“But it’s my metaphysical theory.” Cassie sniffs.
I roll the idea around in my head for a moment. It’s funny—I think I actually like it. I find it strangely comforting. I guess it’s nice to imagine a roomful of people caring about what happens to you. Rooting for your happiness. They’d be pissed off when someone was a jerk to you. They’d want your crush to like you back. They’d want all twenty-six of them to like you back.
You would matter. That’s the thing. I get into this weird place sometimes where I worry about that. I’ve never told anyone this—not my moms, not even Cassie—but that’s the thing I’m most afraid of. Not mattering. Existing in a world that doesn’t care who I am.
It’s this whole other level of aloneness.
And maybe it’s a twin thing. I have never truly been alone in the world. I think that’s why I fear it.
“They’re watching us right now,” Cassie says. She tilts her face to the ceiling. “Hey, ancestors. You guys should try fro yo. It’s the best.” She gives them a thumbs-up.
Mina buries her face in her arms and just laughs.
4
OF COURSE, MINA IS THE only thing Cassie wants to talk about for the rest of the week—anytime we’re alone together, anytime our moms aren’t around. She slides onto the couch beside me on Friday, just as I’m settling in to watch Teen Mom.
“Did you know Mina’s Korean?” she asks. “Korean American, actually.”
“Yup, you mentioned that.”
“So, like, her parents were born here, but she has relatives in South Korea, and she’s taking a trip there in August. I think she’s going to do a photography project.”
I mean, I’m not one of those people who can’t handle commentary during TV shows—but it should be commentary about the TV show. For example: I am completely cool with Nadine ranting about the rat-faced, why-are-they-so-virile, why-do-you-even-watch-this baby dads.
Cassie leans back, legs in a pretzel. “And she really likes penguins.”
Penguins. No respect for the baby dads.
“I’m glad she likes penguins.”
This actually reminds me of Abby, when she started dating her first real boyfriend. We were fifteen, and he was in her math class. And it was one of those things where every word out of Abby’s mouth was Darrell. Darrell hates applesauce. Darrell’s a really good dancer. Darrell went to Florida once. Like Abby got some kind of thrill from saying his name.
“Also,” Cassie says casually, “Mina’s pansexual.”
I pause the TiVo and sit up ramrod straight. “Wait. What?” I ask.
Cassie buries her face in a throw pillow.
“How do you know?”
“I asked her. And she told me.”
“Cassie!” I gasp into my hand. “Are you kidding me? This is so awesome!”
“Yeah, well. It doesn’t mean she likes me.”
I twist all the way around to look at her.
“Not that it matters,” she adds, smiling faintly. She hugs the pillow and sighs.
“Cass.”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen her like this. Cassie flirts with girls all the time—and she’s usually charming and sometimes careless and sometimes focused, but never, ever vulnerable. I’ve never seen her look nervous.
“It matters,” I say softly.
“I mean, yes, she’s fucking adorable. Yes, I want to make out with her.” Cassie groans into her pillow.
“Oh my gosh. You have a crush. This is a real crush.”
“Whatever,” she says.
But her cheeks tell the story, and they’re basically radioactive.
It’s usually me who does this. I blush and swoon and am essentially the heroine of a romance novel. Except with 100 percent less kissing. But Cassie? Not so much.
Until now. And it’s fascinating.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks.
My mouth twitches. “I’m not.”
“I hate you.”
She’s grinning, and I grin back at her. Cassie has kissed a fair number of girls—and believe me, I’ve heard about every molecule of saliva involved in these transactions—and yet.
Something’s different with Mina.
I wake up Saturday to a text from Abby.
Not that this is unusual, because Abby isn’t just my cousin. Other than Cassie, she’s my best friend. Even more than Olivia. It’s funny, because Cassie and Abby are the bold ones, and Olivia and I are the quiet ones, but when we pair off, it’s usually Cassie and me, Abby and Olivia. Or Abby and me, Cassie and Olivia. Friendship is like that. I guess it’s not always about common ground.
Anyway, Abby used to live two blocks away from us, but she moved to Georgia a year ago. It sucks, but we talk every week, and we text so much, it’s like a single ongoing conversation.
When I tap into the text window, there are actually two messages. The first says: We need to talk ASAP. The second is a winky-face emoji.
In certain contexts, a winky face is a clear code for sex.
So, I guess this means Abby had sex with her boyfriend last night. I should mention this: Abby has a boyfriend in Georgia. Named Nick. And he’s pretty cute in pictures. Boyfriends don’t seem to be a particularly complicated thing for Abby. Honestly, nothing seems really complicated for Abby. But Abby is my cousin, and she’s amazing, and I’m happy for her, and I’m not jealous. Because that would be shitty.
I don’t want to be shitty.
I yawn and rub my eyes, and then I tap out a reply: Why, hello, winky face. What’s up?
Moments later, her reply: a blushing smiley emoji.
Definitely sex.
I call her.
“Congratulations,” I say as soon as she picks up.
She laughs. “Excuse me. How do you even know what I’m about to say?”
“Because you’re really obvious.” I roll onto my side, cupping the phone to my ear. “But I want you to tell me anyway.”
“Now I’m embarrassed!”
“What? Why?”
“I don’t know!” She giggles softly. “Ugh. Okay, let me make sure my dad’s not creeping in the hallway.”
“Good idea,” I say. My uncle Albert is insane when it comes to dating. Once, he caught Abby holding hands with a guy, and she was grounded for a week.
“Okay,” she says, after a moment.
“All clear?”
“Yeah.” I hear her take a deep breath. “So . . .”
And the weird thing is, I get this tense, almost nauseated feeling. I can’t figure out why. I don’t have a crush on Abby’s boyfriend—I’ve never even met him. And it’s not like I’m in any kind of suspense here. I know what she’s about to tell me.
She’s about to tell me she had sex with Nick.
“I had sex with Nick,” she says, her voice hushed.
“I knew it!”
She laughs. “Oh my God. I feel weird talking about this.”
I can just picture her flopped back on her bed, hand covering her face. Abby doesn’t blush—kind of like Cassie—though Abby has dark-brown skin, so it’s hard to tell. But her mouth does this tiny upward quirk in the corner when she’s embarrassed or awkward or pleased with herself.
I can actually hear it. I can hear that little mouth quirk in her voice.
“How was it?” I ask.
“It was . . . you know. It was good.”
But I don’t know. I’m bad at this. I never know what to ask.
“Better than Darrell?”
She pauses. “Yeah,” she says finally. “Definitely.”
“Well, awesome!”
“You don’t think I’m a slut, right?”