followed me!! And before I can even respond, there’s a second text: Okay I know it’s because she’s your grandma and I met her etc, but also I’m kind of fangirling???
I set my phone down on the table.
So here’s the thing. Technically, Maya never accepted my Instagram follow request. That’s because technically, I don’t have an Instagram. I just don’t see the point of it, since I myself am not particularly Instagram-worthy. And if there’s something I want to look at, I just pop into Grandma’s account.
Which is . . . basically what I did this morning with Maya.
So she clearly thinks I’m Grandma. An honest mistake, seeing as I’m logged in as, well, Grandma. But it’s not like she would have denied my follow request if I’d followed her as myself. You don’t block your social media from someone you’re already texting—that’s just backward. Anyway, I’m almost positive Maya said her mom is the one who made her stay on private in the first place.
I feel a little guilty, though. It’s almost like I snuck past her privacy settings under false pretenses. I guess I could tell her right now that it’s me . . . but that feels awful too. I don’t want to rain on her followed-by-a-local-celebrity parade. And after the iffy first impression Maya had, it’s clear she’s now one hundred percent Team Grandma.
So I suck it up and write back: NICE.
And then I make Grandma’s account like a few of Maya’s pictures, because hey, Grandma would like Maya’s pictures if she saw them.
But I don’t click the heart on the black-and-white one. Not even from Grandma.
I’m just so painfully bad at anything girl-related. I don’t even know how to talk to them. I suppose I can technically form words around most of them.
But I don’t know how to do any of the other stuff.
Like that thing certain guys do where they tease a girl just the right amount. Or when the guy touches a girl’s arm in this very particular way, where it’s not a big deal, but it IS a big deal.
Drew’s always telling me not to stress about it. To just trust my instincts and let things play out. But that really only works if you have good instincts. And I can’t let things play out because there’s no thing to play out. They just don’t get it. Drew’s a huge flirt, but never in a serious way. And even though Felipe’s pretty guarded about boys, he stepped up big-time when Nolan entered the picture. I’m talking grand-gesture scavenger-hunt-promposal big-time. Meanwhile, I send one Shrek GIF, and days later, I’m still feeling like I came on way too strong.
I don’t even know where I’d turn for real advice on this stuff. Grandma, I guess—though her advice would be about communication and “opening your heart” and not about certain very physical sensations that happen when I look at a particular black-and-white picture.
Maybe it’s time for me to log out.
Sophie has a plan.
I mean, she pretty much always has a plan. When I was twelve, I don’t even think my brain had switched on yet, and here’s Sophie, forging schemes twice every day before breakfast.
“Here’s my thing about the teen room,” she says, settling deeper into the passenger seat. “It actually simplifies so many things. You’ll have more space in the ballroom—”
“Oh, you’re still stuck on this?”
“I’m not stuck,” she says—and I don’t even need to glance away from the road to know she’s rolling her eyes. “I’m just thinking out loud. Okay, so it also allows the lighting to be more customized to your guests’ needs. Right? Soft evening lights for the oldsters, dark mood lighting for the youth. Maybe a little bit of multicolored LED crystal ball strobe if we’re feeling fancy. And don’t say those words sound like drug names.”
“I didn’t say anything—”
“You were thinking it. And your predictability is a discussion for another day. But going back to the lighting . . .”
I tune in and out. It’s not that Sophie’s boring. But between the GPS on my phone and NPR droning in the background, I’ve missed a solid few minutes of her declaration.
“. . . Spin the Bottle, Seven Minutes in Heaven, right?”
“Wait, what?” The light’s red at 17th Street, so I can finally look at her face.
“Jamie, they’re games.”
“I know what they are. I just didn’t know you were playing them.”
“I never said I was.” She sniffs. “I’m just saying, these are the kinds of things that would be