I hadn’t talked to anybody about my breasts or how I felt about them, and it wasn’t like Dr. Garcia would be easy to talk to, but at least I knew she’d have to keep our conversation secret. She’d probably had patients say a lot weirder things to her. I planned to be super professional about it, so she’d know I had the “emotional maturity” you were supposed to have if you were fifteen and walking around with boobs the size of baby manatees. (Apparently if you want any kind of plastic surgery after you are an adult, you don’t have to be “emotionally mature” at all. You just have to pay for it.) As soon as my mother left, I was going to say, “I was doing some research about surgical options for breast reduction and I am interested in exploring this for myself.” She was going to pull up a chair, answer my questions, and neither of us was going to blush or stutter at all. Maybe she’d even give me a pamphlet titled Secret, Free, One-Hour Breast Surgeries You Can Have Done During Your Study Period.
I was sitting there, trying to get that paper they cover the table with to absorb some of the sweat from my palms, when Dr. Garcia pulled out her stethoscope. I almost thought she was going to forget to ask, and then I’d have to ask Mom to leave. But then at the last minute she said, “Greer, would you like your mother to step out of the room while we do the exam?” My heart raced. I was going to have this conversation with a real person, instead of just reading WebMD and watching a couple of YouBoobers describe their experiences. I was half dying to and half dying not to.
Only I must have forgotten who my mother was, because before I answered, she said, “Oh, that’s right! I forgot you ask that. Greer, do you have anything private you want to talk to the doctor about this time?” She looked up at me like she was modern and supportive and respected my privacy, but didn’t move to put her phone back in her purse or grab her jacket. She said it like she already knew the answer, and the answer was, of course, “Of course not.” Dr. Garcia kept looking at me, though, and all that went through my head was that this was why people who are supposed to be on birth control don’t end up on birth control: because you’d basically have to say it in front of your mother to get your mother to leave anyway. I shook my head. And really, once you think about it, if I’m too self-conscious to tell my mother to get the hell out so I can ask the doctor if I’ve stopped growing enough to have my boobs lopped off, how would I get through the next sixteen rounds of questions with nurses, surgeons, insurance providers, hospital staff, my dad, and for the love of god TYLER?
Mom stayed put. I stayed quiet. Dr. Garcia said my heart and lungs sounded healthy, I should remember sunscreen, and I had gained four pounds in the last year. (At least three of them were probably breast tissue.) And then she printed out a copy of the form you need from the clinic if you’re going to play a sport. Yeah, right.
CHAPTER 6
“My client is stopping over here. Get your stuff off the table.”
Tyler scans the dining room table, which is holding one Scandinavian wood platter, and approximately 450 cubic feet of Tyler’s electronics, homework, books, paper footballs, wrappers, socks, and half-empty water bottles. He moves on to the kitchen.
He opens the fridge and pulls out another water bottle, then stands looking inside like he’s waiting for a package to appear in the crisper drawer. I’m sitting at the kitchen island watching this whole scene, reminding myself that this is not my responsibility. Tyler being an idiot is Mom’s problem, not mine. I tried to tell her that when they brought him home from the hospital thirteen years ago. But I can’t stand it.
“Mom said to pick up your stuff.”
Tyler glances back over his shoulder at the table.
“It’s not all mine.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it’s not.”
I push back my stool and walk to the table. Tyler wanders over to stand next to me.
“What part’s not yours?”
He eyes the spread critically. “Well, that’s not mine.”
Yes. Agreed. The Kjerstønagsrud turned wood platter that Mom bought for 175 dollars at a museum gift shop is not Tyler’s.
“I think that’s yours,” he tries, waving toward the table with one hand while scrolling through his friends’ stories with the other.
“This is mine?” I can’t even stand the thought of touching it. I just let my finger hover an inch above it.
“Isn’t it?” He’s still looking at his phone.
“You honestly think this is mine?”
“Um, I thought so?”
“Tyler, this is a nut cup. A plastic shield that slips into a pair of compression shorts to protect a player’s testicles.”
He looks up, finally, and crinkles his nose. “Oh yeah. I guess.”
“And you still think it’s mine? Seeing how I don’t wear a cup because I don’t have testicles that need protecting? And seeing how even if I did, I don’t play any sports anyway? And seeing how I’m not a vile slob who would leave a sweaty plastic thing that’s been inside my underwear on the table where people eat?”
My voice gets higher and sharper, and both Tyler and I can hear how much I sound like Mom.
“Or maybe you think I should wear a nut cup when I’m doing homework in case my calc book drops into my lap and crushes my imaginary nads. It’s a very heavy book. I’m sure it could do some damage. Are you offering this thing to me? Because that’s very sweet of you, Tyler.”
And then Jackson Oates is standing in the archway to the dining room, waving awkwardly, greeting me with two syllables, “Hey-ay,” to acknowledge that this is a weird, weird conversation to be walking in on. Great. He’s going to think Ty and I hang out comparing our testicles all day. That’s just the impression I want to give.
“Oh! Hi! My mom said your mom was stopping by—I didn’t know you’d be with her.”
“We’re picking up my dad at the airport. Sorry to barge in.” Jackson pushes both hands deep into his pockets in a way that makes his shoulders spread out a little wider, and I wonder if he might be a swimmer or a baseball player or something.
“It’s okay. Tyler and I were just deciding where to keep his cup: the middle of the dining room table or right in the refrigerator?”
Tyler bumps me with his elbow. He is not embarrassed to leave his personal penis protector out in the middle of the room, but he does not want me making fun of him in front of other kids. At least he has some sense of decency.
“Maybe you could find a crystal vase?” Jackson pronounces it vahz, with a flourish.
“How would that even work?” asks Tyler. He’s so literal.
“Jackson, this is my brother, Tyler. Ty, this is Jackson Oates.” I hope when I say Jackson Oates it isn’t obvious that I’ve been repeating the phrase Jackson Oates a hundred times a day since I met him.