Her mission this fine autumn day was both mundane and momentous: she must buy a training bra for Jessie. Fetching her at Hazel’s the other day, watching her sling her massive backpack over her shoulder, Remy had noted with ridiculous shock the new heaviness there, the faint outline, a girl-chest if not yet breasts. Perhaps because of Jessie’s height and beauty and her comfort in her own skin, there was nothing awkward about it—but Remy remembered what it was like to be a thirteen-year-old, the body suddenly exerting itself in embarrassing ways. Though Jessie possessed the instinctive confidence of a natural athlete, though her skin still glowed with the infinite tan of a teenage summer, who knew what might in fact be going on inside her. There had been a day last month when she came home from the pool and burst into tears: How in the world, she wanted to know, could Remy have not taught her to shave her legs? The thought had never occurred to Remy.
