Once I actually get home, the deli is packed. Ethan is manning the register. Through the window I can see him taking a selfie with a group of giggling junior high girls. My mom is fluttering around the floor, restocking the napkins and the con diments and the straws, which can only mean my dad is in the back helping out with the cooks or in the office making calls.

Basically, nobody has the time to listen to me bitch.

I do something then that I’ve never done in my whole life—walk away from the packed deli and head straight up the stairs to the apartment instead. I shut the door, and it feels like a vacuum, the noise of the deli and the street and the cars whooshing out of my ears.

“How was the interview?”

I startle at Grandma Belly, who’s in her usual chair, her laptop propped on her lap and a game of solitaire pulled up on the screen. She looks close to winning it. One of my favorite things as a kid was to watch that flip flip flip flip flip of the animated cards cascading whenever she won; even now she’ll call me into the living room to see, will even let me click the last card to win it.

“Okay,” I say, shrugging off my backpack and dumping it on the couch in the way my dad hates. “How was your morning?”

She gestures out the window. “Good. It’s nice, hearing all that racket from downstairs.”

I smile despite myself. “Yeah, it’s pretty crowded down there.”

“And yet you’re up here with me.”

Her eyes are more teasing than scolding.

“I could take you down, if you want.”

She likes sitting in the booth right by the window. All the regulars know her, obviously. She’s something of an icon in the East Village—she’s been in business here longer than a lot of people have been alive. But ever since she’s been slowing down, she gets too tired to stay down for long and doesn’t want to go unless she’s got someone else in the family sitting with her.

But she shakes her head and pats the arm of the couch next to her chair for me to sit. “I’ve got plenty of good company right here.”

I take a seat, flopping onto the couch, knowing what’s about to come before it does. Nothing gets past Grandma Belly.

“What’s on your mind, small fry?”

I’m not going to tell her. It’s not like I’m lying to her about the whole Twitter thing—she doesn’t understand or care about the social media accounts, so really, there’s been nothing to tell. And there’s no point in stressing her out about this.

“Oh, come on. You walked in here looking like you dropped an ice cream cone on the sidewalk.”

I snort. “Nah.”

She raises her eyebrows at me.

“It’s stupid,” I mumble.

Her eyes are just as steady on me as ever, only seeming to get sharper with each passing year. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

I glance behind me, as if Mom or Dad or Ethan are going to come out of nowhere and stick a pin in this whole conversation. It’s nothing I could ever say in front of any of them. Nothing I even want to admit to myself.

Grandma Belly is still fixing me with one of those looks of hers when I turn back; it’s impossible not to spill the beans.

“I just … sometimes…” There’s no way to say it without sounding like a total ass. “Sometimes it feels like I’m—not as—I don’t know.” It’s hard to admit to myself, and harder to articulate. “You know, it’s like, everyone goes nuts over Ethan. At school. At the deli. He just…” I gesture vaguely, as if I can fit seventeen years of mild inadequacy into the air in front of me.

“Honey, I don’t know how to break this to you, but the two of you have the exact same face.”

That face almost crumbles when she says that, because that is the crux of the whole thing. I can’t blame it on anything. I can’t say it’s because he’s taller, or better-looking, or older, or any of the other things a brother could say when one outshines the other. We got all the same tools. He’s just better than I am at using them.

Grandma Belly seems to see it written all over me. She reaches forward, toward my head, and I duck down to let her mess up my hair. Even after all this time, it’s weird to me that I’m this much taller than her, even though it’s never felt weird with anyone else.

“Don’t you worry about what Ethan’s up to,” she says. “You are going to come into your own in a big way. When you get out of this place.”

I blink at her in surprise. “Grandma Belly, I think we both know I’m not getting out of this place.”

She smiles at me. “You’re a homebody. You might stick around for a bit. But you’ve never been the kind of person who can stay in one place for too long, not since you started to crawl.”

I look across the living room, at the shelves crammed with video games and DVDs and the seashell collection Mom keeps adding to every time we go to Coney Island. At the old rug still stained from Ethan’s Hawaiian Punch he spilled ten years ago, at the pictures of me and Ethan my dad takes every summer and hangs sequentially on the walls, at the basket where Grandma Belly keeps her knitting needles, making little hats for the babies of regulars.

I look everywhere except at Grandma Belly, because these are the things that tether me, the things I’ve always been and just assumed would always be. What she’s saying right now feels a lot like permission to leave it behind, and it scares me every bit as much as it relieves me.