My instinct is to toss the card in the recycling, but curiosity gets the best of me, and before my parents call me over to head home, I tuck it into my pocket.
7
It’s one of those perfect Seattle summer days, where everyone is in a good mood, the kind of day everyone declares is the reason they love Seattle. Seventy-eight degrees, cloudless sky. You may get ten months of gloom, but then you get this: one glorious summer day.
Correction: everyone is in a good mood except Julia. Earlier this morning, she messaged me photos of three potential outfits, and she picked me up in a fourth, a maxidress with an abstract watercolor print, her long hair crown-braided around her head. I’m in a long blue skirt, a bumblebee-patterned tank tucked into the waistband. If there are tiny animals on it, I will buy it.
“Oh no, I dressed up too much,” she whispers to me when Noelle meets us at the farmers market in cutoff jean shorts and a striped T-shirt. “How is she so cute in just shorts?”
“You’re spiraling. You look great.”
Julia makes a slightly inhuman sound before schooling her face into something more presentable. “Hi! I’m so glad you could make it. I don’t normally dress up this much for farmers markets.”
Noelle lifts her hand in a wave and, to her credit, gives Julia an odd look that lasts only a second. “Hey. I’ve never actually been to this market, but everything looks amazing.”
She’s not wrong. There are booths with fresh fruit and vegetables, local cheeses, artisan hot sauces, all kinds of bread. There’s a girl in a cat mask playing violin, a pair of guys in old-timey clothes sitting behind typewriters with a sign that says POEMS: $2. We bought one once, and it lives on Julia’s fridge beneath a magnet from her dentist.
“We always do one lap for free samples,” Julia says, explaining our farmers market strategy. “And then we get a bunch of food to share.”
We weave through the stalls, pausing for samples of cheeses and jams and pickles. Almost right away, I realize there’s a problem. Every booth with signs proclaiming LOCAL and ORGANIC and PASTURE RAISED and WE LET THESE COWS WATCH THE GREAT BRITISH BAKE OFF WHILE MILKING THEM reminds me of Tarek. I’m sure he’s been to this market, which is the best one in Seattle. I’m sure he loves it.
Stop, brain.
I try to enjoy this for what it is: a normal summer outing with friends. I’m not thinking about Victoria and Lincoln’s wedding or her dress fitting in a few days. I’m not thinking about next weekend’s wedding, which takes place on a boat and already makes me feel claustrophobic. Except the thing about telling yourself you’re firmly not thinking about something guarantees it’s all you’re going to be thinking about.
Julia makes a valiant attempt to steer us away from Seattle Sustainable Soaps, her parents’ booth, but they wave us over. She does a quick introduction, and Noelle shakes her parents’ hands and samples a few lotions.
“Quinn, how’s your summer?” Deb Kirschbaum asks. “We haven’t seen your parents at temple lately.”
Ugh, Jewish guilt. “Busy!” I chirp back. “Shockingly, a lot of people like getting married when it’s nice out.”
We’re High Holidays Jews, and even then, if a holiday interferes with a wedding, the wedding takes precedence. Sometimes I wish we were more observant—maybe it’s something I can explore in college. My parents were probably doing me a favor, bookmarking all those Hillel events for me.
“Take them some of these,” Dave says, shoving some soaps and shampoos into my bag before I can protest. “Oh, and there’s a Jewish bakery that opened at the market today. Their challah is… eh, so-so”—he wobbles his hand at this—“but the babka is to die for.”
“I’ll remember that,” I say.
As we continue through the market, I catch Julia and Noelle flirting—a lingering glance when they think the other isn’t looking, a playful nudge. And this is why I’m here: to make sure Julia feels comfortable enough to be herself around Noelle. To support my best friend.
Even if my mind keeps drifting to the one place it shouldn’t.
When we’ve collected enough food to fill our canvas tote bags, we nab the last empty table at one end of the market. There are only two chairs, so I encourage Julia and Noelle to sit down while I awkwardly ask another table if they’re using their chair, then drag it over. By the time I bite into a slice of chocolate babka, I feel I’ve well and truly earned it. God, I love Jewish pastries.
“Do you have an idea of what you might major in?” Noelle asks. “Julia and I were just talking about college.”
“Business,” I say automatically. “My parents are… kind of strict. They’re wedding planners, and they’re pretty set on me studying business and working for them when I graduate, like my sister.”
Noelle grabs a handful of Rainier cherries. “But if you had the choice?”
“Ha. Great question. I’m not really sure.” It’s hard to know without having had the chance to explore. Even now I can’t solidly land on a single thing I enjoy doing enough to major in, which gives me a whole lot of who am I? self-esteem feelings alongside my other daily anxieties.
Noelle nods. “I’m undecided, but I’m worried I won’t know by the time we need to,” she says. “The idea of picking something and sticking with it for four years is… daunting.”
Four years. I can barely commit to a skin-care regimen. I’m not sure how to commit to a major.
“You liked math classes,” Julia says to me. “And you got fours and fives on all your APs.”
“Since when did this turn into career counseling?” I say, laughing. “But yes. I liked math classes. I
