Tudor and I walked out via the backyard tunnel and the back street to meet the limo on busy Massachusetts where we could blend into the crowd and traffic. I’d persuaded Tudor to rub some men’s hair dye on his newly-scalped hair, but he still kept a black knit cap in the pocket of Nick’s overlarge blazer. We all had our own comfort zones. I missed Tudor’s red curls, but the dark military cut and blazer emphasized his long nose and sharp cheekbones. His big glasses added years, and he almost looked distinguished sauntering into the hotel lobby—well, compared to all the other slouchy, badly dressed nerds. I was starting to understand Nick’s obsession with making me dress properly. It was pretty easy to stereotype the bigwig families and the worker bees just from their differing attire. Earlier, Tudor had dug out the hotel schematics and memorized the floor plans. He more than happily ditched me in the crowd to work his way down to the basement kitchen with pockets full of mischief.
