Her mother and father had met while attending Stanford, so Loren was a legacy. She had even been invited to join her mother’s old sorority. Maybe she just wanted to have earned something. Maybe that was it. So I kept listening and trying not to look uncomfortable about it. I saw mom and Paul talking out in the kitchen. He’d practically eaten his weight in mom’s cooking, complimenting her on every new dish he tried. As if he’d never had her cooking. She’d cooked all the time when they were married. A girl I’d only spoken to once while in line for lunch flitted past with a piece of my mom’s strawberries and lime ice box cake, making my mouth water, and my mental calculator—which was now up to forty-seven classmates—wondered how many of my classmates had tagged along with someone I knew, and how many just crashed. It was an open invitation, sure. But I meant an open invitation for my Facebook friends.
