The Upside of Unrequited

by Becky Albertalli

I’M ON THE TOILET AT the 9:30 Club, and I’m wondering how mermaids pee. This isn’t random. There’s a mermaid Barbie attached to the door of the bathroom here. Which is a pretty odd choice for a bathroom mascot. If that’s even a thing. Bathroom mascots.

“Thanks for saving my labia.”

Is this crush number twenty-seven?”

I’m wearing this cotton dress that was plain black when I got it, but I sewed on a doily lace Peter Pan collar and some lace around the bottom. It’s completely improved.

Molly Peskin-Suso: disoriented introvert, alone in the wild.

Here’s the part where I should probably mention that Cassie and I are sperm donor babies. So that’s a thing in my life: that tiny niggling idea that everyone I meet might actually be my half sibling.

Cassie’s great at getting girls’ numbers. Sometimes she gets a number and immediately forgets about it. Or she hooks up with a girl once and then loses the number on purpose. Cassie can be kind of ruthless.

I honestly think there are two kinds of quiet people. There’s the kind like me, who are secretly full of storms and spinning gears. And then there’s the kind like Olivia, who is the actual personification of an ocean on a sunny day.

“Your ginger. Mr. Peach Butt Hipster Pants.

I like a guy, I’m supposed to tell him. Maybe in Cassie’s world, you can do that and have it end in making out. But I’m not so sure it works that way for fat girls.

This is a fundamental difference between us. I was basically born knowing how to casually stalk people on social media. But I guess Cassie’s more the kind of person who gets casually stalked.

There’s a couple making out against a SmarTrip machine. Which is definitely not how you’re supposed to use SmarTrip machines.

“Are you still texting Mina?” I ask. She smiles. “I’m not telling you.” But she will. No question. Because once you’ve shared a uterus, there’s no such thing as a secret.

Certain nights have this kind of electricity. Certain nights carry you to a different place from where you started. I think tonight was one of the special ones—but I can’t pinpoint why.

I managed to get drunk last night on absolutely no alcohol. Now I have a nonalcoholic hangover.

I add a sleepy-face emoji. She sends back this horrible wide-awake emoji with giant eyes.

this ruffled dress from ModCloth, with leggings.

We are definitely the kind of Jews who eat bacon.

“Yeah, I’m . . .” I look at the pancakes. “What are these supposed to be?” “Hearts?” she says. There’s flour on her chin. “Ohhhh.” “I guess they kind of look like penises.” “Yup.” “And scrotums,” she adds. “Mom, that’s so appetizing.”

So, here’s us in a nutshell: Patty used a sperm donor to conceive Cassie and me. Nadine used the same donor two years ago for Xavier. Strangers have a really hard time wrapping their minds around that. There’s this subset of people who like to inform me that Xavier’s my half brother, not my real brother. They’re the same people who tell me Abby’s not really my cousin. Nadine’s not really my mother. I’m pretty sure people wouldn’t question any of this if Nadine, Abby, and Xavier were white. Needless to say, I hate these people.

“You can’t vag-block someone in a frozen yogurt shop. A frozen yogurt shop vag-blocks itself.”

I’m actually a little nervous about starting work. Even though this isn’t a brain surgery residency. I’m very glad this isn’t a brain surgery residency. I don’t think anyone wants me operating on their brain right now, or ever.

The store looks the same as it always does—which is to say, it looks like Zooey Deschanel exploded into five thousand tablecloths and painted plates and letterpress notecards.

Like the Yiddish word, meaning “a little bit.” As in, good luck only spending a bissel of money when you walk into Bissel. Good luck not spending your entire paycheck on a bissel of handcrafted artisan jewelry.

whales. Of course Bissel sells ceramic mugs shaped like whales. Of course those exist. I literally don’t understand how anyone could walk into this store and not fall in love.

Classic adult logic. Reid and I are vaguely the same age, so of course we’re basically soul mates.

Not that I actually am cool with silence, but maybe it would help him relax.

He’s not awful looking. He definitely has good hair.

“So these need price stickers,” he says. “Do you know how to do that?” “Do I know how to use stickers?” “It’s pretty complicated,” he says. We grin at each other.

“Vegetables are just really popular right now.”

So, I guess there are parents who like to roll their babies up like blunts.

Middle Earth Reid

Maybe this is why they hired me: for my smallish hands and my blunt-rolling abilities.

But there’s this thing I feel when I meet another Jewish person in the wild. It’s like a secret invisible high five.

So far, I’ve learned that he really likes Cadbury Mini Eggs. When I asked if this was relevant in June, he said Cadbury Mini Eggs are always relevant. Apparently he buys them in bulk after Easter and hoards them. Honestly, I respect that.

My moms talk a lot about how Silver Spring was better before it got gentrified.

See, it’s an old zipper.” I lean forward to show her. “You just cut off the end and unzip it, and curve it into a heart. And then you sew the bottom together.”

I guess they spent the afternoon together shopping. Which is a horrifying group activity, if you ask me—though maybe it’s different for people with single-digit sizes.

Mina tilts her cup toward me, and of course she’s one of those fundamentally confused people who mixes gummies with chocolate.

“My friends and I were never like, ‘Hey, let’s be friends.’ It’s more like, ‘Yeah, okay. You’re there and you’re cool.’” “That’s literally what I said to Cassie in the womb,” I say.

“God. Molly, you must think I only talk about peeing and labia.”

Mina of the Labia and Middle Earth Reid.

I blush and swoon and am essentially the heroine of a romance novel. Except with 100 percent less kissing.

I think the way I feel about the internet is the way some people feel about the ocean. It’s so huge and unknowable, but also totally predictable. You type a line of symbols and click enter, and everything you want to happen, happens.

Here’s a fact about me: I’m excellent at arranging vintage stuff into rustic, artful displays. Abby calls me a Pinterest Queen, which is a compliment. I think. I guess it’s my one skill set.

I think Evan’s an acquired taste, but without the part where I actually acquire the taste.

And it’s not like I could be a Never Nude. I don’t even like jean shorts.

“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.

I kind of want to pin this whole house to my design board.

“Your bastard children are very happy for you.” “Oh my God! We won’t be bastards anymore,” I say. “Aww, you guys will always be our bastards.”