Parallel

right? Because you want to ask them out?
    “Have fun tonight,” is all Josh says. He gives me a little wave, then heads to his Jeep. Defeated, I plop down in my driver’s seat.
    He must like Megan. That’s the only explanation. Okay, it’s not the only explanation, but it’s the only one I want to accept. I’d rather believe that he fell for the smokin’ hot girl on the crew team than think he just doesn’t like me.
    There’s only one way to find out.
    I grab my cell phone from the glove compartment and quickly dial his number, waiting until he’s in his Jeep to press send. He answers on the second ring.
    “Hey,” he says, looking my direction.
    “Hi. I was wondering what you thought of Megan.”
    “Megan Watts?”
    “Megan the coxswain.”
    “Megan the coxswain is Megan Watts,” Josh says. “What do you mean, what do I think of her? I think she’s a good coxswain.” I lean forward in my seat to get a better look at his face, but there’s a glare on his windshield.
    “I meant, are you interested in her? As a girlfriend.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I think you’d be a great couple,” I lie, fiddling with the zipper on my backpack.
    Josh is silent on the other end of the line. When I look up, his Jeep is pulling away. I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t.
    This is awkward.
    “I just didn’t want you to feel weird about it,” I say quickly. “If you like her. Because I’m fine with it. If you do.”
    “Great,” Josh says, his voice totally void of anything for me to latch onto and analyze. “Thanks.” There is a sinking feeling inside my chest.
    “Okay, well . . .” How does one end a conversation like this gracefully? Hope it works out! Obviously not, but somehow the equally ridiculous words “Good luck!” spring from my lips. Then, before it can get any worse, I hang up on him.
    “I am a lunatic,” I say to the phone in my hand. Now what? Do I call him back? Send him a text blaming a bad connection?
    Caitlin calls before I can do either.
    “Hey,” I say, answering. “I think I just set Josh up with Megan Watts.”
    “Who’s Megan Watts?”
    “The other cox. Curly blond hair, big boobs. The guys on the crew team thinks she’s really hot.”
    “Why would you try to set Josh up with another girl?” she asks. “Wait. Lemme guess. It was some twisted plan to see if he liked you, and it backfired.”
    I sigh. “Something like that.”
    “How’d I know? Listen, I want to help you overanalyze every detail of this, but I only have a minute before I have to be at the lab.”
    “No problem,” I tell her. “We already have our conclusion, anyway. I’m a loser.”
    “A loser who must read my Yale essays this weekend,” Caitlin says. “I emailed the latest drafts to you an hour ago. My application is due November first, and I need time to revise it before sending. Knowing me, lots of time.”
    “Sure,” I say, still thinking about Josh. “He said why when I asked him if he liked Megan. That definitely means he likes her, right? Otherwise he just would’ve said no.”
    “Do you make these rules up as you go along? Or are they from the same relationship manual that recommends asking the guy you like if he likes the hot blond girl?”
    “She asked me to talk to him for her!”
    “Ohhh. So that was your motive. It was philanthropic.” I can picture her rolling her eyes. “Hey, I gotta go,” she tells me. “We’ll obsess about Astronomy Boy later. Just read my essays, okay?”
    “Of course I’ll read your essays,” I reply. “But no , we will not obsess later. Or ever. I’m officially over Astronomy Boy.” As I say it, I am certain, but I delete his number from my phone just to be safe.
    “Your mom sure knows how to throw a party,” Dad remarks, looking around the crowded room. We’re standing in the High Museum’s Grand Lobby, which has been transformed into a nineteenth-century French salon. Mom is holding court nearby, stunning in royal blue silk. The gown belongs to Caitlin’s mom, a remnant from her ten-week stint as the lead in Madame Bovary: The Musical! six months before Caitlin was born. Thanks to the fifteen pounds Mrs. Moss put on in her first trimester, the dress is a whopping size six. With the help of some full-body Spanx and a pair of five-inch heels, it fits my mom perfectly.
    “No one would believe she’s almost fifty,” I muse, watching her.
    “Just don’t let her hear you call her ‘almost fifty,’” Dad replies,