You Can't Catch Me(2)

I take another sip of wine, then pop a rolled-up piece of charcuterie into my mouth. Yum. Bring on the sulfites.

“What’s the purpose of it?”

“It’s a way of seeing how similar we are.”

“You mean, besides the name?”

“Obviously.”

I admit, I’m curious to see where this will go. “Okay, hit me.”

She puts her phone on the counter between us, screen down. “Where were you born?”

“New York State. You?”

“Ohio. What street did you live on growing up?”

“Rural Route One.”

“How original,” she says.

“More so than you’d think. How about you?”

“Jefferson.”

I take a large sip of wine. “Are there actually twenty of these questions?”

She raises a finger to her lips as the intercom blares with a flight announcement. Her nails are covered in bright-red lacquer. Another thing we don’t have in common.

I drink again. I’m going to need another glass soon. “Go.”

“What’s your mother’s maiden name?”

“Young.”

“Gardner for me. High school?”

I shake my head. “I was homeschooled.”

“Interesting!”

“Not really.”

And “school” is a bit of an exaggeration. I was brought up in a cult, and reading, writing, and arithmetic weren’t high on the list of Todd’s priorities.

“Best friend growing up?” she asks.

“Sarah. You?”

“Molly.”

“Did you go to college?”

“Columbia,” I say. “J school.”

She rests a finger under her chin. “Impressive.”

“You?”

“A state school.”

“In Ohio?”

She nods and looks away. “Where has that girl gotten to?”

“Her brain is probably short-circuiting from the coincidence.”

“Probably. Anyway, what year were you born?”

“1990.”

She gives a slow smile. “Ah. Same.”

“That’s weird.”

“I thought it might be the case.”

“Why?”

Tammy finally approaches with Jessica Two’s drink, a scotch by the looks of it, poured over a large spherical ice cube. Even her drink makes me feel inferior.

“Jessica?” Tammy says.

I answer yes with Jessica Two out of habit. Or maybe it’s spite. Tammy looks uneasy.

“Just leave the drink,” I say.

She puts it down and backs away again.

“She’s probably going to quit,” Jessica Two says as she tries her drink.

“If she can’t survive two Jessicas . . . ,” I say.

“Born in 1990.”

“Right? But how did you know?”

She shrugs. “I figured we were the same age. I’m good at guessing things like that. Also, Jessica was the most popular girl baby name that year. Well, many years, actually, but that year also.”

“I didn’t know that. When’s your birthday?”

“July tenth.”

A chill passes through me, even though it feels as if getting to this fact was the whole point of this conversation. “No. Fucking. Way.”

She puts her glass down. I watch the gooseflesh rise on my arms.

“What is happening?” I ask.

“We’re having a drink.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“About my birthday? No.” She takes another sip, then puts it down carefully. She takes out her wallet and flips her driver’s license at me. There it is. My name and birthday on an Ohio license with Jessica Two’s picture.

“What’s your middle name?” I ask.

“Don’t have one. You?”

“Anne.”

She turns away from me so she’s facing the bar. The television above it is playing CNN, which I’ve been avoiding for weeks. It’s the media-critic show that runs on the weekends, and there’s a panel on, discussing some tweet of the president’s. But then the headline shifts—Plagiarism in Journalism—Fake News?—and my face flushes.

“I think we should stop here,” I say.

“With the game?”

“I’m feeling . . . kind of seasick, to tell you the truth.”

“Might be the sulfites.”

“Probably not the sulfites.”

She drums her nails on the counter. “Okay, it’s strange.”

“It’s more than that. Have you ever done the math?”

“What’s math got to do with it?”

I pick up my phone and do a quick Google search. “There were 4.16 million live births in America in 1990. If those are 50 percent girls, that makes 2.08 million girls born that year. Divide by 12 for the number of months, and that’s 173,330 girls a month, assuming all months are equal.”

“You did that in your head?”

“What?”

“That long division.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s this thing I can do.”