“I mean, he didn’t ask me to, like, get waxed.”
Cassie laughs. “Uh, I’d say he hinted pretty strongly. Fuck that, though. That is so not his call.”
It occurs to me, suddenly, that I’ve been staring at the same magazine page for the last five minutes. And it’s not even the right color scheme. I feel slightly on edge.
I just honestly hate this kind of conversation. It’s not that bikini waxing is a foreign concept to me, but . . . I mean, I guess it kind of is. Like, it’s one of those girl habits that’s so far beyond me, it makes me feel like a different species. Do boys require hairless vaginas? Is this a known thing?
Of course, the magazine I’m holding makes me think so. Not that there’s a big hairless vagina in my face. But it’s one of those models with perfect shadowy cleavage. How do they get their cleavage to do that? I’m pretty sure I could drive a boat through my boobs, they’re so far apart. I guess it’s just this feeling that my body is secretly all wrong. Which means any guy who assumes I’m normal is going to flip his shit if we get to the point of nakedness. Whoa. Nope. Not what I signed up for.
It makes me never want to be naked. And it’s not like I could be a Never Nude. I don’t even like jean shorts.
“. . . am I right?” Cassie asks.
I look up and realize they’re both looking at me.
“Yes,” I say. Which is probably a safe answer. Cassie usually is right.
“Ugh. I don’t know.” Olivia shakes her head. “Like I don’t even mind the idea of it or whatever. I just don’t want it to be a thing. I hate confrontation.”
“Uh, clearly.”
Olivia smiles shyly. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you just confirmed that you would literally rather get the hair ripped off of your vagina than deal with confrontation.”
“Oh,” she says. “I guess so.”
“That is—nope. Just. Give me your phone.” Cassie makes a grab for it.
“Cassie!”
“Are you texting him?” I ask.
“I’m just letting him know”—she starts typing—“that Olivia would be happy to get waxed if he’s willing to wax his tiny, microscopic little peen at the same time. . . .”
“WHAT?” Olivia makes a violent grab for the phone. “Don’t you dare hit send.”
Cassie leans back on her elbows, laughing. “There’s that fighting spirit.”
“Fuck you,” Olivia says, grinning down at her phone.
Immediately, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Text from Olivia: luv my hairy vag!! Vag FTW!!! go wax ur butthole pls schulmeister.
I snicker, tilting my phone toward Olivia. “Oops! I think this text was meant for Evan. Should I forward it to him?”
“I hate you both,” Olivia says, halfway between a laugh and a scowl.
We burn out on beads after an hour or so—and by that, I mean Cassie burns out and starts dumping the magazines back into their reusable grocery bags. But I really think the bead therapy helped. By the time Olivia leaves, she’s her unruffled self, even if the situation still has Cassie amped up.
“What was that about?” Nadine asks when we walk into the living room. She’s nursing Xav on the couch.
Cassie sinks down beside her. “You don’t want to know.”
“Is Olivia okay? I was just talking to her mama. Sounds like she’s looking at art programs.”
“That’s definitely not what we were talking about,” says Cassie.
“Evan’s being a shitbag again,” I say, and Cassie beams down at me like a proud parent. Must be the word shitbag. Cassie loves compound curse words.
“Schulmeister?” Nadine says. “What did that little fuckwipe do now?”
Come to think of it, Nadine loves compound curse words, too.
Cassie tells her the whole thing, and you can tell Nadine loves every moment of this. I don’t think there’s a single thing on earth that brings more joy to Nadine than throwing shade at Evan Schulmeister. She’s never liked him, ever since he asked if Cassie was actually queer, or if she was trying to emulate our moms. He actually used the word emulate. I don’t even want to remember that particular stretch of awkward silence.
Actually, I do. It was kind of amazing.
But my mind keeps drifting back to the way I felt this morning on the porch. There’s so much I don’t know about. And everyone else seems like they were born knowing. Things like waxing. And birth control. I know the mechanics, obviously, but how does it play out in real life? Who brings the condom? Can anyone buy condoms? Can you use the self-checkout U-Scan so there’s no eye contact involved? Except—oh God—what if the machine announces it?
CONDOMS! Twelve ninety-nine! Please place your GIANT BOX OF CONDOMS IN THE BAG. Oh, but your VALUE PACK OF CONDOMS is too big for our sensors. Please wait, and someone will assist you shortly.
“Why are you so red, Momo?” Nadine asks.
Whoa. Molly. Hey. Get your shit together.
I guess I shouldn’t worry about this until I’ve actually, you know, kissed a guy.
ON WEDNESDAY, I SOMEHOW END up in the backseat of Mina’s ancient but immaculate Lexus.
“I can’t believe this is your car,” Cassie says. “I mean, it’s so cool that you even have a car.”
“It was my grandma’s,” says Mina.
“Our grandma’s not supposed to drive anymore,” Cassie says. “Because she hit someone.”
Mina gasps. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious. I was with her. I mean, she was going really slowly, and the guy was totally okay. But she cursed him out and called him a bitch.”
Mina laughs. “I have to meet this woman.”
“She’s visiting next week,” I say. “You should come over.”
“Okay, no,” Cassie says. “Mina does not need to meet Grandma. That is a solid nope.” She grins, and I look at her, curled up in the passenger seat, her whole body turned toward Mina. She’s like a flower tilting toward the sun.
“So, Molly, can I ask you something?” Mina says, after a moment, eyes flicking up to meet mine in the rearview mirror.
“Sure.”
“Cass says you’ve had crushes on twenty-five guys.”
“Twenty-six,” Cassie corrects immediately.
“But you haven’t dated any of them?” Mina asks.
“No,” I say. I feel the usual prickle of self-consciousness.
But when Mina glances at me again, her expression is sweetly curious. “Is there a story behind that?”
“There’s no story. It just never . . .” I lean back against the seat, squeezing my eyes shut.
I have this sudden memory of middle school. There was this table of boys in the cafeteria who would yell boi-oi-oing when hot girls walked by. Except when I walked by, they made a womp womp womp sound, like a boner going limp.
I remember feeling frozen. Cassie was screaming at them, and I couldn’t catch my breath. I thought I was dying.
My first panic attack.
I mean, here’s the thing I don’t get. How do people come to expect that their crushes will be reciprocated? Like, how does that get to be your default assumption?
“Well, she doesn’t put herself out there,” Cassie says. “Like, at all. So, Molly’s never actually been rejected, either.”
“And I’m okay with that,” I say. Cassie snorts.
I stare out the window. Bethesda looks so different from Takoma Park. Everything’s a little quieter and fancier, and there are definitely fewer mixed-media art installations in people’s front yards. But it’s nice here. Some of the houses are really, really big.
“Well, what kind of guys do you like?” Mina says, slowing for a stop sign. “Other than Will.”
Jesus Christ. Hipster Will. I never actually said I liked him. I don’t even know if I do. I’ve met him once.
“Oh, she likes all kinds of guys. Molly’s a crush machine,” Cassie says. “Let’s see. Noah Bates. Jacob Schneider. Jorge Gutierrez. That guy Brent from Hebrew school. The eyelash kid from camp. Josh Barker. Julian Portillo. The short guy from pre-calc. The student teacher. Vihaan Gupta. And Olivia’s little cousin.”