“But why?” I ask her, even though I know she has no intention of getting implants. Cassidy is prone to sudden, fleeting obsessions. Like the time she was going to get an enormous Valkyrie tattooed across her back, or the time she wanted to become a professional trapeze artist.
She shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “I just think they could be bigger.” She tucks in her chin and peers down at her breasts. “Do you think everyone will be able to tell?”
“Don’t do it,” Sophie says. “They’re great the way they are.” I’m pretty sure she blushes as she says it.
“I’ll definitely be able to tell,” Martin says as if he’s a breast expert.
“Oh, please,” Cassidy says, laughing. “You wouldn’t know a real breast if it hit you in the face.”
He scowls, but not in a serious way. Unless he’s been keeping secrets from us all, Martin’s never seen or touched a pair of breasts in his eighteen years on the planet. “One day my ship will come in,” he says.
“Will your ship be shaped like breasts?” I ask.
“I don’t think breasts are seaworthy,” says Sophie.
“Well, they definitely float,” Cassidy says, doing a weird bobbing thing with her own breasts that only Cassidy would do.
Sophie laughs at Cassidy’s antics, covering her mouth with her hands the way she always does when she thinks she’s laughing too hard.
Cassidy waits for her to stop laughing and then immediately does the bobbing move again.
Sophie laughs even harder this time. Finally, she takes her hands from her face. “Stop making me laugh,” she says, breathless.
“Not my fault you think I’m so funny,” Cassidy says.
“But you are so funny,” Sophie says. The way she says it is almost shy.
I look back and forth between them. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were flirting.
Martin, Sophie, Cassidy and I don’t have an epic origin story. From the outside looking in, I guess we seem kind of unlikely, if you judge friendships on race alone. Cassidy is white, with incredibly wealthy and neglectful producer parents. Sophie is mixed, Black French mom and Korean American dad, both scientists. Martin I’ve already described. His dad died when he was a baby.
The four of us have been friends since sixth grade, when a scheduling fluke put us—and only us—into the same study period. We started out in the four corners of the room but eventually met in the middle, killing time by trading jokes and gossip. We’ve been friends ever since.
“Let’s talk about the route,” Martin says, trying to bring us all back to the task at hand, which is planning our epic post-graduation cross-country road trip.
He pushes our plates aside and spreads out a laminated map of the United States.
“You really are from the Stone Age,” I say, teasing him for having an actual paper map.
He ignores my teasing. “I think we should stick to a northerly route,” he says.
I nod. The boy withers in temperatures above eighty degrees. Sophie says something about wanting to see some kind of biosphere in Arizona. Cassidy wants to see the kitschy stuff, giant balls of twine and all that. Martin only cares about the houses of famous dead authors like Emily Dickinson and Edgar Allan Poe. I have a list of places I want to visit too: Bryce Canyon National Park, which looks like another planet in photos, and a couple of the dark-sky parks in Utah and Ohio. I have this vision of open skies and stars and freedom.
I stare out the window as they plan. Ordinarily, I’d be paying attention. I’ve wanted to take this trip since freshman year. It’s hard to believe it’s only a few months away now.
But I’m not paying attention. All I can think about is the visions and how my trip to La Brea Dance a week ago was a total dead end.
“You’re not listening even a little bit, are you?” Martin says, nudging me with his shoulder.
I look up and give him a small smile. “Sorry,” I say.
“What’s wrong?” asks Sophie.
Before I can answer, Cassidy interrupts. “Since when does your sister wear tennis skirts?” she asks, staring toward the door.
“Since never,” I say, turning to look. Sure enough, Danica’s here, outfitted in full tennis gear. White bandana, white T-shirt, white pleated skirt, white tennis shoes. She would look ridiculous if she didn’t look so fabulous. Her new boyfriend, whose name I can’t remember for the life of me—it’s something active, to do with sports or hunting—is dressed exactly the same way, except for shorts instead of a skirt.