I was so over Julian, I was surprised I’d ever liked him. I felt that way about a lot of ex-crushes. In fifth and sixth grade, I’d been obsessed with Daniel, but as soon as I gave up on him, I wondered why I’d fallen so hard in the first place. Maybe because Kiki and Natalie and Madison had preapproved him? As for Julian, everyone liked Julian. I’d just joined the crowd.
Right then, it felt as if I alone liked Miles. I didn’t know if anyone else even knew him, but Natalie and I had noticed him the week before at French Roast, a bistro on Broadway and Eighty-Fifth that seventh and eighth grade girls were starting to go to. He was a ninth grader from Collegiate, and he was with a Trinity girl, but we decided she was probably his sister because they were both tall and had the exact same wavy, dark hair.
“He’s cute, don’t you think?” I’d asked.
“Yes, but not my type,” Natalie said.
“Then he’s mine, all mine,” I’d said, and we’d laughed.
Now it was Saturday night, and Miles was sitting with us at Twelfth Night in the Morse Theater at Trinity. Natalie had invited me because her cousin was in the play, but she’d gotten me to go by saying, “Maybe your crush will be there. I found out his sister is playing Olivia.”
The play was good. I liked the set design (especially the papier-mâché palm trees), and I liked how all the characters were confused about love. But what I liked most was that Miles had sat down right next to me.
We talked a little before the show, and at intermission, he asked, “What’s your name anyway?” When I told him, he asked, “With an f or p-h?” He did not seem to be thinking, Aren’t you the girl whose mother died?
“With an f,” I said.
He smiled, so I smiled back. I introduced Natalie and said her cousin was playing Malvolio.
“Cool,” he said. “My sister’s playing Olivia.” Neither Natalie nor I revealed that we already knew that. “Hey,” Miles added, “my parents are in the country this weekend, and my older brother and I are having a party. Wanna come after the play?”
“Uh…yeah,” I answered as though Natalie and I routinely accepted such invitations. Kiki sometimes snuck out to meet a guy when her mother had to work late, but I didn’t have a curfew because I didn’t have a nightlife.
“Um, I just have to call to make sure we can go,” Natalie said, grabbing my arm. She yanked me toward the stairwell and said, “Sofia, are you crazy? My brother will never let us go!”
“Won’t he be at a cast party?” I said, surprised that for once, I was the one bending the rules. “Our parents know we’re together, so they’ll assume we’re at each other’s apartments. I’ll call my dad first.” I pressed DAD on my cell phone while Natalie stared at me, wide-eyed.
“Hi, cupcake,” Dad answered.
“Can I stay out a little later tonight? Natalie and I want to watch a movie after the play.”
“Okay.” Mom would have pressed for details: Whose home? Who else was there? What movie? What’s it rated? “Since I know you’re safe,” he added, “I may stay out later too.” Whoa, now Dad wanted to stay out?! “Will you be sleeping at Natalie’s?”
I turned to Natalie. “Can I sleep over?”
She nodded, nervous. “Yes.”
“Yes,” I echoed.
“Great. So I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I frowned at the phone. Not only had I gotten away with a lie, but Dad had seemed almost glad I wasn’t coming home until morning. Was he relieved I wasn’t moping?
Wait. Until recently, hadn’t we both been moping? Last Thanksgiving in Florida, he’d told Grandma Pat how hard it had been to disconnect Mom’s cell phone and how he used to call it just to hear her voice. He also told her about the grief groups he was always inviting me to. I’d never gone, but when was the last time he had gone? Come to think of it, Dad was acting almost cheerful lately, wrestling with Pepper and going out at night.
Mom’s birthday was June 22, and now she also had a death day: April 7. Did Dad realize this anniversary was around the corner? Or had he turned a corner?
During the second act of Twelfth Night, Miles pressed his leg against mine. Or was I imagining this? I moved my knees together, but Miles’s knee followed. Okay then. Should I press back a teeny tiny bit? Or not? Questions like this made it extra hard to keep track of the Shakespearean mix-ups.
After the play, Natalie and I got in a taxi with Miles and headed to his apartment. I sat in the middle. Miles’s knee was against mine the whole time, and it was clear it was no accident.
Miles lived on the East Side, on Fifth Avenue, not far from Mount Sinai, the medical center where Dad worked, and not far from Natalie’s old apartment. When the cab stopped, Miles paid, and the doorman greeted him as “Mr. Holmes.” We walked through the marble lobby to the elevator, where a second man in uniform pressed eighteen.
Growing up in Manhattan, I’d been to lots of fancy apartments. Kiki’s, I have to admit, was pretty cramped. Our place had two small bedrooms, a small living room, and a small kitchen. But Natalie’s, before her dad lost his job, was a humongous penthouse with a wraparound terrace. My mom used to tell the story of how, in first grade, I’d gone to Natalie’s for a playdate, and when I came home, I had asked, “Are people allowed to pick where they live?” Mom said, “Of course,” and I got all bent out of shape and said, “Then why didn’t you pick a penthouse?!”
Actually, Mom and Dad had started renting at Halsey Tower before I was even born. It was designed to provide “convenient and affordable faculty housing,” and Dad had liked the cheap rent, and Mom had liked the “non-commute” and that everyone knew everyone. This August 1, however, Dad and I were getting, as he put it, “gently evicted.” Halsey had granted us “a courtesy year” since the beloved Señora Wolfe had taught there for nearly two decades. But rules were rules, and time was up. Teacher Tower was for teachers, and Mom wasn’t teaching anymore.
I didn’t like thinking about leaving the only home I’d ever known.
“Nice apartment!” I said to Miles when we stepped out of the elevator into his parents’ marble foyer and giant living room. It was already packed with kids. Who were they? Were they from different schools? Natalie said she was hungry and headed toward the kitchen. But I wanted to check out the view—and also get my courage up. I walked across the oriental rug, passing a piano topped with silver-framed photos of people on horseback. I looked out at the glowing street lamps of Central Park and the skyline of the Upper West Side.
“Amazing view!” I said when I realized Miles was right behind me.
“That’s just what I was thinking.” He looked me up and down and placed his hand on the side of my waist. I felt a tickle of excitement. He followed my gaze out the window. “My parents always have people over during the marathon. It’s cool to watch the runners from here.”
“Sounds cool,” I said. Little Miss Conversationalist. What was amazing was to be standing with Miles in his home looking down on Central Park.
“Hey, so what can I get you?” he asked. I wasn’t sure what he meant. “Vodka? Beer? Wine?”
“I don’t know,” I said, then realized this was a dumb answer. But I’d never really drunk alcohol, not counting sips of sangria with my family in Spain. He moved closer, spreading his fingers and subtly tugging at the hem of my shirt. He touched first the cloth, then my skin. I felt a shiver of excitement. Or was it nervousness? Should I tell him I was completely inexperienced? Or was that completely obvious?
I turned toward him, and he walked slowly forward, moving me backward, until he’d backed me into the wall. The lights were dim, and no one was nearby. I felt drawn to Miles but a little repelled too, caught in the pull and push of a magnet.
He tilted his head and leaned into me. It was as if we were slow dancing without music. Then he kissed me. His lips were dry and tasted of cigarettes. I kissed back, aware of my braces and my awkwardness. He started pressing himself against me, and I could tell he was… What did Dr. G call it in Life Skills? “Tumescent”? I wanted to keep liking Miles, wanted to want to kiss him. But I didn’t like feeling cornered. Was Miles a great guy? Or a horny rich kid? And had I asked for this—led him on?
Dad often lectured me about guys, especially on Saturdays after he did pro bono work at a clinic for teenage girls. But his words had always seemed abstract. Even though I knew that a lot of Halsey girls, like Kiki, had done stuff with guys, I knew that a lot of others, like me, hadn’t.
“Wait,” I said to Miles, pushing him away.
“Wait? Why?”
“I just want to know you better.”
He put out his right hand. “I’m Miles Holmes, and I’m crazy about you.”
I shook his hand. “But you don’t know me.”
“I like what I see.”
I wanted to feel flattered, not flustered, but he was in such a hurry. He was already kissing me again, and it didn’t feel the way I wanted my first kiss to feel. His lips were on mine, but it wasn’t romantic. It was rushed—it was wrong. And now his tongue was in my mouth.
I pushed weakly against his chest. “Maybe I will have something to drink,” I mumbled. Where was Natalie? Was she okay?
“Sure.” He led me by the hand to the crowded kitchen.
“Do you have flavored water?” I asked.
“Flavored water?” His eyebrows went up, and he peered down at me. “Help yourself,” he said, letting go of my hand.
Just a sec—was he dumping me because I hadn’t let him grind against me and didn’t want to do vodka shots? I searched for Natalie and thought, I lied to my dad for this?
A girl with red sunglasses on top of her head shrieked, “Miles! I couldn’t find you!” She rushed over and gave him a big, sloppy kiss.
Natalie appeared. “I heard he has a girlfriend. I’m assuming we’re looking at her.”
“She can have him. I wouldn’t even mind leaving—unless you want to stay.”
“No. Let’s get out of here.”
We jostled through the crowd toward the elevator, and some guy tripped and sloshed beer on my blouse. “Sorry!” he said, then started pawing at me as if to get the beer off. Ugh! Natalie and I darted out, and I made a mental note to drop my smelly top straight into the laundry machine rather than in the hamper. Or maybe I’d just do a load the second I got home.
Miles’s doorman helped us get a cab, and I paid for it since I was the one who’d wanted to go to the East Side. Twelve dollars! I sighed, furious with myself. I’d spent a lot of time daydreaming about a boy I never even wanted to see again.
At Natalie’s, we made sundaes, squirting fudge sauce onto ice cream and adding mini marshmallows.
“Your bat mitzvah was so fun,” I said, remembering last winter when everything was much easier for me—and for her. “I liked when the rabbi said to ‘shower you with sweetness,’ and we pelted you with marshmallows.”
I was glad Natalie and I were at her place. “And I even got to dance with Daniel,” I said, since back then, he’d been the boy I liked.
In fourth and fifth grade, Natalie and I had both been “madly in love” with Daniel. We’d vowed not to let it come between us if he asked one of us out. Which he never did. In the beginning of sixth, he did drop a blueberry down Natalie’s shirt—making me insanely jealous. But by the time Natalie was “called to the Torah,” she and a boy in her Hebrew school had gone out, broken up, gone out again, and broken up again.
I was still the only one of our friends—our “Core Four”—who’d never gone out with a boy. As for having my first kiss, did that kiss with Miles count? I hoped not. “Natalie,” I said quietly, “I don’t even get what just happened. Did Miles reject me, or did I reject him?”
“Maybe it doesn’t matter?” she said. “Or maybe both?”
I nodded and was going to say more about Miles, but she said, “It’s weird to think that my family used to have an apartment as big as his.”
“I like this apartment,” I said, although I’d liked her family’s bigger one too.
She shrugged. “Yeah. But my dad gets mad a lot now. He wants my mom to go back to work. I guess they lost a lot of money.”
I listened. Just the other day, she and I were little kids with little problems. Were we really becoming “young adults”? Were we ready?
• • •
On Sunday morning, when I got home, Dad was in such a good mood, I almost told him about the party. But no. Bad idea. Forget it.
Still, I wanted to talk to someone about making out with Miles. Kiki? Maybe. But if I called her, would she think I should just get over myself and grow up?
I turned on my computer.
Dear Kate,
Remember I told you I’d never kissed a guy? Well, last night I did, but it didn’t turn out like I hoped. He was kind of arrogant, and he already has a girlfriend. At least I stopped him when I did, if you know what I mean. I feel like such a little kid sometimes. I also feel bad because I didn’t tell my dad about the party. But if I tell him, he’ll never let me go out again. And I don’t want him to worry. He’s actually been acting happy lately. Is that bad? (Me lying, not him acting happy.)
Catlover
For Subject, I typed “Lies and Kisses.”
I pressed Send, then stared at my screen for a few minutes. The icon didn’t budge.
Oh well. Just writing it all down made me feel a little lighter. Still, I decided to call Kiki after all.
She picked up after the first ring, and I spilled my saga. She said she’d heard Miles was full of himself and had gone through a number of Nightingale and Chapin girls. She also said things were good with her boyfriend.
“You and Derek?”
“Me and Tim! He’s a junior at Horace Mann.”
“A junior?! Omigod. Your mother would kill you!”
“That’s why she doesn’t know.”
“How is your mom anyway?” I wondered if her mom had said anything about my dad.
“No idea,” Kiki said. “She’s been working late a lot—which works for me.” Kiki laughed.
I didn’t.
• • •
Two hours later, I saw “Re: Lies and Kisses” in my inbox.
Dear Catlover,
If I were the pope or your principal, I might say you should always tell the whole truth. But life is complicated, and sometimes, people have reasons for not telling each other everything. I’m not suggesting you lie to your dad! The guilt you feel shows you’re a caring daughter and self-respecting person. I’m just saying I understand. Fortunately, you got home safe, and you don’t sound heartbroken. (Believe me, I know what heartbroken sounds like.) I’m sorry the evening was a disappointment, but you were smart not to let things get out of hand. It’s wise to take your time and trust your gut. And yours sounds trustworthy.
Kate
PS No worries. That was your first kiss, not your last kiss.
• • •
Right before dinner, I was looking for my cell phone and remembered that I’d left it backstage. “I’m such an idiot,” I muttered.
“Don’t say that!” Dad said.
“I’m talking to myself, not you!”
“I get that. But no one gets to call my daughter an idiot. Not even my daughter.”
“It’s just that I left my phone at school,” I explained.
“So let’s go get it. I’ll go with you.” He grabbed his jacket. “I have something I want to tell you anyway.”
“Dad, you can’t go to school with me!” I said, alarmed. “I’m fourteen!” I shot out the door. Besides, I did not want to hear about his evenings with Lan, the Siren of Saigon Sun!
It was enough that I’d noticed a new Playbill in the blue-and-white bowl on our sideboard. That bowl used to overflow with programs of plays and musicals that Mom and Dad went to on and off Broadway. For almost a year, the bowl had been empty. Was it going to start filling up again?
• • •
Abuelo arrived from Segovia for spring break just in time for our production of Guys and Dolls. He’s five foot six, and in Spain, he looks short, but in America, he looks extra short. Like an elf with bushy eyebrows and twinkly eyes.
Abuelo, Dad, and I sat down to watch the show, and Abuelo complimented my backdrop for the scene when Sky Masterson takes Sarah Brown to Havana. I told him I’d spent hours painting the diner, with its turquoise booths, pink swivel stools, and tin foil stars.
“¿Pero, Sofía, por qué no estás cantando?”
I whispered that I wasn’t singing because set design was okay. I didn’t add that lately I hadn’t even been singing in the shower.
We watched, and I couldn’t help but think that Natalie was a good Adelaide, but I might have sung “A Person Can Develop a Cold” with more oomph. And Madison was an okay Sarah, but I would have sung “I’ve Never Been in Love Before” with more heart.
Afterward, Abuelo and Dad waited while I went to tell my friends how great they were. They all looked so happy and proud, and I tried not to feel jealous, but the truth was, I didn’t miss just the singing—I missed the afterglow too. The hugs and congratulations. As if reading my mind, Natalie said my set was “awesome.”
Should I have pushed myself to audition? Possibly. But it’s not like I could charge myself up like a cell phone—stay still and then, hours later, be good as new, one hundred percent.
The next day, Abuelo set up a worktable in our building’s basement and taught me how to hold a hammer and use a screw gun and coping saw. He even showed me how he made his Christmas crèche pieces, cutting curves, carving with a chisel, smoothing edges with a file. It felt good to sit by him and learn a new skill.
We also did touristy things. One day, we walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. One evening, we saw a musical and Dad met us afterward at a revolving restaurant above Times Square.
Abuelo said that being surrounded by skyscrapers was like being in a forest of buildings. “A María, le encantaba New York.”
I translated: “Maria loved New York.”
“She did,” Dad agreed. “She was happy as a clam.”
“A clom?” Abuelo looked at me.
I explained that it was like saying feliz como una perdiz, feliz como un lombriz, happy as a partridge, happy as a worm. And I wondered if it was easier to be happy if you were a clam or bird or worm.
I missed Mom at odd times now. During conversations about Spanish expressions. Or when the buzz of my alarm woke me up instead of her “Buenos días.” Even at the grocery store when Dad didn’t buy Marcona almonds—or stop me from buying gummy bears.
It had been nearly a year since I’d phoned Abuelo to tell him the news. This week, he told me that that day was the saddest of his life.
Now once again, I knew something before my grandfather did: Dad was dating. I didn’t know much else, and Dad had not asked me to translate anything about it. Was his relationship with the woman—Lan?—too new? Was his relationship with Abuelo too old? Whatever the reason, I kept Dad’s news to myself. So when Abuelo flew back to Spain, he had no idea how fast things were changing in New York.
• • •
“Can I come in?” Dad said a few days later.
“I’m doing my Latin.”
He came in anyway. I was in my pajamas, and Pepper was on my desk under the lamplight, licking himself. Dad took off his glasses and rubbed them with his soft shirt and said, “Listen, Sof, as you know, I’ve been seeing someone.”
Someone? Why didn’t he just say Lan?
“Dad, I don’t want to know!” I said, and Pepper looked at me, alarmed. He leaped off the desk and darted under the bed.
“No, I actually think you might because—”
Because what? Because then Kiki and I could share a bunk bed? “Dad, you’re wrong!”
“But, honey, I think—”
“Dad, I—”
“Sof, please give me a chance—”
“Dad, how can I make it clearer? I don’t want to hear about it, okay?”
“Okay, okay.” He backed out of my room.
“Close the door until it clicks!” I said.
He did, and I tried not to cry.
I got on the floor, peeked under the bed, and reached for Pepper. He was hiding next to a dusty stack of picture books and childhood board games. “Come,” I pleaded, my arms outstretched. But Pepper wouldn’t budge.
• • •
I wished I could talk to Dr. Goldbrook, our middle school counselor. Some girls didn’t want to confide in Dr. G because they said she was a “stranger.” I didn’t want to because she was a neighbor and family friend.
As a toddler in Halsey Tower, I’d been “famous” for my singing. Buckled up in my stroller, I sang nursery songs in the lobby and mailroom and elevator. Apparently, I could carry a tune while doing hand motions to “Itsy Bitsy Spider” and “The Wheels on the Bus.”
Mom said I made the grown-ups laugh, and Dr. G called me “Little Songbird.”
So what was I supposed to do now? Knock on Dr. G’s door and say I’d become a “Silent Songbird”?
I didn’t know where else to turn.
• • •
Dear Kate,
My father met someone. I still can’t believe my mom is dead. Crocuses are popping up, buds are on the trees, squirrels are running around, and I’m still sad. It’s hard to think about my dad with another woman, like kissing her and stuff. Please don’t tell me to talk to my school counselor because I can’t. I just can’t.
The first anniversary of the day my mom died is coming, and I don’t want to meet his girlfriend or special friend or Mystery Woman before then. I’m not in a rush to meet her afterward either!
I guess I don’t want to share my dad. He’s the only parent I have left.
Just because he likes her, do I have to?
I hope you don’t think less of me. I want my dad to be happy, but can’t he wait a little? My BFF disappears when she starts going out with someone, but I never thought my dad would.
Yours truly,
Sofia
For once, I reread my email before hitting Send. I could have revised it, but it wasn’t a take-home essay, and it was honest. The only thing I decided to take out was my name. I changed “Sofia” to “Still Not Over My Mom.” I was surprised I’d originally typed my real name, but maybe I was beginning to feel like Dear Kate was a real friend.
Which was insane.
I didn’t want to become one of those girls who makes “friends” online or who fall for guys who claim they’re rock stars when they’re actually serial killers.
At least Dear Kate wasn’t a total stranger. I’d met her, sort of.
I picked up To Kill A Mockingbird so I’d stop staring at my non-bouncing icon. I couldn’t believe my English teacher was giving us a quiz the first day back after vacation. I also couldn’t believe it was 11:00 p.m. and Dad still wasn’t home. When he and Mom used to go out, they always came back before I went to bed. But his so-called girlfriend couldn’t care less about me. Maybe Dad cared less than he used to too? Before he’d left, he’d told me he’d be late, saying, “Try to understand: I saw her only once this week!”
Try to understand, I wanted to say, I wish you weren’t seeing her at all!
I put on my pajamas, grabbed Pepper, and kept reading until I got to the last page. I was sorry when the book ended. I liked the last scene, when Atticus tucks Scout in and says most people are very nice, once you get to know them.
Would I have to get to know Dad’s Mystery Woman? Would I think she was “very nice”? And if it wasn’t Lan, who was it? Some widow from grief group?
I hated going to sleep in an empty apartment, but what choice did I have? I reached for Panther, Tigger-Tiger, and Yertle and wondered if other girls my age still slept with their stuffies. Impulsively, I wrote Dear Kate one more email. The subject was “Quick Dumb Question.” I asked: “Is there an appropriate age for outgrowing stuffed animals?”
I pressed Send, then wanted to kick myself.
On a one to ten Scale of Pathetic-ness, I was a twenty-five.
• • •
When I poured out my heart, it usually felt good to write everything down, but then, unless I heard back right away, I’d start to feel worse. Embarrassed and exposed.
The next morning, my inbox remained empty. Laptops and cell phones weren’t allowed in school, so after a fast lunch of Moroccan tagine with couscous (Halsey “chefs” were big on inventive menus—it was part of our “culinary education”), I went to the library to use a school computer. I made sure I was alone, then signed on, hoping for a response.
And there it was:
Dear Still Not Over My Mom,
Of course I don’t think less of you. You miss your mom, which shows how close you two were and how big your heart is. In fact, it would be surprising if you didn’t feel conflicted about your dad’s new relationship. I don’t think you will ever truly get “over” your mother’s death, but you’ve already done the difficult job of managing without her for almost a year. That was not easy! Give yourself some credit!
How are you going to mark the anniversary? You could play her favorite music, invite friends to share memories, or plant a rose bush in your yard.
And after that? You will never ever forget your mom, but I think you will find the strength to meet your dad’s new friend if it’s important to him. You can also tell your dad that you just aren’t quite ready.
Do you have to like her? No. But it’s easier when everyone gets along. So try to be open-minded, okay?
K
PS As for outgrowing stuffed animals, no set age, no worries! And btw, I get more mail than you can imagine, and there’s no such thing as a dumb question.
That evening, while setting the table, I looked at Dad and, just to be polite, asked, “Did you have fun last night?” I’d seen a new program in the culture bowl: Orpheus Chamber Orchestra at Carnegie Hall.
He poked at some marinating chicken thighs. “I did.”
I hoped he wouldn’t say anything else. Not one single word.
“Sofia, I’m eager for you to meet her. Maybe this weekend?”
Meet her? Then it wasn’t Lan?
“I’m not quite ready,” I replied, surprised to hear myself sounding so definite. I remembered when Dad had told me that I was born a week after Mom’s due date and Mom had had to be induced. “Why?” I’d asked.
“You weren’t quite ready,” he had said.
I looked up and added, “Maybe after April 7.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “Hey, did you ever read that book I gave you, Girls’ Guide?”
“Parts of it,” I said and didn’t add that I’d read and reread one section called “When Loved Ones Die.” It had made me feel less alone and had reminded me that I wasn’t the only girl in the world who seemed to be grieving in slow motion.
• • •
I heard a crash, and Pepper came tearing out of the living room. I got up and saw that he’d knocked down a photo of Mom, Dad, and me. The three of us were face up behind cracked glass.
I tried not to feel spooked, but I couldn’t help it: my family was broken. I was too.
I wanted to call Kiki or Natalie, but even if they said all the right things, they were things they’d said before: “It must be hard.” “Your mom was so nice.” “I wish I knew what to say.”
I opened my laptop. Dear Kate would know what to say. She might be busy writing other girls—or hanging out with her husband and her own girl—but I needed to talk, so I typed.
Dear Kate,
My cat just broke a family photo, and it felt like a sign or omen. Like, maybe I should accept that the past is past and agree to meet my dad’s girlfriend, even though I want to hate her guts. Do you believe in signs?
Lost Not Found
The response was almost immediate.
Dear LNF,
I don’t believe in signs, but I do believe in accepting what you cannot change. Your first family will always be safe and unbroken inside you. No cat or person can touch that. But it’s good if you are willing to meet the girlfriend. Don’t think of it as being disloyal to your mom but as being supportive of your dad. Are there any plusses to his having a girlfriend?
And do you think your mom would want him—and you—to be happy?
K
Was there a plus side to Dad having a girlfriend? I no longer felt sorry for him. And he wasn’t bugging me as much about hanging up towels—but maybe I’d gotten better at that? He was also humming a lot—was this a plus or a minus?
Dad and I still didn’t talk much, but maybe that was partly my fault. Mom and I had had an easy closeness. We spoke our own language—literally.
I decided to think about something else, something fun, like a crush. But I didn’t have a crush. Not Daniel. Not Julian. Not Miles. Nobody.
Since Dear Kate was online, I decided to send her one last horrendously mortifying question. I was pretty sure of the answer, but I’d noticed something odd, and getting her opinion might calm me down.
Dear Kate,
This is extremely embarrassing, but I have a tiny pink pimple with a white tip. It’s like a face pimple but down there. I haven’t had sex (!!), so it can’t be an STI, right?
The reply came instantly:
Right.
Well, good.
It was so handy having Dear Kate just a click away! She was friendly, free, and full of answers. And so many subjects were easier to type about than talk about! It felt good to be able to confide in her online anytime about anything. It was better than in person could ever be. After all, I could never in a million years ask a question like that to someone I’d have to face in real life!