I can’t say I hadn’t been embarrassed by Jonah before; you go somewhere with someone like him, someone who makes strange noises and gestures, and people are going to stare and whisper and look judgmental — or worse, pitying. But this was more than embarrassment. This was shame. And not just shame over Jonah. Shame that I felt shame. Sometimes the line between wanting to protect him and wanting to protect myself is uncomfortably blurry.

Cammie slides back into our booth, bringing a whiff of herbal shampoo with her, pulling me back into the present. “Apparently,” she says, “Uri’s mom had a boob job.”

A chill runs through me at the thought of breast surgery, and immediately that familiar feeling hits me of being alone in a room full of people, of being on the outside looking in. To me breast surgery means mastectomy, not jokes and cosmetics. It’s hard to have a sense of humor about this subject.

Cammie slips the paper wrapper off a straw and sticks it into her water. “Uri says she will show them to literally anyone.” She chortles. “I believe it.”

“Is this the aunt who won the limbo contest at your bat mitzvah?” Erin asks. “Did she get boobs?”

“No,” I say, forcing myself to participate before anyone remembers about my mom’s cancer and the mood is killed. “That was her aunt Mo. She means her aunt Becca, and I’m guessing this was a reduction.”

Cammie grins. “A major reduction. She’s now a small C, Uri says. She was, like, a G cup or something before. Apparently she’s obsessed with them.”

“I would have taken the leftovers,” Syd says, making a face.

Erin laughs and bumps Syd’s shoulder. “Be glad you’re so small. Less to travel south.”

Syd glances down at herself and says, “I could be twice as big and still be small.”

Cammie tells Syd, “Well, you come by it honestly.” And everyone laughs, because Syd’s mom is also flat-chested. They’re built exactly the same, Syd and her mom, and now I can add “chest size” to the ten thousand things I wonder about my birth mother.

The server approaches with a tray of food, and I’m relieved for the distraction. I slide my water and phone aside as he hands us our orders.

“My eyes!” Cammie yells, passing my plate to me. “The steam from your death burrito has singed my corneas! I’m blind!”

I can’t help laughing at her drama. But she’s right — it actually smells hot, and the plate is surrounded by a warning medley of hot chiles for garnish. Humphrey, I think. I pull out my phone and snap a picture, then, before I can overthink it, I send it to Sam Jones. I quickly type: *wonders how far this could get us*