I take the first one my fingers make contact with and begin to pick the plasticky faux-chocolate coating off. Memom says, “You’re being careful, right?”
“Of course. I’m always careful.”
She scoffs, “You’re a teenager. You don’t even know what ‘careful’ means.”
“Well, you’re an old lady. If you ever knew, you’ve forgotten.” I nibble a corner of the peeled Little Darling.
She snorts. “Secrets are hard to keep. Even back in my day. Now with the TikTok and the Instant-Grams—”
“Instagram.”
“You can’t give anything away. That’s all I’m saying. You can’t put yourself out there like other girls.”
Like I don’t know that. As if my whole life isn’t about making sure people don’t get too close. I say, “Memom, I’m so black ops it’s ridonculous.”
“For Pete’s sakes. Use real words.” This from the woman who just said “Instant-Grams.” I roll my eyes.
And now I can’t put it off any longer. I take a big, squishy bite of the Little Darling while Memom beams at me.
While I gag the Little Darling down, Memom and I talk about Hope. Only a couple more months until we’re all together for Thanksgiving and she’s home from Thailand for good. Memom points out that Hope will be off doing her final semester of vet school after that, but I choose to focus on the fact that she’ll be 7,900 miles closer than she is now.
Finally, I tell Memom I have to leave. Trig is calling my name. As she shuffle-walks me to the door, she suddenly tugs my elbow. “How’s my Katie?”
That would be my mom. Memom’s daughter. She prefers Kate, actually. No one but Memom calls her Katie. I try to sound bright and happy, but it comes out a tiny bit forced. “She’s great. Super busy. You know.”
Memom grunts. “Always saving the world, that one. Tell her that I’d like to see her before I’m dead.”
I kiss her cheek. “You can’t die. Not ever. But I’ll tell her.”
* * *
Later that night, when my brain needs a break from equations, I text Sean Slater: In the market for a badass campaign manager for homecoming court. Will you do it?
While I wait for him to respond, I check to see if my dad is online. He’s not. But it’s after midnight in DC, so he’s probably sleeping. You might be wondering what the deal is with my dad. Here it is in a nutshell: He’s an environmental lawyer. He worked a bajillion hours a week when I was a kid, so I have almost no memories of actually doing actual things with him. Two weeks after Hope left for college, he and Mom realized they wanted to save the world more than they wanted to be married. He lives in DC now, lobbying Congress for better environmental laws on behalf of the Sustainable Policy Institute. I see him on holidays. Sometimes.
Since Dad’s not online, I check in on my sister. It’s a thirteen-hour time difference to Thailand, so she should be starting her day about now. I message her: How’s Bernice?
She doesn’t respond. Maybe she’s traipsing around the jungle already.
Finally, my phone shwoops Sean’s incoming text: Seriously? Are you running for HQ?
I text: Nope. Cindy. Say yes.
Sean: I’m busy. SMU audition coming up.
Me: Come on, it’s in nine days.
Sean: That’s not enough time! Prom maybe. Homecoming no.
Me: Impossible for lesser men. I need the Sean magic.
Sean: What part of *SMU audition* are you not getting?
I want to shoot back: What part of *nine days to transform a Cindy* are you not getting? Instead, I press my finger between my eyebrows and take a Zen breath, trying to decide the best way to persuade him. I can’t nudge him. Remember, decisions based on a minute’s worth of thoughts or feelings don’t stick. Besides, I have to have a direct line of sight to nudge. But no worries. There’s always good old-fashioned guilt-tripping.
I text: You owe me.
Twelve interminable seconds later, Sean writes: Fine.
I lean back with a sigh of relief. Playing that card was a crappy thing to do, and I feel genuinely bad about it. But I can handle a little cognitive dissonance if it helps Vindhya. Sean knows better than anyone how far I’ll go for a Cindy.
Once upon a time, Sean Slater was miserable, lonely, angry, and adrift. For good reasons. In eighth grade it leaked that he was in a ballet class. Riverside East Middle School turned into Lord of the Flies. Those of us who weren’t part of the tormenting could only keep our heads down and try to stay out of the way. I did try to nudge the bullies, but I couldn’t be everywhere. And besides, the more emotional I am, the worse my aim is. Nudging requires a calm, cool psyche. At thirteen, with exactly one Cindy on my résumé, my parents’ divorce in full bloom, my sister away at college for the first time, and facing a gang of rabid pubescent trolls… let’s just say I wasn’t the picture of fairy godmother levelheadedness that I am today.
Anyway, where was I? Right—the cannibal island that was eighth grade. Sean ended up quitting ballet. Then he quit school. He finished junior high online.
When high school started, Sean was back. But he was a silent, skittish version of his former self. Then one day that spring, I got a glimpse. I saw him wearing tights and dancing onstage in front of the whole school—leaping and twirling with grace and power and passion. Loving it. Owning it.
So I offered him my services. And he accepted. After what felt like a hundred hours of heart-to-hearts, Sean decided to go back to ballet. I didn’t pressure him or nudge him or anything, just listened to him talk about everything he had walled up inside. And when he had talked himself out, he decided he wasn’t going to let other people define him. His mom ugly cried, she was so happy. After that she drove him an hour three times a week to dance in secret, which was still sad. But he started to stand taller and laugh more. He started to be himself again.
It was magical.
Meanwhile, I went on a no-holds-barred campaign to change the tide of public opinion in Sean’s favor. I started subtle—slipping things into conversations like, “Did you know that the guy who played Spider-Man was trained in ballet?” Pretty soon I was blowing up social media with video clips of ripped men doing jetés and pas de deux. I covered my locker in a poster of Roberto Bolle and kissed it twenty-six times a day. I bought tickets to a ballet and bragged for weeks about how lucky I was to get the seats. And, of course, I sent all kinds of little pro-ballet nudges to anyone who would hold still long enough to receive one. I spent most of sophomore year with my arms and legs tingling.
By the time I was finished with JLHS, not only had my classmates forgotten they had ever tormented a boy for dancing, but classical ballet had become The Thing.
Midway through that year, Sean came up to me and announced he was signing up for the spring talent show. And he did. And he crushed it, exactly like I had glimpsed. He was an instant sensation. After that I did a standard-protocol fade-out. I created as much emotional distance as possible. But with Sean, for whatever reason—maybe because I gave him a whole year of my life—I couldn’t quite cut all ties. Don’t get me wrong… we’re not actually friends. Let’s call him a colleague.
Anyway, now he does what he loves without dealing with haters every day, while I silently cheer him on. And, incidentally, he’s far and away the most popular guy in school now. Which makes him the perfect campaign manager for Vindhya’s run for queen.