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dessert: store-bought angel food cake and strawberry ice cream with Hershey’s chocolate sauce on top.
    â€œHere you go,” she says. “The perfect dessert. Fruit, dairy, low-fat cake, chocolate. The health benefits of chocolate are well known.”
    â€œFruit?” I say, peering at the pile of fat, sugar and carbs on my plate.
    â€œIn the ice cream, silly.”
    My dad laughs and pours a slug of Grand Marnier over his dessert. “And this is made with oranges. Want some?” He holds the bottle out to my mom, who shakes her head.
    â€œSo, Jack,” Dad says. “What’s new?”
    â€œNot much. I’m doing a bit of research about plastic surgery. Scary stuff. I mean, thirteen-year-olds having boob jobs? Oh, sorry, I mean ‘breast augmentation.’ I just want Leah to know what she’s getting into.” I’d really like to tell my parents about my visits to the doctors, but they take a dim view of me skipping school. And an even dimmer view of lying and forgery.
    Mom wipes some chocolate sauce off her chin and says, “You should talk to Roberta Smithson. She’s a therapist who teaches a course on body-image issues. I bet she’d be able to give you all sorts of insights.”
    â€œSign me up,” I say.
    Dad chuckles and helps himself to some more cake. “Dr. Smithson is”— he shoots a glance at my mom, who glares at him—“interesting.” I have a feeling he’d like to say more. Maybe Dr. Smithson is super-butch: buzzcut hair, camo pants, lots of piercings and tattoos. Mom would say that’s a total stereotype, but at least two of her colleagues look like they just got out of the Marines.
    â€œI’ll call her tomorrow and set something up,” Mom says. She pauses on her way over to the sink and rests a hand on my head. “This is a good thing you’re doing, Jack. Leah’s lucky to have you as a friend.”
    â€œToo bad she doesn’t agree,” I say.

    Dr. Smithson’s office is in a converted garage behind her house. I follow the signs along a brick path bordered with flower beds. The door to the garage is open, and when I knock on the door frame, I hear a voice from the backyard. “I’ll be right there. Just gotta wash my hands.”
    The woman who appears a few minutes later looks like Cameron Diaz—blond and a bit goofy. Her legs go on for miles. I can tell because she is wearing dirty denim cutoffs. And a pink tank top, which she quickly covers up with a gray hoodie. Not before I have checked out her breasts, which are perfect.
    â€œSorry about that,” she says. “It’s my day off. I got carried away in the garden. I don’t usually meet clients dressed like this.”
    â€œThat’s okay,” I mumble, following her into the garage. She slips her feet out of her Crocs and pads across the office to a large wicker armchair. She motions me to sit on a wicker love seat opposite her. In between us is a coffee table made from a surfboard. I feel like I’m in Hawaii. With a surfer goddess. Who might also be a dyke. One thing my mom drummed into me was not to make judgments based on appearances.
    â€œSo, Jack,” she says. She’s sitting in the full lotus position, which is pretty distracting. “Your mom tells me you need to know something about the psychosocial effects of plastic surgery.”
    I nod and clear my throat so that I don’t squeak when I talk. “Yeah. I’m, uh, trying to help a friend. She’s fifteen, and her mom wants to give her a boob job—oh, sorry, I mean breast augmentation—for her birthday.”
    She nods. “Fifteen’s pretty young. Although I’ve seen worse.”
    â€œHer mom’s totally into it. And Leah—that’s my friend—thinks it will make her happier, prettier, more popular.”
    â€œThose are the usual reasons,” Dr. Smithson says. “Body image is