looked fairly impassive, like he was always going out to parties in lofts that required passwords. And who knows, maybe he was. “Daedalus,” I said confidently, giving Stevie a smile.
“That password has already been used,” the voice said. “Goodbye.”
“What?” I said, turning to face Stevie and Leo. But a second later, I realized why. “This must mean Amy Curry used my invite!” I said excitedly. “She’s probably in there! How cool is that?”
“Well—but now we can’t get into the party, right?” Leo asked. His voice was surprisingly deep, and he seemed to speak every word he said carefully, like he was considering all of them. It was a very reassuring trait, especially in someone who was driving you at night across state lines in the snow.
“That voice…,” Stevie said. She narrowed her eyes, the way she did when she was thinking. Then she shook her head. “It can’t be.”
“What can’t be?” I asked.
“No,” Stevie said, shaking her head. “No, no, no…” She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She smoothed it out, and there, written on it in an untidy scrawl, was 113 Anchorage and Plymouth, Dumbo.
“Whoa,” I said, staring at her. “That was like a magic trick.”
“Seriously,” Leo agreed, looking impressed.
“How do you have the address of the party?”
But Stevie just bent forward, laughing, and I started laughing too, because it was what I always did when she was laughing, even though I didn’t know what was funny. “It’s Margaux’s apartment,” she said, straightening up, pulling herself together. “We’re at Margaux’s party.” Stevie pressed the intercom button again.
“Password,” the voice intoned, even deeper now. I had a feeling whoever was doing this was having fun with the cloak-and-dagger part of things.
“Hi—Margaux?” Stevie asked, leaning closer to the speaker. “It’s Stevie. I’m here, and we—”
“Stevie!” The voice came through the intercom in a happy yell, all low portentous tones gone. “You came! Oh yay!”
“I’m here with my friends,” Stevie said, glancing back at us. “Kat Thompson and, um, Leo. Is that okay?”
“Of course! Come on up!” The buzzer sounded and Stevie pulled the door open. She led the way inside, up the elevator—and into the most incredible party I’d ever been at.
The huge open loft space was packed with people—all different ages, an eclectic mix—although it seemed pretty clear that Stevie and I were the youngest ones there. Well, unless you counted the baby that a very tall, glamorous woman had strapped to her in a sling.
It was also immediately apparent that it was not just the little get-together Stevie had been promised. There was a DJ spinning in the corner, a full bar, and huge windows that showed views of the city and the water and the snow. There was a piece of me that was desperate to have my phone so that I could have taken pictures and posted and documented everything. But there was another piece of me that actually didn’t mind just having this experience without having to box it up for other people to see and comment on.
As soon as we walked in, Stevie was tackle-hugged by a gorgeous girl in a flowing caftan who I guessed correctly was Margaux. And shortly after meeting her, I got to meet Matty, who also seemed thrilled that Stevie had shown up. I was introduced to Matty’s friends, who greeted Stevie like a long-lost pal. The British friend started telling me a story about how Stevie had been brilliant when she’d cried to scare a raptor—which I didn’t understand, but figured it might be some kind of British slang. I’d been about to ask him to clarify when something truly shocking happened. A tiny fluffy dog came barreling out of the hallway and jumped into Stevie’s arms.
And rather than running away, or extricating herself, Stevie pulled the dog close. And when she turned to me, her face alight, I saw that it was Brad. He didn’t seem quite as pleased to see me, or interested in leaving Stevie’s arms, but that was fine, because she didn’t seem particularly interested in giving him up.
Margaux clearly had a lot to do, and was being pulled in forty different directions, but she still took both of us in hand, linking her arms through ours as she gave us a quick tour of the party, pointing out the people she wanted us to be sure to meet: Jackson, her bagel man; Louisa, who owned a conceptual art gallery; James Domingos, who wrote the sudoku puzzles