And it helped that Tee was chill about the road trip, calling it a bonding experience, with the caveat that a-little-communication-with-the-people-who-love-and-worry-about-you-never-hurts. Her energy level is way up, which has put her in a good mood. She’s going back to work soon, and in the meantime she’s started teaching the girls to knit, which is hilarious to watch. I record one of their knitting sessions, thinking if I share it with them in ten years, they’ll be rolling on the floor with laughter.
A couple weeks after the wedding, Micah comes over to watch a movie at my house. We sit together on the couch. Luke’s been overly enthusiastic with the thermostat, so it’s freezing inside. I spread a quilt over my lap. My walking cast is now off, and I’m relishing my newfound ankle freedom.
“You gonna hog that blanket?” He asks, dimpling.
“Yep. I was planning to.”
And now we’re in a tug-of-war, yanking the quilt back and forth. He’s stronger than me, though, and I suspect he’s grounding his feet as leverage, so I lurch forward and land in his lap. No cologne this time, just a combo of soap and light vanilla, like maybe he borrowed Alicia’s scented hand lotion.
“I suppose this quilt is big enough to share,” I grumble, but I don’t mind. The truth is, I’m confused about how I feel about Micah. I want to snuggle in with him under the blanket, lean my head on his shoulder, and let his warmth wrap around me. But do I want that because I’m missing Axel? Or do I want that because I want that?
I definitely don’t want a rebound. And I don’t need a new boyfriend. I’m fine on my own. So why do I want to curl up next to him?
I’m struggling with these questions, plus he smells so freaking good that I can’t concentrate on the movie. So I press pause and turn toward him. “I’ve always thought we were practically cousins.”
His smile is knowing, as if he’s had this same thought himself and he appreciates me sharing it. “Me too. But that’s silly. We’re not blood relations.”
“Yeah, but I’ve known you since we both pooped in diapers and stuck our hands in our mouths and picked our noses.” It’s hard for me to shake the idea of him as family, but bit by bit I’m shedding that mindset. Just like Ryan/Dad morphed from random step-uncle to father, maybe Micah’s transforming from family friend to something more. It’s strange how something can feel so permanent, and then shapeshift and surprise me.
“We do have history.” He deepens his voice in an over-the-top soap opera kind of way. “But maybe that just means we have a foundation for building something else.”
Huh.
“Feel like wearing an uncomfortable dress and uncomfortable shoes?” Micah asks out of nowhere.
“Uh, not particularly. Why? You need someone to go to a funeral with you?”
“Worse. Prom. I’d like to just not show up, but I have to go to humor Mom. Before you answer, you should know that I am planning an extravagant bribe.”
“Ooh! Tell me more.”
“It involves frozen yogurt.”
I consider this. I’m pretty anti-prom, but at least I won’t be attending my own. And I don’t know anyone at Micah’s school, which makes the stakes seem lower somehow. “Add sour gummies and I’m yours.”
✱✱✱
“Can I borrow the Barbie dress?” I ask from the doorway of Saff’s room.
The clingy fabric accentuates both the ample and small areas of my frame. I begged to buy it from Saffron after I tried it on the first time, but she shut me down. Then I tried to steal it, but it’s impossible to hide a dress that amazing—even if I hang it at the very back of my closet. So I’m resorting to borrowing it.
“Sure,” says Saff, who’s sitting on her bed reading.
“Thank you. That dress is magic. It sounds corny, but it makes me feel like a woman.”
While Saff belts out an old Shania Twain song, I sift through her closet until my hands land on fabric so smooth that it feels like satin (although it clearly isn’t). I step into the Jack-and-Jill bathroom that connects our bedrooms and slip off my T-shirt. I catch sight of myself in the mirror, in my black push-up bra.
I’m not the kind of girl who spends hours staring at my body in the mirror, searching for fat deposits or critiquing the shape of my thighs. So sometimes I sort of surprise myself. Like, “Oh, hi—there you are.” Sometimes I don’t even recognize myself right away. And today’s one of those times. The soft fullness of my breasts surprises me, the contrast of my collarbone against the curve of my flesh, against the flatness of my midsection. A study in contrasts.
And for a moment, even without the magic dress, I strike myself as beautiful. Not in a conceited way, just in an observant, self-removed way. Like it’s not even me in the mirror. Just some girl I don’t know. Would Saff think it’s wrong to admire my body? She’s so focused on “what’s on the inside,” but she’d probably also say that I should love all the parts of me.
I turn sideways, a profile of my curves and lines. I pause again, and then turn nearly backwards. In this twisted position, I can see the way my shoulder blades jut out, and slight muscles in my back, along with my face. Saff has a lovely, delicate appearance, but my features are stronger, more unusual.
Saff keeps on singing “feel like a woman,” all dramatic. What makes me a woman? My body, lean and curvy? The way my breasts bloom from my bra? Is it my face—my chestnut eyes and full lips? My ovaries? My womb? Or is it all within? Is it my mind? My soul? Some combination that I choose?
Maybe removing my breasts or my ovaries wouldn’t make me less of a woman. I don’t mind keeping them for now, though.
I shake the magic dress out and lift it up to slip over my head. I watch myself in the mirror, how my skin shifts as my arms move.
Wait.
What’s that? I freeze, arms up, dress suspended above my head.
“Saffron.” My voice sounds strangely calm, but there’s an energy underneath it that Saff must hear right away, because she stops singing.
“What’s wrong?” Almost instantaneously she edges in behind me.
“Look. When I lift my arms. What is that?”
Saff reaches for me, her fingers cold, and presses on my skin in that area. The chill of her fingers startles me. “Does it hurt?”
“No. But your fingers are giving me frostbite.”
Any possibility of humor falls flat. “Touch it,” she commands me.
I move my left hand toward the top of my right breast, almost in my armpit. And press, working my fingers in a circle around the tiny area. Small. About the size of a raisin. Not totally hard, but a little firmer than the rest of my skin. Kind of a thickness, like a clump in my oatmeal. “That can’t be possible, Saff. There’s no way. I’m too young.”
All traces of color drain from her face. “I’m going to look it up.” She pulls me back into her room and sits down with her laptop. “What should I search for?”
“Earliest known case of breast cancer.”
She types quickly, her fingers catching my urgency. And hits “enter.”
“What?!” I fixate on the screen. “Eight? That’s not possible. Girls don’t even have breasts at age eight.”
“Okay. Calm down. Let’s look up overall percentages.” She types again. “Okay. I found a graph. Uh-oh . . . 1.6 percent of cases are for people between ages sixteen and twenty-eight.” She centers herself. “That’s still really rare.”
“But it’s possible.”
Saff scans the screen. “It says here that many masses are just cysts. Most of those are benign. It says that they can biopsy it to find out. Let’s move up our appointment with the specialist. And if he can’t see us, we’ll switch and see someone else. I’ll call right now.”
I turn my gaze downward. Two minutes ago, I was admiring my breasts for their aesthetics. Now, examining the mounds of flesh pushing out from my chest, I suddenly understand how it’s possible to hate them.
Chapter 38
Aunt Tee and Luke are at the zoo with the kids, and Dad’s work
ing, so we decide to handle this on our own. Since it’s Saturday, the specialist isn’t in, and neither is our primary care doctor. We leave a message on both of their after-hours lines. Technically this is not an emergency. But it sure feels like one.
Saff is holding it together better than I’d have expected, especially given her freakout when we first got our BRCA results. Her skin is pale and her hands are shaking, but her words are calm and simple. “Listen,” she tells me. “It’s highly unlikely that the lump is cancerous. You’re super young. But we’ll get this checked out ASAP, even if I have to camp out on Dr. Garcia’s front lawn.”
I toss the dress on the floor.
“Oh no you don’t.” Saff scoops it up. “You’re wearing that dress and you’re going to prom. Nothing’s going to happen tonight, so you might as well be distracted.”
“I can’t go to a dance now!”
“Yes you can.” Her voice is firm. She’s in her take-charge mode. “And you will. I will not have you crushing Micah’s childhood dreams.”
“He couldn’t care less about prom.” I sink onto her bed, wishing the mattress would absorb me completely. “It’s Alicia. She’s reliving her childhood.”
“I don’t know, Cayenne. I think he really wants to go with you . . . as his date.”
“You’re the one who’s always saying we should please ourselves before we worry about pleasing some guy!”
“You know, arguing with me would take a thousand times more energy than just going to the dance.”
Unfortunately she’s right, so I disentangle myself from the mattress and put on the stupid dress. Micah arrives while Saff is helping me fasten my hair into a twist on top of my head. I have to admit that the dangly silver earrings and my up-do make my neck appear ballerina-long.
“Wow, Cayenne,” Micah stammers from the door to my room. He’s wearing a classic black tux, with a deep blue silk shirt. “You look a-maz-ing,” he says, accentuating the three syllables of the word.
“Thanks,” I say, but my voice is tight.
“Micah, will you help me reach something in the kitchen?” Saff asks, a transparent excuse. She whisks him away, and when he returns, I know she’s told him about the lump. For a moment, I’m irritated, because sheesh, my breasts are my own business! But on the other hand, I’m relieved. There’s no way I can fake it through this night. If I’m going, and it looks like I’m going, he needs to know where my mind’s at.
“Saffron,” I say, reaching for a joke, “have you been describing my breasts to my date? Because perhaps he’d like a visual?”
I can tell they’re both caught off guard by this, which is absurd, because they’ve both known me their whole lives, and by now they should know that this is how I roll.
Micah’s face is so complicated—furrowed brow like he’s worried, deepening of his dimples like he’s amused by my joke, and eyes hinting at sadness. “Saffron. Can you excuse us?”
She’s peeking around the door. “All right.”
“Maybe we should ditch the prom tonight,” says Micah. “Stay here and talk, or watch a movie.”
“Your mom would never forgive you.”
“We could take fake prom pictures and text them to her. She’d never know the difference.”
“Tempting. But I’ll go as long as you promise me one thing.”
“Anythin—” he starts to say but thinks the better of it. “Wait. I know you too well to promise without knowing what it is.”
“Oh, this is an easy one,” I reassure him. “Just don’t talk about my boobs.”
✱✱✱
Three things surprise me tonight. One is that Micah is a decent dancer. This is something I didn’t know about him—I guess I’ve never had the opportunity to dance with him. I hate it when guys don’t have rhythm. Micah, on the other hand, accentuates each movement with the beat, as if the music and his body are joined.
The second thing that surprises me is how little I think. My mind is full, bursting with the sounds of the music, Micah’s clean cologne smell, and the texture of his hand in mine. I can almost forget about the tiny bump lurking in my skin.
And the third thing that surprises me is that neither Micah nor I want the evening to end. He parks in front of our neighbor’s house, but instead of exiting the car we sit there in the dark, holding hands. He rubs his thumb on the space between my own thumb and finger. Back and forth. It soothes me at first, and then it makes me tingle.
“Thank you for tonight, Micah.”
He’s looking down at our hands. “Cayenne. I don’t want to mess things up. So, you can tell me to back off and I will.” “His eyes shift up to meet mine. “I know I’m not your type. But I’m pretty sure you’re mine.”
“Only one way to find out,” I say, keeping my voice light. I lean in, catch his lower lip in mine, and turn my head to let my tongue enter his mouth. He tastes sweet, and he’s gentle, tentative, following my lead. His free hand runs up the side of my face, tracing me, smoothing my hair away. When we pull back for a breath, his eyes are soft.
“Huh. That was nice. Maybe you are my type.” I touch his cheek, feeling the slight stubbles on my palm. “To be sure, though, I need another sample.” I kiss him again, deeper this time. No matter how long I’ve known him, he definitely doesn’t feel like a cousin.
My neck is getting sore from turning in his direction. I scoot back my seat all the way and recline it. “Here. Come on my side.”
“We could just go into the house,” he suggests.
“And deal with Aunt Tee?”
“It’s late. There aren’t any lights on.” There’s eagerness in his voice. I imagine Tee or Luke discovering Micah in my room, and decide they’d be relieved it wasn’t Axel. How did I not realize how much my family disliked Axel?
“Okay.” He’s right. The house is quiet. Even Saff’s light is off. I lead him quietly into my room, leaving everything dark. There’s something exciting and sensual about having to feel my way with only touch. I ease my bedroom door closed behind me and guide him over to my bed.
He hesitates. “Let’s go slow, okay? You’re vulnerable right now—you just broke up with your boyfriend, you’ve got medical worries—”
I cover his mouth with my palm. “You promised! None of that.”
He laughs, his breath hot against my palm. “I just don’t want to get carried away. I really like you . . . so I need boundaries.”
I consider being offended, but the truth is that I want to take it slow too. When I was with Axel, I kept second-guessing that instinct, kept wondering if I should push myself further for his sake. It’s a relief that Micah and I are on the same page. “Just kissing,” I tell him. “Lots and lots of kissing.”
This seems agreeable to him. He lowers me onto my bed and starts in. First he kisses my neck, and gradually he moves to my ears, sending tingles down my spine. A warm buzzing of complete relaxation spreads across my chest and out to my limbs. By the time he gets to my lips, I’m more than ready to participate. There’s something both gentle and strong in the way he kisses. I lose track of time. His kisses fill me up and make my mind hum.
Unlike when I was with Axel, I’m aware of the limits of what this feeling can do for me.
It can’t fix all my problems. It can’t cure me of my family curse. It can’t erase this tiny mass under my arm.
But it doesn’t need to. For now, I’m okay. For now, I’m alive.
Chapter 39
Apparently my situation is now “imminent,” and my appointment with the specialist has been moved up to Tuesday. Tee keeps saying, “It’s a cyst, it’s gotta be benign” until I inform her that this mantra is not helping. She quiets down after that, so much that it surprises me. It occurs to me that our last heart-to-heart might’ve hurt her feelings more than I realized. She and Luke both seem more distant lately, and maybe it’s not just from the stress of dealing with Tee’s surgery and recovery. Maybe Saff isn’t the only one I’ve been pushing away.
✱✱✱
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At the medical appointment, the specialist conducts a fine needle aspiration biopsy, which sounds way worse than it is. The specialist reassures me and Tee that the cyst is most likely benign, but he’s doing the biopsy as a precaution due to our family history and the gene mutation. He adds that I should start getting an MRI twice a year to screen. Saff latches on to that idea like it’s a life preserver, forcing me to make the MRI appointment even before we receive the biopsy results.
MRIs are supposedly more sensitive than mammograms and now that I’m in this “high-risk” category, I’ll be signing up for MRIs every year, indefinitely—or as long as I have breasts. So today Saff and I are sitting in the waiting room at Spelman Imaging. This is only Tee’s second week back at work, so I turned down her offer to take a day off and come with me. And Dad texted me this morning too, asking if I’d like a ride to the imaging center, but he’s my dad and they’re screening my breasts . . . it just feels weird. Same with Luke, who was also willing to come. In the end I decided I’d prefer to just go with Saff. She doesn’t have the gene mutation but she’ll still need to go through all these screenings at some point, so this is valuable preparation for her.
I’m filling out my questionnaire, submitting my insurance cards, and signing consent forms for a variety of medical interventions.
My name is called. “Oh yay,” I grumble, but good-naturedly.
“Have fun!” Saff says, like she’s sending me off for a pedicure or a massage. She continues staring at her phone screen, but I know she’s faking. She’s every bit as nervous as I am. Maybe more. She’d have to be, to be willing to miss a chunk of school during the last week. She claims that two of her classes have final papers instead of tests, and that she finished them already. It’s funny though—the more I stress about my own health, the more Saff seems to let go—a little. It’s almost like she was carrying the burden of stressing for me, and now she’s stressing with me.
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