It’s undyed cotton, gender neutral, printed with a picture of vegetables. Seriously. Babies here are forced to declare their allegiance to vegetables before they’re old enough to say, “Suck it, Mom, I want ice cream.”
“This is actually a reorder. We sold out of them last week,” Reid says.
“Of course it’s a reorder.”
“Vegetables are just really popular right now.” He looks down and smiles.
We work in silence, putting price stickers on the tags and folding the onesies up neatly again. When we finish, Reid says, “I think there are some swaddling blankets, too.”
I pick one up, reading the label. “Organic hemp.”
“Yes.”
“Really?” I look at him.
He laughs. “Really.”
So, I guess there are parents who like to roll their babies up like blunts.
It’s funny watching Middle Earth Reid while he works. All this delicate baby stuff, and he’s the least delicate-looking person I’ve ever met. He’s struggling to roll up the swaddling blankets. I think his hands are too big.
Maybe this is why they hired me: for my smallish hands and my blunt-rolling abilities.
He looks up at me suddenly. “So, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Just curious. Why are you so surprised about my parents’ tattoos?”
Um. Because these people are related to you.
“Is it because they’re Jewish?” he adds.
“Oh no! It’s not that. I knew they were Jewish. I mean, the store is called Bissel. Their last name is Wertheim.”
He laughs. “Me too. I’m Reid Wertheim.” He leans forward and offers his hand for me to shake. He has a surprisingly confident handshake.
“Molly Peskin-Suso,” I say.
“Peskin!” he says. “Are you Jewish, too?”
“I am.”
“Really?” His eyes light up, and I know exactly what he’s thinking. I don’t think of myself as super Jewish or anything, and I basically never go to synagogue. But there’s this thing I feel when I meet another Jewish person in the wild. It’s like a secret invisible high five.
And it’s funny. Normally, I go totally blank and silent when I meet a boy for the first time—which is how a person can end up having twenty-six crushes and zero kisses. But around Middle Earth Reid, I feel exactly as nervous as I’d feel around any new person. No more, no less.
It’s actually kind of wonderful.
By three o’clock, Reid and I have unpacked, priced, and set out six boxes of baby stuff. And we’ve talked. There has been ample time for talking. So far, I’ve learned that he really likes Cadbury Mini Eggs. When I asked if this was relevant in June, he said Cadbury Mini Eggs are always relevant. Apparently he buys them in bulk after Easter and hoards them.
Honestly, I respect that.
I leave work exactly at three, and the Metro’s on time, so I’m early to Silver Spring. I walk down Ellsworth Drive and lurk near the entrance of FroZenYo. There are fifty billion restaurants here, and even on a weekday afternoon, it’s packed with people: dads pushing strollers and girls who look like they’re my age but dress like they work in a bank. My moms talk a lot about how Silver Spring was better before it got gentrified. It’s sad to think about. I guess it just sucks when change makes things worse.
I lean against the side of the building so I can play on my phone. Social media is the actual worst today. It’s one of those days where both Facebook and Instagram have been taken over by selfies, and they’re not even the kind that own their selfie-ness. It’s more the kind where the person is looking off in the distance, trying to seem candid. I need an anti-favorite button. Not that I’d actually use it, but still.
I’m sort of wondering where Cassie and Mina are. Cassie’s not usually late, but it’s already ten minutes past the time we’re supposed to meet. I don’t know whether to be grumpy or concerned. But at 3:45, I finally see them: walking together, giggling about something and carrying bags from H&M. They’re not even rushing.
Anti-favorite. Dislike.
“Hey,” Cassie says. She smiles when she sees me. “You remember Mina.”
“From the bathroom. With the labia,” Mina says.
I can’t help but giggle.
Here’s a frustrating thing about me: if everyone else is happy, I usually can’t stay pissed off. My moods are conformists. It sucks, because sometimes you really want to be angry.
“Oh my God, I love your necklace,” Mina adds.
I blush. “Oh. I made it.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah, it’s easy. See, it’s an old zipper.” I lean forward to show her. “You just cut off the end and unzip it, and curve it into a heart. And then you sew the bottom together.”
“Molly makes shit like that all the time,” Cassie explains, but she says it sort of proudly.
They set their bags on top of a table next to each other. I guess they spent the afternoon together shopping. Which is a horrifying group activity, if you ask me—though maybe it’s different for people with single-digit sizes. They probably modeled for each other. Maybe they got matching outfits.
I pick up an empty yogurt cup. This is one of those places where you serve everything yourself. You can pick whatever yogurt flavors you want, and once you do that, there are fifty million toppings to choose from. There are people who can’t handle this kind of freedom. But I can, and I rule at it. You just have to know your own tastes.
I pay and sit down, and Mina settles in beside me. She peers into my cup. “What’d you get?”
“Chocolate with cookie dough.”
Like I said.
I rule at this.
Mina tilts her cup toward me, and of course she’s one of those fundamentally confused people who mixes gummies with chocolate.
“So, Cassie said you go to Georgetown Day?” I feel tongue-tied.
“Yup. I’ll be a senior.”
“Us too. And you do photography?”
“You know everything!” she says.
Which makes me blush. I don’t know. I feel like a creeper. I always seem to know more about people than they know about me.
I feel an awkward silence blooming. I have to head it off at the pass. “Our friend Olivia does photography,” I say quickly.
“Oh, cool!” Mina says. “I mean, I’m really new at it. Will—you met him—the redhead. He’s actually super talented, but he’s teaching me the basics. He has this software where you can tweak the lighting and color on the images after you upload them. And he’s going to teach me how to do sun flares.” Mina pauses. “I’m talking too much, aren’t I?”
“No, you’re—”
“I talk a lot when I’m nervous.”
“You’re nervous?” I ask.
She shrugs, smiling. “I don’t know. This feels so formal, right? Like, isn’t this weird? To put actual effort into becoming friends?”
“I guess so,” I say.
“My friends and I were never like, ‘Hey, let’s be friends.’ It’s more like, ‘Yeah, okay. You’re there and you’re cool.’”
“That’s literally what I said to Cassie in the womb,” I say.
She laughs, scratching an invisible spot on her arm. Which makes the sleeve of her shirt ride up, revealing the edge of a tattoo. I can’t quite make out what it’s a picture of. But seriously. This girl has a tattoo. And she’s in high school. I feel slightly inadequate.
Cassie slides in across from me.
“You take forever,” Mina says.
“Yes, but. Decisions.”
That’s Cassie. Every time we come here, she takes her flavor profile deadly seriously, but she always gets the exact same thing. Vanilla yogurt. And some type of gummy. MEMO TO CASSIE: all gummies taste the same. They honestly do.
“Okay, I have to finish telling you about my theory,” Cassie says. She shovels a spoonful of yogurt into her mouth. “So, Molly, you missed this, but we were talking about ances
tors.”
“Um, what?” I ask.
“Like, ancestors. Like, all your relatives who died before you were born.”
“Why were you talking about this?”
Cassie pauses, her spoon midair. “Oh. I don’t remember.”
“Well, first we were talking about sperm donation,” Mina says, “and whether or not your sperm donor’s relatives count as your relatives.”
“Right,” Cassie says. “But, okay, here’s my theory. You’ve got your ancestors, and they’re just hanging out in heaven or hell—FYI, this is not like a rabbi-endorsed, official tenet of Judaism.”
“I gathered that.” I smile a little.
“Right. So, here’s what I think. They’re sitting around, drinking ambrosia and everything.”
“This is definitely not rabbi-endorsed.”
She ignores me. “And then one of their descendants has a baby. And it’s you! And as soon as you’re born, for your whole life, your ancestors get to watch everything. And they’re rooting for you and discussing among themselves, but they’re not allowed to intervene. They just watch. It’s like a reality show.”
“A really, really boring reality show,” I say.
“Yeah, but it’s not boring to them, you know? Because you’re their descendant.” Cassie clasps her hands together. “So they’re invested.”
Mina purses her lips around her spoon and nods.
“And then when you eventually get old and die,” Cassie continues, “you show up in heaven, where you’re basically a fucking celebrity. And your ancestors are like, yeah, I was shipping you with that other girl, but it’s cool. And sorry you got old and died, though. And you’re like, yeah, that sucked, but you know.” Cassie shrugs. “And so then you actually become one of the ancestors, and the next time a baby is born, you get to watch everything. And the cycle continues.”
“That’s horrifying,” says Mina.
Cassie tilts her head. “How so?”
“Um, having a bunch of dead people watching you all the time? Watching you pee and have sex and masturbate. And, like, discussing it with each other?”
“Eww. No.” Cassie shakes her head quickly. “They’re not creepers. They’re not watching that stuff. And anyway, they have like a million descendants to keep up with, so it’s not like they can watch anyone that closely. It’s more like flipping through the channels.”
“But, see, that’s not what you said,” Mina argues, poking the air with her spoon. And I like this. I like watching Cassie get challenged. I think Cassie likes it, too.
“Well, I’m still tweaking the theory,” Cassie says, smiling.
“Good. Make sure no dead people are watching me pee,” Mina says. Then she glances at me and groans, covering her face. “God. Molly, you must think I only talk about peeing and labia.”
“That is true,” I say.
She sticks her tongue out at me.
And in that moment, I realize I might actually be becoming friends with this girl. That’s two legit new friends today, and it’s not even four thirty. Mina of the Labia and Middle Earth Reid. A pretty good day’s work. I feel myself smiling.
Cassie nods. “Okay, so let’s say certain things are censored. They’re not allowed to watch you in the bathroom or having sex or anything like that.”
“But you can’t just decide that,” Mina says. “This isn’t a reality show pitch. It’s a metaphysical theory.”
“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.
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.”
The Upside of Unrequited Page 3