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?”
“What? No!”
“We’ve only been together five months. It’s kind of slutty.”
“No it’s not,” I say. “Not at all.”
“I know. But ugh. So, there’s this girl I know here, and she’s the actual worst. Like, you need to hear her talk about her metabolism, which is apparently superfast, and apparently we all need to know this, and I don’t even know why I listen to her—but anyway. She made this comment the other day that couples in high school shouldn’t have sex until they’ve been dating for a year. And I can’t get it out of my head. You know?”
“Oh, Abby. I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s fine. Like, she didn’t actually use the word slut, but I felt like it was implied, and now I’m just like, great. I’m a slut.”
There’s this catch in her voice, and I don’t know what to say. I’m not really the expert on this.
Here’s what I would never, ever admit out loud: a part of me always thought it was some kind of a secret compliment when someone got called a slut. It meant you were having sex. Which meant people wanted to have sex with you. Being a slut just meant you were normal.
But I think maybe I’m wrong about that. Maybe I’m so wrong.
“Abby, you are not a slut,” I say firmly. “Who is this girl? She’s full of shit.”
“I know, I know. I’m being ridiculous.”
“Olivia’s had sex. Cassie’s had all kinds of sex. You’re fine. And it’s not anyone else’s business.”
“No, you’re right.”
“So, tell me how it happened,” I say. “Like, tell me the whole story leading up to it.”
“Okay.” I hear rustling, and I picture her sitting up straighter. “So we were actually at a concert. We saw the Weepies—tell Cassie that. But anyway, afterward, we were hanging out at Simon’s house, and we’re watching TV, and then Nick gets a text from his mom.”
“Uh, I’m not seeing how this story ends in sex.”
“Ha. She was letting him know she was called in to the hospital for work.”
“Ohhhh.”
I can hear Abby grinning. “Yup. So then we left . . .”
“So, you and Nick were home alone . . . ,” I say. “And?”
“And yeah!”
“Hey, well done.”
“Why, thank you.” She yawns happily. “So what about you?”
“Did I have sex last night?”
“No!” she says. “Unless, I mean—did you?”
If Abby were physically present right now, she’d be feeling the wrath of my side-eye. She would so be feeling it.
“Oh, totally,” I say. “You know me.”
“Molly! I want to know what’s going on with you. Hey, whatever happened with the sideburns guy?”
“From my SAT class?”
“Yes!”
Crush number twenty-five: Quinn of Test Prep. I never exchanged actual words with him, but I’m 80 percent sure that was his first name. Once, we shared a potentially significant moment of eye contact after finishing a math practice test.
“I have no idea. I hope he did well.”
“What do you mean?”
“On the SAT.”
“You are ridiculous.”
I shrug, and even though she can’t see me, it’s like she can sense it through the cellular radio waves.
“How come you never tell me about boys anymore?”
“There’s literally nothing to tell.”
We hang up, and I scoot backward against my pillows, feeling off-kilter. So, Abby had sex with Nick. That means she’s had sex with two guys. I haven’t even kissed two guys. Actually, I haven’t even kissed one guy. I know it’s not a competition, but I can’t help but feel like I’m falling further and further behind.
Of the four of us—Cassie, Abby, Olivia, and me—I’m the last virgin standing. Which has been the case for a while now, and I don’t know why it suddenly bothers me. But it’s not about the sex, exactly.
It’s the other stuff. I can picture it: Abby and Nick hanging out after the concert, sleepy and content and surrounded by friends. Her feet in his lap. This text coming in. And the way all their friends must have teased them when they left so abruptly. I bet they looked sheepish. I bet they held hands the minute they stepped outside.
I think that’s what I’m jealous of. I’m jealous of the moment Nick slid his key into the lock. And I do not mean that as a euphemism. Just a key in the lock of an empty house. Just that sweet, anticipatory moment. I wonder what Abby was thinking and feeling at that exact second. I’d be wrecked with butterflies, if it were me.
Here’s the truth: I want this so badly. To the point where it’s almost physically painful sometimes.
I want Olivia’s soft-voiced conversations with Evan Schulmeister, where she takes five steps away from us before she even answers the phone. Just to be alone with him. And I want the palpable waves of electric crush energy that radiate off Cassie these days. I want to know what it feels like to have crushes that could conceivably maybe one day turn into boyfriends.
All this wanting.
I pull out my phone. My mind is spinning. I need to zone out on BuzzFeed or something. I know this doesn’t exactly make me unique, but I love the internet. I love it. I think the way I feel about the internet is the way some people feel about the ocean. It’s so huge and unknowable, but also totally predictable. You type a line of symbols and click enter, and everything you want to happen, happens.
Not like real life, where all the wanting in the world can’t make something exist. I don’t even think Cassie has the ability to make this come true for me. It’s just hard to believe in the concept of Molly-With-a-Boyfriend.
Especially a cute hipster boyfriend. Especially Will.
But I want it. The wanting is almost too big to hold.