The day is unusually bright and sunny, which I hope bodes well. I sip my latte and clutch the box. Sam must sense my nervousness, because she talks more than usual, yammering about a video game she must know I am clueless about. Still, I know why she’s doing it, and my heart warms at her thoughtfulness and understanding, at how hard she tries to comfort and help.

By the time we reach the post office, I feel like I almost understand why blowing up robosquirrels is such a good method of stress relief.

“Do you want to go inside? Or just drop it in one of the boxes?” She gestures to the mailboxes out front as she parks the car.

My stomach seizes up when I realize the moment to turn in my DNA test is suddenly upon me. “I think I’d feel better handing it to an actual person,” I say. “If you don’t mind waiting in line?”

“Of course not.”

Inside, we stand in line, and I try to follow as Sam explains the difference between casual, core, and hardcore gamers. She is aghast when she discovers I’ve never been clear on the difference between World of Warcraft and Dungeons & Dragons. When I’m called up to the counter, my heart gives a great lurch and I reach for Sam’s hand. Her warm squeeze gives me the courage to hand the box over, thereby taking a giant step into my post-DNA-test life.

Whatever that might be.

Sam

Even once we’re in the car headed back to Zoe’s house, my hand still tingles with the memory of hers in mine. It felt so special to be there with her for a moment that might change her life forever, and if I could be with her for a hundred more, I’d do it gladly. My body sings with nerves over how close I feel to her, and with anxiety about meeting the rest of her family. I hope they like me.

Just as we arrive at her house, Zoe gets a message from her mom asking her to do some things to get lunch started. I wash my hands so I can help, but when she asks me to put the baby spinach in a bowl and slice some strawberries, I freeze.

At home, my mom insists on soaking greens in cold water with vinegar added before rinsing four times. That’s probably not normal. The problem is, I don’t know what is. So when Zoe hands me a large bowl and a plastic container of baby spinach, I ask, “Should I clean the spinach?”

She glances over from rinsing the strawberries and says, “Um, we don’t. It’s organic and triple washed.”

“So I just put it in the bowl?” I ask, still hesitating for some reason, like if I don’t follow my mother’s steps, the food might be ruined.