“Really? What even is being too forward?” I ask, frustrated.
As we cook, Amber lists her no-nos. “Calling him your boyfriend before he calls you his girlfriend.”
Shit. “I did that with Jason,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
When Amber looks surprised, I feel compelled to explain. “I happened to be introducing him to someone—I don’t remember who—and I couldn’t just be like this is Jason, who is of no affiliation to me.”
Amber laughs, but then she waves a hand. “Well, you know you two don’t count. You’re an anomaly. But for the rest of us mere mortals, youdefinitelydon’t want to initiate the ‘what are we’ talk.”
My face starts feeling hot because I did that too.
“And not to be old-fashioned or anything, but you might as well kiss him goodbye if you say ‘I love you’ first,” Amber says.
What is this, a firing squad?I fan my collar as Mo wanders into the kitchen. “A girl can’t say ‘I love you’ first? That’s some medieval bullshit,” she says.
Amber pops a baby carrot in her mouth and shrugs. “I don’t make the rules.”
Later, we settle in Amber’s living room and get to work. Ambs seems to have no problem filling out her application to the Culinary Institute of America—we very maturely love to say she’s joining the CIA—but it’s like I’m tackling a wild boar with every word of my Princeton essay.
I have known my whole life that I wanted to go to PrincetonUniversity. From the moment I understood the concept of college, at least.
That’s it.
That’s what I have after the first hour. And it’s clearly a lie.
I feel a little better when Mo presses her fingers to her temples like she’s communing with the dead and says, “Oh my God, it’s coming to me! I have a name for my app!”
She is obviously accomplishing just as much onheradmission application as I am. In between wanting to gouge my eyes out because of how lame my essay sounds, I can’t stop thinking about the weird dream and the Jason kiss and the fact that I have no explanation for either.
“What’s the name?” I ask, happy for the distraction.
“Zebra.”
Amber makes a face. “Zebra?”
Mo nods excitedly. “It’s spot-on for a diagnostic-tool-slash-health-anxiety app.”
I’m embarrassed to admit that, despite her explaining it more than once, I still don’t quite get what Mo’s app is supposed to be. To be fair, she’s spent months not talking about it because she’s superstitious; she’s just starting to share bit by bit.
“Pitch it to me again,” I say, sitting up straighter. “Pretend I’m one of your investors.”
Mo takes a big breath like she’s waited her whole life for this. “Okay, so you know how when you tell the internet your medical symptoms, all you ever get is, like, Say Your Goodbyes, You’re Dying of a Terminal Illness?”
Amber and I both nod. “I got that I had meningitis the other day,” Ambs says.
“It probably also told you that you had the flu or allergies or whatever, but what youfocuson is the fatal illness because, like, duh. Health anxiety.
“So, my app is going to emphasize the other less serious things it could be, and tell you why you’re probably fine, and also give you a meditation. Like,Hey, bestie, I know you think you have meningitis, but it’s probably just a head cold. Make an appointment with your doctor and let’s do this breathing exercise.”
“Wait, that sounds amazing,” I say, because it does. I could have used Mo’s app yesterday in the aftermath of my dream. “Why’s it called Zebra though?”
“Because there’s this thing in medicine that they teach new doctors: When a patient comes in complaining of something, imagine their symptoms as pounding hooves but thinkhorsesnot zebras. It’s just a saying that reminds you that the most likely explanation is usually the simplest and most common one. It’s probablynotthe rare brain-eating amoeba, but a normal headache, you know?”
“I guess the name makes sense when you explain it like that,” Amber says, and I nudge her, because could she sound any less enthused?
“It’s brilliant,” I say, and Mo beams.
“So, anyway, that’s how I intend to get rich and famous,” she quips.
