I just got your email. They look fucking awesome. Can we use all of them?

JP’s text pings on my phone just as the bus is pulling into the Ottawa terminal. I’m heading back home for my brother and sister’s birthday weekend; Stephen is two years older than me and Kenzie is four years younger, but they somehow both ended up being born on November sixth.

I think you should try to narrow it down to one, I text JP back.

I sent him some EP cover designs just before I left Montreal. He gave me the track list a few days ago, so I’ve been able to play around with designing the full CD case. The song titles are all in French, but Google Translate helped me work most of them out. They’re quirky and kind of magical sounding, with names like ‘Have You Ever Wondered What Fish Dream About?’ and ‘Sinking is the Same as Swimming When You Don’t Know Up from Down.’

They’re also very long, which was a graphic design nightmare. I’m more convinced than ever that the project is JP’s own, and I’m practically itching with curiosity to hear the music. We’ve gotten closer than ever since the Halloween party, and with that has come the same mix of confusion and elation that I always feel around JP. Getting away from Montreal actually feels like a welcome escape, if only to clear my head.

Stephen is supposed to pick me up at the bus station and take me to Mom’s house. He has his own apartment in Ottawa now, but after the divorce, he spent most of his time at Dad’s place while Kenzie and I stayed with Mom. Kenzie still lives there; she just turned seventeen.

Stephen’s wearing his usual baggy clothing and unimpressed glare, lounging on one of the benches in the terminal. We both became much quieter after the divorce, but I got quiet in a shrinking violet way while he became more of a menacing lone wolf.

Still, a smile twitches across his features when he sees me.

“Hey, sis.”

“Hey, bro.”

He jumps off the bench and we start heading for the parking lot.

“How’s Montreal?”

“Good. Much cooler than Ottawa.”

We’re typically silent as we make the drive to Mom’s place out in the suburbs. We used to have to cram into the tiny apartment that was all she could afford on her own. Now that she’s a self-made real estate mogul, she lives in a luxury duplex. She’s still in work clothes when she greets Stephen and I by the door: business-length pencil skirt, black tights, and a white blouse.

We actually have a pretty good relationship, for the most part. She’s intense about my schoolwork, but other than that, she’s a superhero single mom. She throws her arms around my neck and I wrap mine around her waist.

“My baby!” she croons. “Home from afar!”

She steps back and drinks the sight of me in before she starts hollering for Kenzie.

My sister has naturally wild hair like me that she’s spent the past few years obsessively straightening. She knew more about make-up by the age of fourteen than I’ve learned in my entire life, and her Facebook makes it clear she’s one of the most popular girls at her high school.

“Oh my god, what?” I hear her shout before she appears on the staircase landing holding an eyelash curler in place. “Oh, hey siblings. I’ll come hug you once I’m done getting ready.”

She disappears, and Mom rolls her eyes. “Your sister is going to a party tonight. I told her she has to have dinner and cake with us first, though.”

This is how it’s been since I was eleven: one cake with mom, then the next night we get shipped off and have another cake with dad. You’d think they could have sat together in the same room for just one evening, if only for the sake of not overfeeding their children, but no. There were two cakes every year.

Four, actually, since they both made sure Kenzie and Stephen got their own cakes.

We have a casserole Mom made for dinner before presents are opened. I help Mom light all the candles in the kitchen, and we each carry a cake out to the dining room, singing the birthday song in off-key voices. There are way too many leftover slices—there always are—and I know I’ll be taking a Tupperware container of them with me when I go back to Montreal on Sunday.

Later that night, once Kenzie has coerced Paul into driving her to the party and I’ve finished helping Mom clean up, I flop down on the mattress in my childhood bedroom. Most of my stuff has been cleared out, so the space is at once familiar and strange, like walking past a wall covered in graffiti you had memorized, only to discover it’s been whitewashed overnight.

I pull my phone out and find I have a few new texts from JP, most of them still raving about the art I sent him.

Glad you like it. I’m sorry I took so long to respond. I’m visiting my family this weekend.

His reply pops up a minute later.

Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

I tell him it’s mostly good, and when he finds out I’m just chilling in my room, my phone starts to ring with a call. He’s one of the only twenty-somethings I know who prefers phone calls to texting.

“Comment ҫa vaaaa?” his accented voice shouts into the phone.

“Ҫa va bien, merci.”

“Wow. Look at you, Molly. Busting out the French. How is family time going for you?”

I fill him in on the night’s activities, and tomorrow’s plans to do it all again with my dad. JP has a million questions about my siblings, and I find myself answering all of them. As usual, he just makes everything feel so easy—even talking, which sometimes feels like the hardest thing in the world.

Nothing has really changed between us since Halloween, other than more frequent calls and texting, but there’s been a thought hovering around in my head, a fly that swoops just out of reach every time I try to smack it.

Out of all the horrible things Paul said to me that night, only one of them actually stuck: He wants a piece of Molly’s ass. Come on, you’ve all seen it. He was jealous.

I know Paul was drunk and spouting bullshit the whole time, but I keep hearing those words over and over, wondering what made him say them. I still don’t know what happened before he punched JP. I’ve been too afraid of the answer to ask, because after everything that went down, I should be feeling less drawn to JP, not more.

He’s out of my league, out of my reach, and yet I can’t forget what he said to me that night either: All those bad things happened because you were out of their league

It would be crazy of me to turn my world on its head because of a single sentence. Halloween only proved that everything I’ve come to believe is true. I’d be an idiot to ignore that.

Just the sound of his voice in my ear tonight really makes me wish I could, though.

“So Kenzie is a party girl, huh?”

I tune back into our conversation. “Yeah, she’s shaping up to be one. She’s really popular. It’s weird. It’s like...Stephen and I went in one direction after the divorce, and Kenzie totally went in the other. She soaks attention up like it’s sunlight. She loves to have everyone’s eyes on her. It’s like she needs it as bad as I need to blend in. Maybe it’s a youngest child thing.”

“Maybe.” JP’s voice has gone quieter. “I can understand that.”

“How many siblings do you have again?” I ask him.

“Five,” he replies. “Four older sisters, one older brother.”

“Do you get along?”

“Mostly. I mean, I’m just...I’m just le bébé, you know? Just silly little Jean-Paul.”

Everyone seems to think being ‘silly’ is his life’s goal, but he sounds almost resentful right now.

“Are your parents still together?” I ask him.

“Yes, so I guess they have that going for them. It was bad, huh? When your parents split up?”

He sounds more concerned than I’ve ever heard him get before. It’s like a hyperactive puppy trying to be gentle. I close my eyes, and it’s almost as if he’s lying on the bed next to me, just like he does in Montreal.

“Yeah,” I admit. “It was bad. Brutal, really. My mom would get so angry, totally furious, and my dad would just take it all and then walk away. It was the middle of the recession, and he lost his job as a gardener. I mean, when your speciality is pruning topiaries, you’re the first expense people cut during a recession. We had no money. Mom had always been at home taking care of us. Kenzie used to come hide in my room when she was screaming at Dad. When we got too scared, we’d both go hide with Stephen, if he was home, at least. He started sneaking out around that time.”

JP is quiet for a moment, the sound of his breath drifting into the receiver.

“You said the divorce made you quiet. Is it why you’re...um...”

He trails off like he’s looking for a polite way to put things. I save him the trouble.

“Horribly, painfully socially awkward? Maybe. I was always a little weird, but as a kid I was a lot more outgoing. At school, I joined every single club. I even tried out for sports teams. All the teachers knew me. I don’t know why the divorce had the effect on me it did. Maybe I was just copying Stephen. I didn’t get all moody like him, but I got...nervous. I pulled everything inside myself. I started second-guessing. I never used to consider all the things that could go wrong when I tried something new, and suddenly it was all I could think about. I...Sorry.” I force myself to stop ranting. “I’m really hogging the conversation here.”

“No. You’re not.”

His tone is encouraging, so I continue. The words are pouring out so easily now, it’s hard to control.

“It was like I had this...new sense, like I could see all these shadows lurking behind things I never noticed were there before. I started staying on the well-lit path in front of me because at least I knew that was safe. I couldn’t be the girl I used to be. My brain just didn’t work like that anymore. When high school started and everybody settled into their roles in the social order, I just faded into the background. Everyone forgot I used to be Molly Myers, Extracurricular Enthusiast. I became Molly Myers, That Girl I Think Is in My Math Class. That was my role. I was fine with that. Then he came along, and the lines became harder to see for awhile...”

“Prom-posal guy?”

I can’t help snorting at the nickname. “Yes, Prom-posal guy. I know this all sounds crazy, but it’s just how I...understand the world, you know? Like there’s a person I’m supposed to be in it, like I have this set role to play, and I have to stick with it.”

I’m sure I’ve lost him now. This is getting so esoterically conceptual, I’ve almost lost myself.

Hashtag deep.

“I get that.”

I twist on the mattress, pressing the phone closer to my ear to make sure I’ve heard him right. “You what?”

“I get that. I know what it’s like to have a role. I’m the funny one, you know? I’m the one everyone calls when they just want to forget about things and have fun. That’s the only time people see me. If I try to be anything else, I disappear. They don’t want to hear it. It’s not what they’re looking for from me. You know how you feel like bad things happen every time you try leaving your ‘league?’ Well, I feel like bad things happen to me every time I try...trying—every time I try to be more.”

“Is that why you’ve never had a girlfriend?” I murmur.

“Quoi?”

“At—at the party,” I stammer, embarrassed I brought it up. “Stéphanie told me Ace told her you’ve never had a girlfriend since he’s known you.”

“I’ve had girlfriends!” he protests, and my stupid heart sinks a little. “But—Okay, not since high school, and nothing in high school was even serious. It’s just...that’s not what most girls want from me. I’m JP, you know? JP doesn’t date.”

He says it bitterly, as if he’s talking about some other guy he doesn’t really like. I want to tell him he’s wrong about the ‘most girls’ thing. There must be girls lining up out the door to date him. How could there not be? He’s everything a perfect boyfriend should be.

It’s right on the tip of my tongue to tell him so when I hear my name being shouted from downstairs.

“Shit,” I hiss into the phone. “It’s my mom. She sounds pissed about something.”

“You have to go?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry. I...”

I think you’re the most wonderful person I’ve ever met, and I like all of you. Not just the funny parts.

“...I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”

When I get downstairs, Mom is sitting at the kitchen island with her laptop open in front of her. The atmosphere turns icy the second I step in the room. That’s one of the many things that’s changed about her since Dad; she used to burn and rage when she was angry. Now she just freezes you out.

“I just took a look at your student portal, Molly.”

Turds. All the turds.

“Sixty-seven percent on your last assignment. That’s unacceptable. Your GPA has already slipped.”

Part of her conditions for funding my tuition and housing expenses is that she gets full access to all my information at McGill at all times. I don’t think it’s an unfair deal; if she’s paying for it, she deserves to be sure I’m putting the work in.

I just hoped she wouldn’t notice my plummeting grades until I’d managed to get them back up again. All the time I’ve been spending working on Metro Records stuff has finally started to have a discernible effect on my degree.

“I’m sorry. I just...missed the mark on that one. I guess I misunderstood the assignment. I should have gone to the professor about it before I handed it in.”

Mom’s tone is clipped. “Yes, you should have. Don’t let this happen again, Molly.”

“I won’t. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

She sighs, and her cool mask slips a little. “I don’t want you to just worry about disappointing me. I want you to worry about disappointing yourself. I want you to know how important this all is, Molly. I want you to be able to give it your best shot. I know how hard it is to focus on school while also worrying about paying for it. You know how many years it took me to finish my real estate program when you were kids. I don’t want you to go through that. I’m paying for your degree so it can be your number one priority, and I just want you to make the most of that opportunity.”

Part of me wants to come clean about the Metro Records job here and now. I’ve never lied to her before. I didn’t think I could lie to her, but I didn’t even blink while making up that story about my assignment. I’ve never had something that was worth lying about. I know she’ll demand I quit the second she finds out, and quitting Metro isn’t an option.

When I walk through the Metro Records door, the role I’m supposed to play as the awkward, loner shy girl disappears. My script gets chucked out the window, and I can be whoever I want. I’m not ready to give that up.

I’m also not ready to tell my mom that, so I apologize again and promise to do better. She pulls me into a hug, and we sit at the kitchen island, discussing things like grad school options and sociology internships while I pretend to be as excited as she is.

The cakes my dad made are as impressive as usual: Kenzie’s is covered in delicate pink roses and chocolate filigree, while Stephen’s has a tiny model roadster on top and a curving street made out of fondant. Dad lends a touch of artistry to everything he does. He could probably make a killing just decorating cakes for people, but he refuses to focus his career on anything but his passion.

His passion is making ornamental shapes out of shrubbery.

After we’ve cut into the masterpieces and I’ve eaten enough frosting to leave me buzzing with a sugar high, Dad suggests playing a board game. The reaction from Stephen and Kenzie is instant: they both get up from the table, Stephen grumbling about work in the morning and Kenzie describing the ‘mountain of homework’ she left at Mom’s place.

“We could play cards,” I suggest, after the two of them have left and we’re silently scraping cake crumbs into the garbage.

“Go Fish?” Dad asks with a grin.

It’s childish, but Go Fish is our favourite. We finish the dishes and settle ourselves on the battered pull-out couch in the tiny living room. Dad lives in the same two-bedroom apartment he’s been renting since the divorce. When all three kids spent weekends with him, Kenzie and I would sleep right here in the living room, the old pull-out mattress sinking so much beneath us that we always woke up rolled on top of each other.

“How’s school?” Dad asks, as he shuffles the deck.

I shrug. “It’s okay. Not exactly thrilling, but it’s not horrible.”

It’s easier to be candid with him than it is with Mom.

“Not horrible.” His chuckle sounds a little sad. “Well, that’s something. More importantly, how is your art?”

“I’m drawing a lot these days. I’m working on a project for a friend.” I let out a laugh as I accept my Go Fish cards from him. “It’s a drawing of a fish, actually. It’s for a CD cover. I’m designing the whole thing.”

“Very cool, Molly Polly. I’d love to see it when it’s done. Which friend is this for?”

I glance down at the hand I’ve been dealt. I don’t have any matching cards.

“He’s, um...a new friend.”

Dad tries and fails to hide his surprise. “He is, is he?”

I just nod, and we leave it at that for now. Dad has three sets of matching cards within a few rounds, but I’m still struggling to find the final ace. When I played this as a kid, I used to get so sure I knew who had the card I was looking for. I’d ask Stephen or Kenzie or Dad if they had any threes, completely certain they’d hand over the card I needed. Most of the time, I was wrong, but that didn’t stop me from being just as certain the next time.

Now I’m more cautious when I play.

“Go fish,” Dad tells me.

I dig in the pile, and then groan when I pull out a card that once again isn’t the ace. I glance at Dad, wondering how he’ll take the question I’m about to ask him.

“Hey, Dad.” I do my best to sound casual. “When you, like, got together with Mom...who made the first move?”

He eyes me from over the tops of his cards. “Your mother, of course. You think you’d exist right now if she’d left that up to me?”

I make a face, and Dad laughs.

“You know we met that summer I was working at my uncle’s restaurant. I’d been eyeing your mother for weeks from the dish pit. She was the prettiest waitress in that place. She had customers asking for her number all the time, but for some reason, she took a liking to the boy all covered in soapy water and food scraps. I saw her eyeing me back, but I didn’t know what the hell to do about it. Luckily your mother did. She walked right up and asked me where I was taking her on our first date.”

It’s hard to imagine my parents like that: young and happy, with wild 80s haircuts, flirting over plates of greasy diner food. It’s hard to imagine them together at all.

“Did you ever feel...like you weren’t good enough for her? Like she was out of your league?”

Dad sets his cards down on the table. When he speaks, his voice is deliberate, like he wants to make sure I catch every word.

“I don’t really believe in leagues, Molly Polly. I don’t believe there are levels of people. No one has the authority to decide what makes one human being worth more than any other. Your mother was with me because she wanted to be with me. It was as simple as that.”

“Until it wasn’t,” I can’t help adding, the words coming out harsher than I meant.

Pain flashes across Dad’s features before it dulls to a distant sort of sadness.

“Until it wasn’t,” he repeats. “I always wanted to be the best father I could be for you all, Molly. Your mother and I just had different ideas about what the ‘best father’ looked like, about what your ‘best lives’ could be. I wanted...I wanted to be everything she was looking for, but I needed you to have a father who stuck to his guns and fought for his passion. I needed you to have an example of that in your lives.”

“She said you loved shrubs more than you loved us.” My voice is thick. “I heard her tell you that one time.”

He reaches for my hand beside him. “I don’t love anything more than I love you, Molly Polly. I hope you know that.”

All I can do is squeeze his hand back as a sudden burning sensation pricks my eyes.

I know.

“But I’ll tell you something else: even after everything that’s happened, I’m still thankful for all those golden days with your mother. I wouldn’t trade those for anything. I loved her, Molly. I really did. I hope if you get the same chance, you don’t pass it up because you’re scared. I hope you make that first move, just like your mom did.”

We sit there for a moment, his calloused, weather-beaten hand in mine, before he lets out a low whistle.

“Whew. That got heavy for a game of Go Fish, didn’t it, Molly Polly? Maybe we should take an intermission. I have something for you in the fridge.”

He gets up and starts shuffling around in the kitchen. I know exactly what’s coming next.

“Aw, dad, you didn’t have to,” I call to him. “I thought you gave it up this year. Kenzie’s seventeen now. You don’t have to keep worrying I’m going to feel bad.”

“I want my Molly Polly to know she’s special too,” he sing-songs. “I thought it might be just you and me playing Go Fish tonight, so...”

He comes back to the living room holding a plate with my cupcake on it, the one he’s made for me every year since Kenzie was born. He decorates it differently each time, but he always makes sure I have my own little moment while everyone is busy celebrating my siblings.

This year he’s piped red, orange, and blue frosting into the shape of a goldfish on the cake.

“Go fish,” he jokes, setting the plate down in front of me. “Go fish, and see what you find.”