BUT HERE’S THE PIECE I can’t quite shake.
Nadine said they come back. That we’ll be normal again. Cassie and me. And I get that. I mean, Abby came down to earth after Darrell. And Nick hasn’t ruined us. Love doesn’t kill friendship. It definitely doesn’t kill family.
Except it sort of does, doesn’t it?
Because we almost never see my aunt Karen. Because she’s not Nadine’s main person anymore. I think she used to be. But Nadine’s main person is Patty.
And I don’t know when that happened. Maybe this is how it starts.
Anyway, somehow Mina’s coming for dinner on Wednesday, despite the fact that my grandma’s coming in from New York that day. Patty’s mom. Also known as the grandma who hits people with her car and then calls them bitches. So, I’m pretty sure this is going to be a shitshow. Like, a major, epic shitshow. But even though Cassie gave this plan a solid nope a week ago, today she seems really Zen about it. It’s like she’s so focused on the Mina-coming-for-dinner part that she’s forgotten all about the with-Grandma part.
The thing about Grandma is that she doesn’t always have a filter. So this should be interesting. I’m in charge of dessert.
I spend all weekend thinking about it, looking up recipes, and waking up at three in the morning wondering if Mina has gluten allergies or diabetes. Though there’s no way Cassie would have forgotten to mention this. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing Mina-related in the world she’s forgotten to mention.
But oh. I’m so wrong.
Because on Monday, I get an Abby text with about five million exclamation points. No words, no emojis: just undiluted punctuational excitement. And at first I assume it’s some new development with Nick, which throws me for a loop—because once sex has already happened, what could be worthy of five million exclamation points? Like, I don’t think that’s how she’d break the news if she were pregnant. I hope not.
Anyway, I figure it out pretty quickly when Abby follows up with, Why didn’t u tell me about Cass?!?!
What are you talking about?
Um. Go check Facebook. Now.
So I tap into the app and go straight to Cassie’s page. Which she never updates. Ever.
But she did.
In a relationship. With Mina Choi.
I cradle my phone in my hand and just stare at it.
She seriously didn’t tell you? Abby writes. WTF is wrong with her?
No idea, I write.
She didn’t tell me. Cassie’s in a real-life relationship with Mina, and she didn’t tell me. I found out on Facebook.
I’m Cassie’s twin sister, and I found out on Facebook.
Do your moms know??
No idea, I write back. But she’s coming for dinner on Wednesday.
Whoa. Cassie! Introducing her to the folks . . .
And grandma . . . I add.
OMFG. Your grandma Betty?
Yep. I add that emoji with the big, toothy, grimacing smile.
LOL. Should be quite a night.
Which makes me smile, a little bit.
I decide to make homemade edible cookie dough. When I tell Reid about it at work, he seems both impressed and confused.
“But how is regular cookie dough not edible?” he asks. We’re in the back room, unboxing new inventory.
“Well, it has raw eggs.”
“Oh, okay.” He nods—but a moment later, he frowns. “And you’re not supposed to eat raw eggs . . .”
“Reid, no!”
“I mean, I know you’re not supposed to eat them raw, but what if they’re mixed in with stuff?”
I side-eye him hard. “You know they’re still raw, right?”
“I know, but they’re neutralized by the other ingredients.”
“That is not how eggs work.” I bite back a smile. “I think you just have to try the egg-free kind. It’s really good. I promise.”
He leans backward on his palms and seems to consider this for a moment. Finally, he nods. “Okay. I approve.”
“Whew.” I stretch forward, pulling the last box toward me. We actually timed this well—we’ll get the last stuff unboxed right at the end of the workday.
“So when is this happening?” he asks.
“Tomorrow, probably? I’ll make a supply run to CVS when I leave here.”
“To CVS?” He looks scandalized. “No, you have to go to the Giant in Silver Spring. It’s the all-time best grocery store.”
I look up. “Oh, really?”
“Yes.” He gives one of those very serious Reid nods, but his dimple flickers.
“Is it on the Metro?” I ask.
“Oh. I don’t think so.”
I bite my lip. “Oh, okay. I don’t have a car.”
Reid is quiet for a minute, and I feel slightly awkward. It’s funny: I don’t really mind the car thing. I think it bothers Cassie more than it bothers me. But now I feel weirdly self-conscious about it, and I have no idea why.
“Do you want a ride there?” he asks.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I don’t mind. Seriously, it would be fun. I like grocery shopping.”
“Really?” I shoot him the Molly Face.
He smiles. “Okay, not really. But I like cookie dough. And if I drive you to the supermarket, you’d probably have to give me some.”
“Probably,” I agree. Now I’m smiling, too. I can’t help it.
So now I’m in Reid’s car, and he’s driving me to the grocery store. A very particular grocery store. Apparently the best grocery store, and I’ll have to take his word for that.
An immediate perk of riding with Reid: he’s placed a bag of Cadbury Mini Eggs open between us in front of the gearshift.
“You know what I love about Cadbury Mini Eggs?” I lean back against the seat. “Their simplicity.”
“Right? No one appreciates that.”
“I’m really over fancy desserts. Like, I’m sorry, but anything with citrus infusion and caramelized kumquats or almond and Cointreau, or anything like that . . . I mean, does anyone actually like that stuff?”
He laughs. “Nope.”
“They just think they’re supposed to like it because they’re trying to look classy.”
“Trying and failing,” says Reid.
“Utterly failing.”
We pull into the parking lot of Giant, and Reid picks a spot by the cart return. Then he twists off the ignition and looks at me with this solemn expression. “Are you ready for the grocery experience of a lifetime?”
“Well, I’m pretty sure I’ve been here before.”
“But not with me,” he says firmly.
“Not with you.” I feel suddenly shy.
It occurs to me, as we’re crossing the parking lot, that people probably assume we’re a couple. Like maybe we’re a college-age couple grabbing food for the night. Young lovebirds. Boyfriend and girlfriend. It’s like when someone mistakes the random guy sitting next to you on the Metro for your dad.
There’s a line of carts near the entrance, but as soon as I ease one out, Reid tugs the front end and guides me over to a bench outside the store. Then, he pushes the cart to the side and sits, looking up at me expectantly. I sit down next to him.
“So, now you need to take out your phone.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see.” He pulls his own phone out of his pocket. “And get into your notes app.”
“Okay.” I’m smiling. He’s being kind of bossy, and I’m sorry, but it’s hilarious. It’s like when your teacher leaves the room for a second and puts a Well-Behaved Kid in charge. Reid is a Well-Behaved Kid on a power trip, and it’s so cute, I have to play along.
“You got it?” He peeks over my shoulder. “Good. Now write down the titles of three pop songs from the early 2000s.”
“What? Why?”
“Because those are the rules.”
“So I just write down . . . any pop songs?” I ask.
“Yup. But choose wisely.”
I pause for a moment, finger poised above my keypad. I want to pick the absolute worst ones. I want the ones that almost ruined music. They come to me quickly.
1. Stacy’s Mom
2. Sk8er Boi
3. I’m Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman
“Excellent,” Reid says.
“Let’s see yours.” He tilts his phone toward me, and I burst out laughing. Because in another life, I’m pretty sure Reid was someone’s dorky dad. He even looks proud of himself.
1. Find me in da club
2. The one with the girl playing the piano singing about if she could fall into the sky
3. Justin Timberlake
“So now what?” I ask.
“Good question. The rules are as follows: if any one of your songs gets played, you get twenty points.”
“If the supermarket plays them?”
“Yes.”
“So, out of every song in the entire world, you think this supermarket will play one of the six random songs we happened to choose.”
“Absolutely.”
I laugh. “Why?”
“It’s magic.” He shrugs. “And because all grocery stores play early 2000s pop music. It’s federal law.”
I’m skeptical until the moment we walk into the store and “Stacy’s Mom” is playing.
“Oh hey. Twenty points to me,” I say.
Reid groans, leaning into the cart handle. “Beginner’s luck.” He eases the cart down the baking aisle, and literally makes it three steps before getting distracted by tubs of frosting. “Ohhh. Hey.” He picks up some Duncan Hines chocolate. “Oh man. I would sit and eat this with a spoon, like yogurt. Is that weird?”
“Is that a real question?” Seriously, I want to know: is there anyone who wouldn’t eat a tub of chocolate frosting like yogurt?
All of a sudden, I’m inspired. “Can I add a rule to our game?”
“Definitely!”
“Okay.” I grin. “Quick challenge. Ten points to whoever finds the grossest flavor of frosting in the next minute, starting . . . now.”
I set the stopwatch on my phone, and we both fall silent. I’m feeling very competitive, for some reason, which isn’t like me at all. Maybe this is what it’s like to be Cassie. She used to win all the competitions at camp: hot dog eating, pig latin speaking, watermelon seed spitting, and all the other things I never really cared about.
But I care about this. I want the ten points—these ten nebulous points that count toward literally nothing. And it’s exhilarating. I scan the shelves, and almost everything is pretty standard: home-style chocolate and Funfetti and cream cheese. There are a few contenders, like coconut pecan and key lime, but in the end, I have to throw my shade at Betty Crocker’s Limited Edition maple bacon. Not okay, Betty.
Reid is flailing at the forty-five-second mark. “Molly, help! They all look good.”
“You are joking.”
“Maybe I just like all frosting?”
I shake my head sadly. “I don’t even know what to say to that.”
My phone stopwatch beeps, and I reveal the maple bacon—which Reid hadn’t noticed. “Oh, that’s really funny,” he says.
“I know. I have to take a picture of this for my sister.”
He laughs. “Will you send it to me?”
“Um. Yeah. If you give me your number.” I feel my cheeks grow warm. I hope he doesn’t think I’m Asking For His Number. I don’t think I’m Asking For His Number.
I’m just asking for his number.
“Oh, right!” He gives it to me, and I text him the picture and add him to my contacts.
Then he pulls out his phone to add me to his.
It’s funny, but I almost wonder if he wanted us to exchange numbers. Because he totally could have snapped his own picture, instead of having me text mine.
For a second, I’m speechless.
But I’m saved by Avril Lavigne. “Sk8er Boi” starts playing, loudly and suddenly, and I finally exhale. “Twenty points,” I say, grinning.
“What? How are you so good at this game?”
I shrug, palms up. I become the shruggie emoji.
“I’m psychic,” I say.
God, this phone number thing. Not that it’s a thing. It’s definitely not a thing. And I don’t know why I’m suddenly so breathless. I guess lungs are giant traitors. As are stomachs. As are heartbeats.
There’s traffic on the way home, but it’s still light out, and there’s this quietness between us. In the supermarket, it was all jokes and teasing and games (which I destroyed, by the way—fifty points to zero). But in the car, I’m suddenly shy. And I think Reid is too.
“So you have a sister?”
“Yup.” I nod. “A twin.”
“Really?” He sounds surprised. Have I never told him about Cassie? But I guess when we’re at work, we talk about random stuff. We talk about the things we like, rather than the things we are.
“We’re fraternal,” I add, because it’s the first thing people ask.
“What’s she like?”
“Cassie?” I pause. “I don’t know. She’s totally fearless.”
“I don’t think anyone’s actually fearless,” Reid says. And then he clicks on his turn signal, even though we’re a block away from the turn. Even though the traffic’s so thick, we’re barely inching forward. It ticks like a metronome.
“Yeah, maybe,” I say, and I smile. Because I remember the look on Cassie’s face when she told me Mina was pansexual. When she knew she had a chance, but wasn’t sure how things would go. Maybe she was a little scared. I guess she didn’t need to be.
Then I remember the Facebook status update, which is starting to feel less like a gut punch and more like a joke. I mean, it’s funny. Reid would probably think it was funny. And I should definitely say something funny right now.
“You want to hear something weird?” I ask.
“Always.”
“Not like Tolkien weird.”
“Okay, Tolkien? Is not weird,” he says. “He’s probably the most basic fantasy author you could have picked.”
The funny thing is how much I want to tell him about Cassie. Not just about the Facebook thing and the funny parts, but about the other stuff too. About this strange, tiny shift between Cassie and me. I just have this feeling he’d understand, even though I have no reason to think that. Even though two minutes ago, Reid didn’t know Cassie existed.
“I mean, if you want weird,” he continues, “let me know, because—”
“Uh, no,” I say, and I smile a little bit. I feel clenched up inside.
“So, Cassie just started dating her first actual girlfriend. And guess how I found out.”
“How?” he asks, and I love that he doesn’t bat an eye at the word girlfriend. Not that I expected less from a Takoma Park boy, especially one related to Deborah and Ari. But still.
“From a Facebook status update.”
His eyebrows knit. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
He pauses.
“How was she supposed to tell you?” he asks finally.
“Well, not from a status update.”
I have this immediate sinking feeling. I don’t know how I wanted Reid to react. I don’t know why I even care about Reid’s reaction. But something feels off. I’m not sure why I thought this would seem funny or cute. It’s just awkward, and kind of sad. I turn quickly toward the window.
“Molly?” he says after a moment.
“Yeah.”
We’re stopped at a light now, and I feel him watching me, trying to decide if he should say something. I stare at my wrists, at my bright rows of friendship bracelets. I taught Abby how to make them in the spring before she left, and we both still wear them, always. But thinking about Abby right now gives me this little prickle of sadness.
Because she’s in Georgia. And Cassie has a girlfriend. And everything and everyone are moving at a million miles an hour.
“You shouldn’t have had to find out on Facebook,” he says finally.
I shrug.
“I’d be sad about that, too,” he adds.
And oh. There’s a lump in my throat. That’s another thing about me. If someone says I’m sad, or asks me what’s wrong, or tells me not to cry, it’s like my body hears: NOW CRY. Like a command, even if I’m not actually sad. But maybe there are always tiny sad pieces inside me, waiting to be recognized and named. Maybe it’s like that for everyone.
“Anyway, it’s fine,” I say quickly, forcing a smile. “Obviously, I’m really happy for her.”
“Oh. Okay.” He looks confused. And I really wish I hadn’t said anything. Now he thinks I’m a shitty sister. And a shitty person. And an all-around asshole.
I don’t know why I’m incapable of shutting up around this boy.