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class.
    â€œSo how’d you guys meet?” I say.
    Bianca says, “I was born, and James was like, there.”
    I say, “Oh, shut up, you.”
    She grins, and it makes the restaurant seem even warmer. I like it here. It’s a little outside of town in the direction (away from Fremont, and Omaha, and general civilization) that I don’t typically go, but maybe I need to start venturing further into the cornfield wastelands. Topically, the walls are painted with kind of creepily realistic pictures of farmers, like we’re supposed to believe they’re harvesting our food as we sit here. But this ravioli is really, really good, and after two months in recovery I’m just now getting to the point where I can genuinely enjoy food (while frantically calculating calories in my head, yeah. I’m not a superhero. Unless ridiculously precise food-math counts as a superpower).
    â€œI met James at day camp when we were goddamn infants,” Mason says. He curses, the siblings don’t. I’ve figured out fromthe way they bowed their heads before they ate, all subtle, in unison, that they’re definitely religious, and I’ve figured out from the way that James holds his fork—because come on it’s not like I don’t know my shit in this department—that he is definitely gay.
    I say, “That’s like me and my best friend. We were like betrothed at birth or something.”
    â€œDoes she do theater too?” Mason says.
    I shake my head. “We did kiddie dance classes together, but she was never really into it. Meanwhile I latched on to it and never stopped.”
    â€œOh, so you’re a dancer.”
    Shut it down! “I’m so completely not a dancer. I just do dance classes. You have to be good to be a dancer.” I don’t know why I’m saying this, really, because the truth is . . . I’m pretty damn good. It’s the same way I used to pretend I ate a lot, I think. What if someday they see me dance and they think I’m not good? I have to start letting them down now. Jesus, I’m psychotic.
    Bianca says, “I can’t dance at all.”
    â€œI’m seriously hoping it’s not a big part of the audition,” Mason says, which maybe pisses me off a little because hello we just said that was what I was good at? Okay, maybe we kind of didn’t. Maybe I avoided praise like a pussy. Shut up.
    I look around the room just to have something else to do and my eyes fall on this waitress a few tables down. She’stallish, blond, hair in a bun but falling out and tucked behind her ears. Her uniform’s a little wrinkled and she looks flustered, tired, but she’s still sweet with her table, I can tell, refilling their water glasses and talking to them, smiling.
    â€œSee something you like?” James says, which amuses me because he totally has no reason to think that I’m into chicks (we don’t have a special way of holding our forks).
    But whatever, screw it. “She looks like my ex-girlfriend,” I say. “I thought it was her for a second. Which is stupid because she’s in New York.”
    â€œGirlfriend, huh?” Mason says. He looks kinda deflated. Aw, kid.
    â€œI go both ways,” I say. “You know that whole thing about there being that misconception about bisexuals being sluts? Like, everyone thinks that just because we’re into both we’re into everybody ?”
    James says, “I do know that misconception.” Of course ya do, gay boy.
    â€œYeah well I’m actually kind of a slut. I’m awesome for the community, obviously.”
    â€œCommunities are overrated,” he says. “Go for small groups at co-ops.”
    â€œCheers to that.” I stuff another bite of ravioli into my mouth. Bianca takes a tentative forkful of salad, and James gives her this encouraging little smile. He hasn’t been pushing her, but he has been looking