“Because you looked pretty happy to be talking to him.” Cassie pokes my arm. “Look. I know your crush face.”
“I don’t have a crush face!”
Holy shit. Do I have a crush face? Does the entire world know every time I think a guy is cute?
My phone buzzes in my pocket, startling me. A text from Abby. Molly!!! Tell me about the hot redhead guy!
“Are you kidding me?” I show Cassie the phone. “You told Abby?”
“Possibly.”
I feel sick. I might actually throw up. Preferably all over Cassie, who’s now texting again. Probably about me. And my supposed giant crush on some guy I talked to for five minutes. Cassie always thinks she knows me better than I know myself.
I mean, yes. Will is pretty fucking cute.
Olivia gives me this tiny smile. “You look so horrified right now, Molly.”
I shrug wordlessly.
“I thought you wanted a boyfriend.”
“Exactly,” Cassie interjects, turning back to us suddenly. “Like, this whole Molly thing with the secret crushes that go nowhere. I’m over it.”
“Oh, you’re over it?” My throat tightens. “Uh, I’m sorry boys don’t like me.”
“That is such bullshit, Molly. You don’t even talk to them.”
Here we go.
Cassie’s soapbox: the fact that I’ve had twenty-six crushes and exactly zero kisses. Apparently, it’s because I need to woman up. If I like a guy, I’m supposed to tell him. Maybe in Cassie’s world, you can do that and have it end in making out. But I’m not so sure it works that way for fat girls.
I don’t know. I just like to be careful about this stuff.
Cassie leans over the seat, toward me, and her expression softens. “Look. I’m not going to embarrass you. You trust me, right?”
I shrug.
“Then let’s do this. I’m going to get you a boyfriend.”
I push my bangs out of my face. “Um. I don’t think it’s that easy.” I hit her with this particular facial expression of mine, known to my moms as the Molly Face. It involves eyebrows and a certain twist of the mouth, and it conveys infinite, everlasting skepticism.
“I’m telling you. It is.”
But it’s not. I don’t think she gets it. There’s a reason I’ve had twenty-six crushes and no boyfriends. I don’t entirely understand how anyone gets a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. It just seems like the most impossible odds. You have to have a crush on the exact right person at the exact right moment. And they have to like you back. A perfect alignment of feelings and circumstances. It’s almost unfathomable that it happens as often as it does.
I don’t know why my heart is beating so quickly.
The train pulls into Takoma, and Cassie stands abruptly. “And I need to know if Mina’s queer.”
“Aww,” I say. “Look who has a crush face now.”
“Why don’t you just ask her?” Olivia says.
“Yeah, no.” Cassie shakes her head. “Okay, let’s see if she’s on Facebook.” She types while she walks. “How do you even search for someone?”
“Are you kidding?” I ask.
This is a fundamental difference between us. I was basically born knowing how to casually stalk people on social media. But I guess Cassie’s more the kind of person who gets casually stalked.
“Want me to ask Will, since he’s apparently my future boyfriend?”
“Hush.” She’s still staring at her phone.
I mean, I’m sure it’s a total coincidence that Cassie wants to turn this particular boy into my boyfriend. I bet it has nothing to do with him being friends with the dream girl.
Cassie gets off the escalator with a little hop, and Olivia and I follow her through the turnstiles. There’s a couple making out against a SmarTrip machine. Which is definitely not how you’re supposed to use SmarTrip machines. I look away quickly.
“Are you still texting Mina?” I ask.
She smiles. “I’m not telling you.”
But she will. No question. Because once you’ve shared a uterus, there’s no such thing as a secret.
Of course, I sleep terribly. I’m up for hours, staring at the ceiling.
I keep remembering little moments from tonight. It’s like my brain won’t stop spinning. Will squinting at my face, trying to place it. Olivia’s blue-streaked hair, extra bright beneath the fluorescent lights of the Metro. And the tiny, secret smile on Cassie’s face every time her phone buzzed.
Certain nights have this kind of electricity. Certain nights carry you to a different place from where you started. I think tonight was one of the special ones—but I can’t pinpoint why.
Which is strange.
I drift off to sleep, finally—and it feels like only seconds have passed when my phone buzzes with a text.
Are you up? Smiley face. It’s Cassie.
There’s this horrible taste in my mouth, and my eyes feel sore and crusty. I guess it’s fitting. I managed to get drunk last night on absolutely no alcohol. Now I have a nonalcoholic hangover.
I stare at the screen.
My phone buzzes again. MOLLY, WAKE UP!!! IT’S YOUR FIRST DAY OF WORK!!!!
I write back: I’m coming!
I add a sleepy-face emoji.
She sends back this horrible wide-awake emoji with giant eyes.
I send a frowny face back. My head feels heavy on my pillow, and I think I weigh a million pounds. But I force myself out of bed and pull on this ruffled dress from ModCloth, with leggings. And I take my pill. I’ve been on Zoloft for four years. I used to get panic attacks in the middle school cafeteria.
Long story.
Anyway, when I step into the hallway, the air smells like butter and bacon. We are definitely the kind of Jews who eat bacon.
“Is that the young professional?” asks Patty.
Patty is one of my moms. She pops out from the kitchen, wearing an oversized batik tunic. “Here, bring these to the table.” She hands me a plate stacked high with pancakes.
“Okay . . .”
“You look kind of out of it, sweetie. You all right?”
“Yeah, I’m . . .” I look at the pancakes. “What are these supposed to be?”
“Hearts?” she says. There’s flour on her chin.
“Ohhhh.”
“I guess they kind of look like penises.”
“Yup.”
“And scrotums,” she adds.
“Mom, that’s so appetizing.”
Honestly, it’s not the first time Patty has thrown down the word scrotum in reference to a meal. She’s a midwife, so I may be a little too used to her talking about this stuff. Once she spent an entire drive to the mall explaining to Cassie and me that the so-called “doggie lipstick” was really the dog’s penis coming out of the shaft. She seemed to know a lot of the anatomical details.
I don’t think either Cassie or I will ask about the lipstick again.
“You should let your brother try one,” she says.
I nod. “Xav loves scrotums.”
Patty raises her eyebrows.
She takes the plate back, and I peek into the dining room. Of course everyone’s already awake. Nadine is a teacher, so even in the summer her body is used to waking up “butt-early,” as she calls it. Sometimes she calls it the ass-crack of dawn. And Xavier wakes up butt-early because he’s a butt-early kind of baby.
“Don’t drop that,” Nadine says, giving him the evil eye. Xavier gives me a giant grin from his high chair and says, “Momo,” which means “Molly.”
So, here’s us in a nutshelclass="underline" Patty used a sperm donor to conceive Cassie and me. Nadine used the same donor two years ago for Xavier. Strangers have a really hard time wrapping their minds around that. There’s this subset of people who like to inform me that Xavier’s my half brother, not my real brother. They’re the same people who tell me Abby’s not really my cousin. Nadine’s not really my mother. I’m pretty sure people wouldn’t question any of this if Nadine, Abby, and Xavier were white.