“You don’t?”

“No.” I laugh.

She nods, taking a brownie for herself and nibbling on it, looking distracted. Usually I can’t get the kid to stop talking, and now she’s barely uttered ten sentences.

“Is there something on your mind?”

The neighbor girl hesitates. Shrugs.

“Do you need advice about something?”

Another tentative shrug. “It’s stupid.”

Everything is stupid when you’re fifteen, including the things that aren’t actually stupid, but I know she’ll get the words out eventually. The two of us eat in silence for a bit.

Then,

“This boy texted me today and I have no idea what to say back.”

Ah.

Boy troubles.

“Do you not like him? Because you don’t have to text him back.” That will just open a window for more conversation, and if she’s not into him, that will only—

“Kind of, but I’m not sure. I guess I might, but I haven’t thought about it much. I have so much going on and I’m very busy with work, you know.”

I bite back a smile.

Work.

Meaning the Wallace family drama.

“It’s okay not to know.”

Molly pauses. “But what do I even say?”

“That depends—what did his message say?”

“It says…” She retrieves her cell from her back pocket, taps on the screen, and holds it up. “Hey.”

I wait.

“Um. Is that all it says?”

“Yeah.”

Jesus. I cannot with teenage boys, and thank God I’m not a teenage girl these days. If that’s what poor Molly has to work with, she has a long road ahead of her.

“And you know who this person is? Because if they’re just dropping into your messages, it could be anyone.”

“Well.” She pushes hair behind her ears. “I said, ‘Who is this?’ and he said, ‘Nate,’ and now I don’t know what to say.”

“He’s not giving you much to work with.” I know cavemen with better communication skills than Nate. “You could text him back and be like, ‘Hey what’s up?’”

“That’s really lame.”

“Well, yeah—it is lame, but I don’t think texting is Nate’s first language.”

Molly scowls. “Maybe I won’t reply.”

Her phone chooses that exact moment to ping again, and both of us look at it, stunned.

I gasp dramatically. “What if that’s him!”

She checks it. “Oh my god, it is!”

“Well what does it say!” Don’t keep me in suspense—I can hardly take it!

“Are you going to the dance next weekend?” Molly reads out loud, glancing up, speechless. “What does that mean?”

“It means he wants to know if you’re going to be at the dance next weekend!” I laugh. “So, are you?”

“I hadn’t planned on it.” She bites her thumbnail. “They’re pretty boring, and I’m not just saying that because I don’t want to go—they are legit super boring.” She’s holding her phone in one hand, brownie chunk in the other.

“Alright, well—tell him you’re not sure.”

“But…” She hesitates.

“But what?”

“If I tell him I might not go to the dance, he might not go to the dance. But if I do go after I told him I might not, he might not be there.” Molly sighs loud enough to wake a ghost. “But if I tell him I’m going and then I don’t, he’ll think I’m a jerk.”

Teenage logic never ceases to amaze me, and I wonder if I confused my mother the same way Molly is confusing me. Or maybe she’s making perfect sense and I have baby brain.

“But I also don’t want him to think I like him, because I might, but I also might not.” She looks down at me as I soak in the tub, brownie suspended above the water. “I’m very busy you know.”

“Yes, I can see that.” I can’t resist teasing her, this girl who is so unsure of herself. “There’s nothing wrong with not knowing. Just because some boy decided to text you out of the blue does not mean you have to know how you feel about it.”

She has a lifetime ahead of her to not know how she feels about people.

I’m the last person she should be talking to about this.

“But I’d like to know how I feel about it,” she muses passionately. “I feel like I’m at that age where I should be able to accurately assess how I feel about certain things.” Her teeth nibble into the edge of her dessert. “Shouldn’t I be able to figure this out?”

Accurately assess? Say again?

“Word to the wise, Molly—if you’re not sure, that’s probably your answer about it. Nate is a no.” I give my head a definitive shake.

“So what do I say to him?”

“Tell him you probably won’t go to the dance—you’re busy that night.”

She pauses, staring at the screen of her cell. “I can just…say that?”

“Yes.” I sit up a little straighter in the tub, mindful to keep my boobs submerged. “You can say whatever you want—you do not owe the kid an explanation.” You don’t owe any man an explanation—unless of course you’re preggo with his unborn child.

Then you have some serious explaining to do.