Yolk(87)

“Right. It has a wrapping,” she says, pulling out her phone. I know she’s checking, so I google as fast as I can.

“The vagina is a tubelike muscular…,” I recite off my screen.

“…but elastic organ about four to five inches long…,” she chimes in, and starts speed-reading to beat me.

“November nineteenth?” I set an appointment for 7:30 but then delete it. I hate the idea of JUNE SURGERY sharing space with my work schedule and homework assignments. And there’s no way I’d forget.

“So I have to get D’d before then.”

“Yuck, June, God.”

I haven’t had sex in months and I’m fucking relieved. Jeremy had one unvarying move. This numbing pneumatic thrusting that made me feel as though I was being drilled for oil. He also had the mortifying habit of talking dirty. It wasn’t that it was crudely kinky or filthy. It was a generic recitation, an almost dry-running commentary of what he was doing.

Now I’m going to put my… And then I’m going to…

“When’s the last time you…,” she begins. “Actually, don’t answer that.” My sister shudders slightly. “Gross.”

June pulls down a cookbook from her shelf. “I was thinking of having a party. Invite people over.” She flips to a picture of kicky hors d’oeuvres featuring edible flowers. “See,” she goes, pointing, “I could do this.”

The recipe involves anchovies. I take it from her and shut it. “June, nobody gets laid at a dinner party. Just get on Tinder and be clear about your intentions. That you want to touch organs. Who are you inviting?”

“Work people I can hate-fuck.”

I try not to envision my sister’s naked body squirming rhythmically under some finance douche and fail.

“And some friends,” she adds, clearing her throat. She reads something in my face and her expression shifts. “They’re probably not as cool as your friends, but they’re good people.”

“Okay,” I say carefully. And then, to add levity, “Can finance people be good people?”

“Fuck you,” she snaps. “They’re nice to me.” She watches me closely. I can’t tell if she’s defending herself from an insult that I have no intention of lobbing or if she’s taunting me. “It’s not going to be a big party or anything, but it’ll be fun. Or not fun, but chill.” She rolls her eyes and begins to furiously type into her phone. “You’re coming, right?”

Her eyes widen at my half-beat of hesitation.

“Yeah,” I manage. “Of course.”

“Well, don’t do me any fucking favors,” she says hotly, and storms off into the bathroom leaving me to stare after her with my mouth open.





chapter 40


I check the awning of the brick and wood restaurant in Nolita before entering. It’s a perfectly respectable, bustling trattoria, and I’m told to walk all the way to the back and downstairs. The “secret bar” where June’s having her get-together is located in the basement beyond the coat check. For once I made the right decision and wore sneakers so that I can beat an Irish goodbye. I’m not in the mood for some Vyvanse-snorting, Atlas Shrugged obsessive finessing me over sixteen-dollar cocktails.

I come straight from school, wearing the least flattering clothes I own. Classic man repellant. Wide-leg black pants, Vans, and a black sweater with holes at the elbows. The space is cavernous, cold. A cellar wine bar aglow in red lamplight, dark carpets, and rows of dusty bottles behind the long wood bar. I was expecting flocks of suits, but the crowd is diverse. Erratic jazz plays, and the gathered clusters talk in low tones. The ambience isn’t dominated by any particular energy. I’m surprised June knows about this place. It seems the kind of place Jeremy would hide from his friends.

Booths line the back wall, which is dotted with framed pictures. I see June standing among the crowd spilling out from the corner table. She’s wearing a low-cut dress, champagne flute in hand. Her heels must be at least six inches tall. When she teeters toward me, my insides wobble. I imagine her tumbling, cracking her head wide on a table. She grasps my forearm unsteadily.

“Hey, you made it,” she says. Her blowout highlights her cheekbones, the layers cascading in soft waves around her face.

“Um.” I’m speechless from the full majesty of her dress. It’s literal red satin, wrapped around her waist, and her décolletage is hoisted up in full commitment to the fluttery flamenco hem. The cut flatters her enormously. “Nice dress,” I tell her, instead of what I want to say, which is: “Tits much?”

“Thanks.” Her eyelashes are so long, she’s serving uncanny valley. Compared to how she’s looked in the past month, it’s almost as if she’s wearing a prosthetic face.

Someone over her shoulder cracks a joke I don’t catch, and she turns around. I look past her to regard her friends. It’s an odd mix of pale-blue button-ups under sleeveless fleece vests, one guy in a comically slender suit, and a woman with super-short hair in jeans and a windbreaker. My initial assessment is that they don’t look rich. Or even particularly smart. “No, seriously,” insists a sandy-haired guy with enormous teeth. “Look it up—it’s called compersion. It’s experiencing joy at someone else’s joy even when you have nothing to gain from it. It’s the opposite of jealousy and the highest form of empathy.”