“Whew.” AmberLea sags as we ride the private elevator down from about the three hundredth floor. “We just met a teeny-tiny megastar.”
I shrug and watch the floor lights blink down. I want to say, “teeny-tiny bobblehead,” but I don’t.
Toby says, “Now that I’ve met him, I feel kind of sorry for him. He was poor as dirt when he was little, never got to go anywhere, and now he’s trapped up there with his entourage and never sees anything.”
“I suppose.” AmberLea giggles a little. “Good call on the gloves. It looks like we have a plan for New Year’s, guys. Partying backstage with Aiden Tween.”
“Game on,” says Toby, giving her a secret little smile.
“Have fun,” I mutter. “I might be a little busy trying to save Bun.”
“Aw, Spence.” AmberLea reaches for my arm as the elevator slows.
“That’s another thing,” Toby points out unhelpfully as the doors open. “He knew about Pianvia. That’s more than we did yesterday. He even wants to help them.”
“I don’t think the SPCA needs any help,” I say. We step into the lobby.
AmberLea tucks her chin in. “Why did you mention Pianvia up there, Spencer? I thought this was secret.”
“It was on some papers on the table. They’re trying to find ways to make AT cool for an older audience. Anyway, let’s go. It’s one thirty already.”
“I thought he was awesome when I was thirteen,” AmberLea says, catching up. I know she’s not talking about Bunny. Before I can say anything, a flash of purple and gold catches my eye, along with a streak of blond hair and a patch of tan coat, disappearing behind a mirrored pillar across the lobby. I dodge a bellhop pushing a roller rack full of luggage, hurdle a dog-carrier cage and skid around the pillar, screeching to a stop a nanosecond before I slam into a slender woman with a blond ponytail, wearing a purple-and-gold scarf over her tan coat. She’s got her earbuds in, calmly dialing up some tunes on her cell phone. Beyoncé, I’m guessing. No, maybe Dixie Chicks. Anyway, she’s got grade-two teacher written all over her. She looks up as I manage a “Whoa, sorry.”
“No worries.” She smiles. It’s a clear, calm grade-two-teacher voice. She heads out the revolving door, leaving me thinking that life was simpler in grade two. I bet she’d have a Band-Aid for me in her messenger bag if I needed it.