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which is full of cafés, bars, restaurants, yoga studios and expensive clothing stores. I pass the cupcake counter of Cakes for Two, and open the door of Mystical Java to the smell of roasting coffee and fresh baked goods. It’s full of people typing on laptops or chatting on their phones. Thelineup is too long for me to join right away, so, as I’m early, I decide to wait for Ivy before ordering coffee. I sit at the magically free table by the window and drum my fingers.
    I catch sight of a flyer pinned to the wall. Underneath the word
ARTSTARTS,
brightly coloured doodles surround the smiling face of a preschooler. The flyer reads:
Assistant Wanted for Art Classes for Kids.
I wonder if I could do that. I do need a job. I key the number into my cell, but I don’t call. Instead, I check my email, check the time, watch a couple of videos my friends have posted.
    If I were Ivy, I’d call right away. So I do it.
    A woman answers, “Ana Stevens. Artstarts.” Kids yell in the background.
    My hands get clammy. “I’m calling about the job.”
    “That’s great. Hold on. I can’t hear anything in here.” I imagine she’s put her hand over the receiver, because her voice is muffled as she says to someone else, “I’ll just head out for a sec, okay?” A door bangs shut. It gets quieter. Ana says, “So, we run a program at the gallery over the summer and it’s very popular. Our student helper quit on meand I, well, I hate to say it, but I desperately need someone to provide another pair of hands. Crowd control.” She laughs.
    “Sure. So you’re at the gallery?”
    “That’s right.”
    “I love the gallery.”
    “Okay, tell me more about you.”
    “My name’s Callie Carraway. Um, I start Grade Eleven in September and art is one of my subjects. And, I like little kids.” At least, I
think
I do. Although, as I say it I realize I never really do anything with Cosmo, but then again, he’s a
baby.
Little kids are way more fun, always asking questions and stuff.
    Ana says, “Could you swing by tomorrow? Ten in the morning? For an informal interview. I’ll tell you what we pay, and we’ll get to know each other. If it goes well, we might have you start right away. To be honest, we pretty much need someone, well, ASAP.”
    “Okay, sure, great,” I say.
    As I get off the phone with Ana, Ivy bursts into the café. That’s the right word for it. She bursts in, the door swinging shut behind her, andI swear there’s a slight pause in the conversations, a moment when the other customers assess her, the men taking a longer look than necessary, the women feeling slightly less comfortable than they did before. I wonder what it would be like to have that effect on the world, to always have people look at you and size you up, to have jealousy and desire fluttering around you like small dark shadows.
    Ivy smiles, her white teeth emphasized by a hot pink lipstick that matches her bright nails. Oblivious to people watching her, she calls across the café, “What do you want? My treat. I’ll get us Green Tea Lattes. No, how about a Berry Burst Smoothie. That sounds healthy.”
    “I was gonna have coffee.”
    “Trust me—this is way more delicious and you’ll feel better afterward.”
    The hot guy at the counter with the dreadlocks, the one who never even raises his gaze to me, fumbles her change.
    Her perfume floats over like a fine mist as she joins me at the table. “So, how’s your granny?”
    “I dunno, frail.”
    Ivy says, “She’s gonna be okay, though?”
    “I hope so. It’s not like her to be in bed in the day. She’s always been on the go, cleaning up your cup before you’ve finished drinking your tea, chatting about adventures she plans, trips, ideas, wanting to learn how to text when my phone buzzes. She was a war bride—ran away from everyone she knew to come here. Her being in bed is like … like me table dancing in here.”
    “I’ll get you table dancing.” Ivy taps the back of my hand with