When I walk into the kitchen, Effie is on the phone with Devin. “I’m so proud of you,” she says into the phone. “This is amazing.” A little pang, a sharp sting. I haven’t told her yet about Jake. About what happened between us at that Irish bar. I haven’t told her that everything has fallen apart. “It’s really happening,” she says when she hangs up. “Gagosian.” “That’s amazing,” I say. “Is he beside himself?” “He can’t believe it’s real,” she says. “This is so, so big.” “How is Zu-Zu doing?” I ask. And she reaches for her phone on the table. “She sent me these today.” She smiles. It’s a picture of her leaping in front of Rockefeller Center. I hold the phone, peer at the screen, swipe my finger across, and look at the photos she has taken of her dorm room, of the dance studio, of her bloody toes. In the last picture, she is pressing foreheads with another girl whose hair is also tied back into a tight bun. “She’s already got a friend,”
