THIS BAKERY ISN’T MUCH BIGGER THAN MY GROSET, but smells a zillion times better. I huddle with Ari and Jamie at a wobbly table in the corner as Camden brings us espresso and a plate of powdered, sugary-looking lump-things.
“To this year and next year,” he says once he sits, raising one of the tiny white espresso cups.
We toast and I drink. Holy crap. I didn’t know a year could taste so bitter. But it’s cool, our being here. I take a little photo of it in my head and post it on an imaginary social media page only I can see. Look! You’re doing something interesting with people you like a lot!
Jamie’s phone buzzes and he digs it out of his pocket. When he looks at the screen, he frowns a little, then puts it back in his pocket. Takes a sip of espresso. Then he takes the phone out of his pocket and stares at the screen again.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “Uh . . . my mom, asking annoying questions I don’t know how to answer.”
Jamie swivels in his seat so his back is to us and starts to type. Eventually he turns around, lets out a deep breath.
“Sorry about that,” he says, flashing me The Grin. It’s because of this grin that I’m in this micro-bakery right now. It’s the grin I want escorting me into tomorrow and next year.
Something on the floor catches Ari’s eye. She bends down and comes back up with a small flowered tote bag in her hand.
“Uh-oh,” she says.
“I’m guessing that doesn’t belong to those guys,” says Camden, indicating the two super-old men at the only other table in the bakery.
I take the bag from Ari and peek inside. There’s a wallet, makeup bag, and fat manila envelope. I pull out the wallet, holding it as gently as I can, as if showing someone, or maybe the wallet itself, that I mean no harm.
“We should give it to the guy at the counter,” says Jamie. “I’m sure someone will come looking for it.”
The guy at the counter looks like he wants to curl up somewhere and sleep for a week. I picture him emptying the wallet and tossing it in the trash. If he were a character, I’d name him Monty.
“Let’s see if there’s a name here,” I suggest, opening the wallet. There’s a little bit of cash, mostly dollar bills. I go for the cards and find a driver’s license.
Shelby Dearden, it says. The address is in Brooklyn.
I dig some more. Shelby Dearden has loyalty cards for three different drugstores and two fro-yo places. This girl gets around. I dig deeper into the card compartment and underneath all of that, find a couple of business cards. Shelby Dearden, they say. Member, Actors’ Equity. And there’s a phone number.
“Aha!” I say, holding up the card.
Outside the bakery, where it’s quieter, I dial the number on my phone.
“Hello?” a woman answers.
“Hi. My name is Kendall and if you’re missing a bag, I have it.”
There’s a pause. “What kind of bag?” She sounds wary.
“A tote bag with flowers on it. It has your wallet and an envelope—”
“Oh my God!” she says. I hear rustling on the other end of the line. “I am missing a bag! I thought I’d slipped it inside a big shopping bag but it’s not here. And you found it? Where did you find it?”
“At the Ambrosio Bakery,” I say.
“I was there earlier. My God, that bag has a friend’s play manuscript in it, with all my notes. I just got home to Brooklyn . . .” She pauses, and after a few moments of silence I wonder if we got disconnected. Then she says, her voice strange and soft now, “But I can come back. It would take me maybe forty-five minutes. Can I meet you somewhere?”
I look in the window of the bakery, at Ari and Camden and Jamie idly sipping their espressos. We are young and sort of stupid and planless and it’s New Year’s Eve. We have three hours to kill before we can go to Emerson’s party. Finding a bag and not stealing its contents and calling the owner, that doesn’t feel like a big enough kindness to count in the dare. That’s just me, being raised well and acting on instinct. If I’m going to finish this, I want it to be with an action that feels deliberate.
“We’re going to what?” asks Camden after I go back inside and tell them my idea.
“Go to Brooklyn. Bring this bag to its owner. Her name is Shelby.”
“That’s a long way for a good deed,” says Ari. “Can’t we just leave it here for her to pick up?”
I don’t know how to explain to them that I need to do this. I believe in the universe poking us in the ribs, and I believe in the way Shelby Dearden’s voice cracked out Thank you when I told her I’d bring the bag to her apartment. If he were here, Max would be totally on board and in fact, he might have suggested it, if I hadn’t thought of it myself. I can see him, already on his phone looking at a subway map, navigating our route.
I can see him, and totally wish he were here, and wish I didn’t wish that.
“Is this important to you?” Jamie asks.
“Yes.”
“Okay. Then I’ll go with you.” He turns to Camden. “We’ll meet you guys at Kendall’s brother’s place.”
“Sounds good,” says Camden, and I give him the address.
I gather up Shelby’s things and put them back in the bag, arranging them the way they were when we found it. When Jamie and I step out onto the sidewalk, it really does feel different, being on our own without Ari and Camden. I can’t decide if it’s a good different or an awkward different.
“Shelby gave me directions,” I tell him. “We head that way to the F train.”
He takes my hand. I let that slight tug pull me closer to him, and then I kiss him on the cheek. It’s quick, on purpose, because I don’t want it to last long enough to take on meaning.
“What was that for?” he asks.
“For getting it,” I say, and he lights up with a smile.
We eventually find the F train station but a train has just left. I lean against a stanchion and Jamie’s phone rings.
“Hey, Max,” he says as he answers, his voice suddenly serious. Then he takes a few steps away. I can still hear him perfectly. “Can we talk another time? . . . Yeah, of course I’m concerned. What do you want me to do about it?”
There’s a pause.
“Me? Why don’t you do it?”
Another pause.
“Yeah, but we have, like, five months left of school together. I don’t want that kind of drama.”
Jamie listens, then holds the phone away from his ear. Then he touches the screen to hang up and puts it in his pocket, walks back to me.
“That was Max, but we got disconnected.”
“Uh, yeah, I just saw you hang up on him.”
Jamie smiles. Shrugs. “Exactly.”
The train thunders in.
It takes a while. After we leave Manhattan, I don’t recognize the stations’ names anymore. I open my notebook and start writing down names for the people, as if they were cats. Precious. Tiger Fluff. Misty.
Finally, we’re off the train and climbing stairs into sunlight again, then we walk to Shelby’s block. She said she lived in a basement apartment, which means one of those doors tucked underneath a brownstone’s steps. All the windows on street level are barred, and I wonder if there was ever a time when they didn’t have to be.
“Must be the next one,” I say, pointing to the numbers on the buildings.
I step up to the door and touch my finger to the brass lion’s head knocker. Fancy.
The door opens before I can use it, and there’s Shelby Dearden. She’s tall and blond and thin and striking. The kind of person who turns heads on the street, even in New York City. She’s wearing a black cocktail dress and knee-high boots, and looks so fabulous a part of me instantly hates her.
“My heroes!” she says, smiling wide. “You must be Kendall. Come on in.”
“Thanks. This is Jamie.”
“Nice to meet you. Happy New Year.”
Jamie and I step inside. The apartment looks like something out of a home furnishings catalog. A nice couch, a beautiful rug, puffed-up throw pillows, plus neatly framed photographs and art prints on the wall. The most unnerving thing is that Shelby Dearden seems familiar. Like, really familiar.
“I can’t thank you enough for doing this,” she says.
“Have we met before?” I ask. “I have a bunch of older brothers and I feel like maybe you know one of them.”
Shelby laughs. “I certainly might. But I get that a lot, because of the commercial.”
“Oh,” I say.
“Tangy Ranch Crispo-Chips,” she says, like that’s a normal thing to just state, unattached to other things.
“Yes!” exclaims Jamie. “That ad is hilarious!”
In an instant, I can picture Shelby Dearden on a bus stop bench, a bag of Tangy Ranch Crispo-Chips in her hand. She’s scarfing them down, getting crumbs all over her chin and clothes, and she’s not wearing a black cocktail dress but a dingy sweat suit. A series of young, good-looking guys take turns trying to hit on her, clearly turned on by her chip-scarfing. That ad’s been running for years and some people even quote it. No wonder she can afford a nice apartment in Park Slope.
“So you’re an actress?” I ask.
“Trying to be. My career’s sort of on hold at the moment.”
Shelby tucks her long, shiny hair behind one ear and eyes the tote bag in my hand.
This is the horrible thing: Suddenly, I don’t want to give it to her. Suddenly, I wish someone else had found the bag and stolen the eleven dollars out of it, then thrown the rest in the trash. Because women like her are used to others doing things for them, scrambling for their approval. That’s the power attractive people have in the world. I bet she’s had guys fighting over her in real life.
But I hold out the bag and she takes it.
“Again, I’m so grateful,” says Shelby. “You have no idea how much it means to me that you came all the way here.”
“No problem,” I say, keeping my voice flat. Letting her know her powers don’t work on me. “We should probably be going now.”
Shelby nods, but looks sad and her lower lip pouts. “You’re welcome to stay for a bit. My upstairs neighbor’s coming over for dinner. There’s more than enough food for more guests.”
Jamie’s face lights up. “That would be . . .”
I grab his arm. “. . . Lovely, but we’re supposed to meet up with some friends at a party.”
Jamie shoots me a look. “We can go over whenever. There’s plenty of time to hang here for a bit.”
“I’d really like to thank you for what you did,” says Shelby.
But I don’t want to give up time on New Year’s Eve so I can make Shelby Dearden feel better.
“I hope someday, someone does the same for me,” I say, and rewrap my scarf around my neck. I’m hoping this is a polite, final no.
Jamie shoots me a look, then glances at Shelby, who does appear disappointed. Whatever.
“Can I take a selfie with you?” he asks her. “I’m a big fan of your commercial. And your chips.”
Shelby laughs and nods. Jamie steps up to her and she puts her arm around him. They pose for a shot with Jamie’s phone.
I’ll ask Jamie to send the picture to me, so I have proof: one more kindness, right under the wire. He doesn’t have to know I wish I hadn’t done it.
He doesn’t have to know it was a waste.