I must have fallen asleep for a while, because suddenly it was dark and Mister Cat’s girlfriend, the Siamese Hussy, had started calling from across the street. Mister Cat yawned and stretched and was over at the window, giving me that look: It’s my job, what can I tell you? I opened the window and he vanished, nothing left but his warm-toast smell on my blouse. There were a couple of dogs barking, but it didn’t worry me. Mister Cat never has to bother about dogs, not in New York, not in Dorset. It’s the way he looks at them, it’s magic. If I knew how to look at people like that, I’d be fine.

I was thinking Sally might come in—she does sometimes after we’ve had a fight. But she was on the phone in her bedroom. I couldn’t make out any words, but I knew she’d be talking to Evan half the night, same as practically every night, buzzing and giggling and cooing just like all the damn Tiffanys and Courtneys in the halls, in all the stairwells, with their Jasons and their Joshuas and their Seans. So I flopped back in bed, and started thinking hard about what I’d say to Norris tomorrow, to keep my mind off what Sally and Evan were probably saying about me right now. And I suddenly thought how Norris used to sing me a bedtime song, a long, long time ago. The way we did, he’d sing one line and I’d have to sing the same line right after him, and each time faster, until the two of us were just cracking up, falling all over each other, yelling this gibberish, until Sally’d have to come in to see what was going on. I was still trying to remember how the song actually went when I fell asleep.

Mister Cat wasn’t back when I got up. Sally was already up and dressed and running, because Wednesdays she had to be at the Brooklyn Academy of Music by eight to teach a class in accompaniment, and after that she had four voice students and a part-time job playing rehearsal piano for some friend’s dance company. We slid around each other in the kitchen, nobody saying much, until Sally asked me if I wanted to meet her and Evan for a late dinner downtown. I said thanks, but I thought I’d go over to see Norris after school, and we’d probably be eating out ourselves. I don’t think I was nasty about it, just casual.

Sally was casual, too. She said, “Maybe you ought to call him tomorrow. He just got in from Chicago last night, so he’s likely to be pretty beat today.” She and Norris don’t see each other much, but they talk on the phone a lot, partly because of me, partly because in the music world everybody knows everybody anyway, and everybody’s going to have to work with everybody sooner or later. They get along all right.

“I just have some stuff I want to ask him,” I said. “Like could I keep on going to the same school if I was living with him? Just stuff.” Okay, I was being deliberately nasty, I know, I can’t lie in my own book. And yes, I still do things like that, only not so much now, not since Tamsin. I honestly don’t think I do it so much anymore.

Sally turned and faced me. She drew in her breath to say something, and then she caught it and said something really else, you could tell. She said, “If you change your mind about dinner, we’ll be at the Cuban place on Houston, Casa Pepe. Probably around eight-thirty.”

“Well, we might float by,” I said. “You never know.” Sally just nodded, and reminded me to lock up, which she always did and I always did, and then she took off. I hung around as long as I could, hoping Mister Cat would show up before I had to catch the bus, but he didn’t. So I finally had to close the window, which I always hated, because then he’d have to be out all day. Mister Cat didn’t mind. Mister Cat’s too cool to mind.

I wanted to call Norris early, because you have to give him time to get used to new things, like seeing me when it wasn’t his idea. And I wanted to line up dinner, because if there’s one thing my dad can do it’s eat out. So during homeroom break, I ran across the street to a laundromat and got him on their pay phone. He said, “Jennifer, how nice,” in that deep, slow, just-waking-up voice that probably drives women crazy. He is the only person in the world who calls me Jennifer—never once Jenny, even when I wouldn’t answer to Jennifer, not for months. Norris is incredible at getting people to be the way he wants, wearing them down just by being the way he is. It works with everybody except Sally, as far as I know.

“I was hoping I could come over after school,” I said. I still hate the way I get when I talk to my father. As well as I know him, as much as I keep thinking I’ve changed, and if he called right this minute, while I’m writing, I’d sound like a fan, for God’s sake— even my voice would get sweaty. Norris must have been expecting me, though, because he hardly hesitated at all before he said, “Absolutely. I’ve been wild for you to see the new place. There’s even a guest room for weird daughters, if you know any.”

“I’ll check around,” I said. “See you about four. Somebody wants the phone, I have to go.” There wasn’t anybody waiting, but I didn’t want Norris to pick up my anxiety vibes. He’s really, really quick about that—he knows when you want something, almost before you know. But I remember I felt hopeful all the same, because of the guest room. Because of him mentioning the guest room.

At lunch I sat with Jake Walkowitz and Marta, like always, since third grade. You couldn’t miss our table—Jake’s tall and freckled and white as a boiled egg, and unless he’s changed a whole lot in six years he probably still looks like he goes maybe eighty-five pounds. Marta’s tiny, and she’s very dark, and she’s got something genetic with one shoulder, or maybe it’s her back, I never was sure, so she walks just a little lopsided. Then you add in me, looking like a fire hydrant with acne, and you figure out why the three of us always ate lunch together. But we liked each other. Not that it matters much when you’re stuck with each other like that, but we did.

I don’t make friends easily. I never did, and I don’t now, but it doesn’t matter anywhere near the way it mattered in junior high school. New York City or Dorset, when you’re thirteen, you’re not even yourself, you’re a reflection of your friends, there’s nothing to you but your friends. That’s one of the things most people forget—what it was like being out there every day, thirteen. I guess you have to, the same way women forget how much it hurts to have a baby. I used to swear I’d never forget thirteen, but you do. You have to.

Anyway, when I told about Sally and Evan, Jake shook his head so his huge mop of curly red hair flew around everywhere. He said, “Oh boy, oh boy, Evan McDork.” I felt a little guilty when he said it, because I knew that far back that Evan wasn’t any kind of a dork, even if he was wrecking my entire life. But that’s what I called him then, so that’s what Jake and Marta called him, too. Jake said, “So your mom’ll be Mrs. McDork, and you’ll have to be Jenny McDork. We won’t even recognize the name when you write to us.”

“And you’ll have two instant brothers,” Marta put in. “Lucky you.” She and Jake kept looking two tables down, where one of her brothers—I think it was Paco—was glaring at Jake as though he was about to start ripping Marta’s clothes off. Marta’s got four older brothers, and every time you turned your head, in school or anywhere, there’d be some sabertooth Velez keeping a mean eye on her. I don’t know how she stood it. They never used to be like that, not until we started junior high.

“I’m not changing my name, I’ll tell you that much,” I said. “And I’m not going to England either.” I told them how I was going to see Norris right after school and get him to let me move in with him. Jake sneaked another look at Paco and scooted right away from Marta until he was hanging on to the bench with about half his skinny butt. He asked me, “Suppose it doesn’t work out with your father? I mean, let’s just consider the possibility.”