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cleaners before the 5 P.M. closing.
    Like losing her pot-smoking “virginity” or her imminent C in economics, going to the dry cleaners was about to become another College First. After all, since the majority of her clothing ended up with grass stains or in the bottom of her gym bag, she tended to avoid anything sporting a “ DRY CLEAN ONLY ” label.
    The bell above the glass front door tinkled when she stepped inside.
    “Hi,” she said, smiling at the man sitting behind the counter who had more hair on his face than on his head. “I’m picking up for A. Thorndike?”
    The man set down his newspaper and squinted over the thick frames of his glasses. “You are not Ms. Thorndike,” he said, speaking with a Pakistani accent. “Ms. Thorndike will get very, very angry if I give clothing to a stranger!”
    “But I’m not a stranger, I’m her—” Callie paused. What was she, exactly? Her maid? Personal assistant? B-I-T-C-H? Blackmailee? Helpless little stepdaughter Cinder-Callie . . .
    “Yes?” he prompted.
    “I’m doing her a favor. So if you could please just hand over the clothes—”
    “No. Absolutely not. You are not doing anybody any favors if Ms. Thorndike’s dry cleaning is not here exactly the way she likes it. Very good customer—but very, very particular!”
    And very, very going to kill me if I don’t get this done. “Please . . .” Callie began. The man continued shaking his head. “Please— Wait!” she suddenly cried. “I have a note!” Digging into her book bag, she pulled out the paper detailing her new COMP Assignments, i.e. the lengthy list of personal favors thinly disguised as prompts. “Here,” she said, sliding the page across the counter. “That’s her handwriting—right there!”
    The man made a great show of polishing his lenses before pushing his glasses back up his nose and looking at the sheet of paper. After what felt like forever, he shoved it back toward Callie. “Very well,” he said. “Wait here.”
    “Thank you,” she called as he disappeared behind rows of plastic-covered dress shirts.
    In a minute he returned wheeling a clothing rack with some fifteen-odd dresses, skirts, and tops, each immaculately ironed, pressed, and individually wrapped. It was incredible: Gucci, Prada, DVF, D&G, Zac Posen, and more: a semester’s worth of Harvard tuition all on one little rack in a dingy dry cleaner.
    “Which ones belong to Alexis?” Callie asked, sticking her hands in her pockets lest she inadvertently reach out and rip the plastic off to run her fingers over the luscious fabrics. Or grab that cigarette lighter lying on the counter, flick it open, and set the entire rack on fire.
    The man gave her a funny look. “All of these belong to Ms. Thorndike.”
    “All?” Callie asked, her eyes widening. “Everything here?”
    “You count,” he replied, misunderstanding. “It is all here.”
    “No, I just meant—”
    “You count!” He was agitated. “We make no mistake,” he added, pointing to an itemized receipt that was taped to one end of the metal rack. “But you verify, to be certain. We make mistake once: lose dress”—he shuddered—“and Ms. Alexis get very, very angry. She yell, very loud, and my wife—she make her cry. Now my wife, she will not work on Tuesdays.”
    Callie gulped. She could definitely sympathize with Mrs. Arrow Street Cleaners. “Maybe it is a good idea to check,” she said, taking the receipt from the rack, “just to be sure.”
    The man nodded, returning to his newspaper. Callie began to sift through the clothing on the rack, checking the receipt and then sliding the item from right to left.
    She was nearly two-thirds of the way through when suddenly, through the space between a red floor-length gown and a black single-shoulder dress, she spotted a familiar figure through the glass windows making his way down the street: Clint.
    He had pulled his scarf up against the cold and his light brown hair was messy and windswept as