surprise.
He makes some sort of noncommittal response and then I’m off, walking down the street toward my subway stop. I’m only half a block away from my building when I glance across the street and see another photographer standing there, though this time he’s got his camera poised in front of his eye and he’s snapping away, aiming his lens right at me, or at least in my general direction. Odd. I turn over my shoulder, wondering what he’s taking a picture of. The building behind me is quite derelict and not something I’d usually stop to admire with its crumbly bricks and rusted iron bars covering the windows. It’s not exactly Kensington Palace, but then again, I’m no artist. Maybe he sees beauty there that I’m blind to.
“Sorry for blocking your shot!” I shout, scurrying along to get out of his way.
He probably stood there all morning trying to get just the right light for his photo and then I strolled along and mucked it all up.
The subway is crowded as usual, so I huddle in a corner, standing and holding on to a leather strap hanging from the ceiling so I don’t go barreling forward into my neighbor when we take a harsh turn.
An older man dressed in a business suit is standing near me, though instead of holding on to a strap for dear life, he’s just casually reading the newspaper. What a proper New Yorker. He’s quite good at surfing along the subway line while he turns the pages and continues reading. The front page of the paper catches my eye. He’s reading the sports section of the Times, and there’s a huge photo of Logan taking up the top half of the page. He’s sitting on a bench in his football gear while a man kneels at his feet, tending to an injury from the looks of it. The headline reads: LOGAN MATTHEWS’ CAREER-ENDING INJURY.
I gasp and cover my mouth with my hand, drawing the attention of the businessman.
He follows my gaze, folds down the top half of the newspaper to see the photo I’m looking at, and then laughs.
“Don’t worry. They love to sensationalize everything. From the sound of it, he barely hurt his ankle yesterday during a practice.”
“Oh thank god. Poor Logan.”
The man looks at me like I’m quite queer, and I suppose he must think I’m some kind of superfan or something. What a laugh it would be to tell him that Logan and I are actually friends. More than friends, maybe, depending on this meeting I’m about to have.
I tug out my mobile while I’m walking from my subway stop to the café, and I type out a text to Logan.
CANDACE: Just saw you in the newspaper! Hope your ankle is all right! XOBut I stop myself before I send it, not wanting to bother him. Judging from how his mobile looked on Sunday night, it probably gets blown up all day, and I don’t want to add on to that. Not to mention, if I saw him in the newspaper, that means loads of other people saw it too and are now probably reaching out as well.
With a sigh, I pocket my mobile and push open the door, focusing on the task at hand.
It’ll be a delicate matter, dealing with Mrs. Halliday. In the last few months since I took my post at The Day School, I haven’t broken any staff rules, so I haven’t had very many dealings with her. Just brief hellos and goodbyes in the hallway, quick chats whenever she pokes her head into my classroom—that sort of thing.
When I show up at her office with the lattes and scones in hand, I’m embarrassed to find I’m quite nervous, hands shaking and everything.
I ask Laura if she’s in, and this time I’ve lucked out. No dental appointments to contend with.
“Come in, Candace! I’m free,” Mrs. Halliday bellows through the open door to her office before Laura can answer me.
After passing one drink and scone off to Laura, I walk in with Mrs. Halliday’s treats outstretched in front of me. She beams when I offer them to her.
“For me? You shouldn’t have!” She smiles before accepting her drink and scone gladly. Then she takes a sip of the latte. “Mmm, it’s extra sweet. Now this is a good bribe.”
I nearly croak. BRIBE?! Is it that obvious?
“I had them add some vanilla,” I respond in an awkward high-pitched voice, trying to throw her off my scent.
