The Pretty Ones by Ania Ahlborn

anxious . She was flustered by Nell’s gratitude, by the fact that Nell had put in so much thought and spent so much time on something as insignificant as cake and tea.
    â€œIt’s okay,” Nell said, smiling. “I didn’t mind. I wanted to do it.”
    â€œBut, Nell . . .” Linnie’s frown was obvious now. She shifted her weight from one platform shoe to the other, fingering the wooden bangles around her left wrist. They clattered like xylophone keys. “I’m sorry, I just . . . I really can’t.”
    Nell shook her head, not understanding. “You can’t?”
    â€œNo, I really can’t. It’s very nice of you to offer, though. I’m flattered that you’d go to such lengths—”
    â€œWell, tomorrow, then,” Nell said, cutting Linnie off. “You can tomorrow, can’t you? Tomorrow is Saturday.” Rambert & Bertrand wasn’t open on weekends. “I’ll even take the train to your place to meet you if you want. You don’t have to ride into Brooklyn by yourself. It’ll be better if we meet somewhere and I ride in with you, if only to make sure you find the apartment okay.”
    Linnie cleared her throat. Her hands moved from her bracelets to worrying the hem of her orange floral-print blouse. “I can’t tomorrow either.”
    â€œWell, Sund—”
    â€œLook, Nell.” It was Linnie’s turn to interrupt. Her tone was abrupt, edging toward annoyed. Its hard edge demanded that Nell listen. “Not Sunday either, okay? I’m not going to Brooklyn.”
    Nell furrowed her eyebrows. If it was the neighborhood, she could understand Linnie’s trepidation. Nobody wanted to deal with a bunch of Puerto Rican boys catcalling from their stupid bicycles. Maybe, even with Nell walking her to the apartment, Linnie didn’t want to be anywhere near that part of New York. It was a rough neighborhood. Girls got harassed all the time. People got mugged. Sometimes, bodies would turn up in alleys and the police would block off entire streets. And then there was the Son of Sam . . . the one the cops had yet to catch. None of the shootings had been anywhere near Nell’s place, but people were still scared to go out.
    â€œOkay,” Nell relented, and Linnie let out a breath, as though she’d been holding it for the length of their conversation. That was it, then. The neighborhood was the problem, not Nell’s invitation. “Just tell me where you live and we can do it at your place instead.”
    Linnie’s angular features went taut. She shot Nell an incredulous look. “You’re really far out, you know that?” Nell opened her mouth to speak— Is that a compliment?— but Linnie didn’t give her the chance to respond. “It’s . . . creepy.”
    Nell shook her head. But . . .
    â€œListen, I don’t want any cake, okay? I was being nice the other day because nobody else ever is to you. I felt bad. But you just can’t take a hint.”
    â€œA hint,” Nell echoed.
    â€œWe just work together,” Linnie reminded her. “Just because I helped you get a coffee stain out of your shirt . . . What I’m trying to say is . . . I was just being nice, Nell. I’m sorry, but it doesn’t mean we’re friends.”
    Nell stood motionless, her eyes fixed on the girl who was now unable to meet her gaze. Linnie splashed coffee into a plain white mug and turned away, darting out of the break room with a mumbled “I’m sorry.” Nell didn’t have time to protest or cry or throw Mr. Topsy-­Turvy, coffee and all, in Linnie’s face. Left alone with burnt coffee and day-old doughnuts, Nell stared out the open break-room door. Beyond it, a sea of perfectly aligned desks. Typewriters. Telephones.
    How may I direct your call?
    Linnie Carter was a fake.
    Hollow.