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the bend down the path after his group, Brice realized that the next leg of the skate was downhill and he hadn’t learned how to stop. Ever resourceful, my friend figured out a way to coast downhill a few inches then hop onto some adjacent grass to slow himself down before returning to the pavement to coast downhill some more then hop-stop onto some more grass. He continued on in this way for a while, managing to slow down his trajectory, and started to feel like he was getting the hang of things. Only, Brice failed to realize that, a little farther down the hill, the grassy area became bordered by a paved curb, a little lip of cement sticking up around the greenery.
    The next time he hopped up and jumped over, he misjudged the distance and the wheel of his rollerblade caught on the paved lip sending his legs into a wild split as he collapsed onto the pavement, skinning his knees and buttocks and pulling his aforementioned groin.
    “Oh shit!” I say. “What did you do ?”
    “I took off my skates, threw them over my shoulder, and limped back to my car in just my socks.”
    “Then what?”
    “I left.”
    “Without saying goodbye?”
    Evidently, even at thirty-one, even big kids, when they don’t like how the game is being played, will pack their toys and go home.
    “Will you come over and… ice my groin?”
    I laugh. “Sure thing. What are friends for?”
    And, while I refrain from saying so to him, when I hang up the phone, I can’t help but don a self-satisfied smirk and I say out loud to my empty apartment, “I told you so.”

Chapter Eighteen

    “I’m thinking of having my boobs done.”
    “Who is this?”
    “Don’t be an idiot,” my mother says.
    I have no idea if she’s being serious about the boob thing. The woman is fifty-five and is still in amazing shape. My father looks at her as if she were Olivia Wilde. He’s so in love, and in lust, that it’s practically sickening. Once, when she and I went out for a drink, a couple of guys my age came over to the bar and hit on her (not me!). Vanity Ross is a knockout. She looks closer to thirty than fifty. The last thing the woman needs is a boob job. A lobotomy, maybe, but a boob job…?
    “Mom, your boobs are fine. Don’t be silly. Why are you even telling me this? Usually, I’m the last person you’d talk to about this stuff.”
    “Well, I want your opinion.”
    “I gave you my opinion,” I say somewhat petulantly. “Leave your boobs alone. You have a better figure than I do.”
    “Oh I know that dear. But, that’s beside the point. See, the doctor found a lump and it may be cancer and I was just kind of thinking that, maybe, I’d do what that Jolie woman did and have them take my boobs. You know…As a preventative measure.”
    “Wait. Rewind. You think you may have cancer ?” I am starting to feel guilty for my earlier flippancy.
    “Everybody gets cancer eventually,” my mother says, dismissing my concerns. “Never mind. I’ll figure it out about the boob job myself. Besides, truth be told, I didn’t really call to talk to you about my breasts, sweetie. I called to tell you about your brothers.”
    “What about them? And, Mom, the possibility that you might have cancer is a big deal. We should talk about it.”
    “They’re getting married. Both of them. In a double wedding. I think the double wedding is a bit tacky, but you know how John and William are, always doing everything together.”
    My twin brothers are the center of my mother’s universe and, in her eyes, can do nothing wrong. I’m surprised she’s even admitting that the double-wedding idea is déclassé. Her adoration is insufferable. I bite my tongue to keep from asking her if John and William are marrying each other. In case you can’t tell, growing up in my brothers’ shadows left me with just the tiniest chip on my shoulder.
    “Good for them,” I say.
    “Yes, maybe, one day Dunkin will propose to you dear—assuming you don’t do anything to drive this