It felt like everyone was staring at the kid with the big breasts.

Mom and Donna came to get me and I said goodbye to Sandy.

“I filled out a preferred customer card on you, with your measurements and sizes,“ she said as we left. “That way when you come back, if I’m not here, whoever is will be able to find what you need faster.”

I smiled and thanked her.

When we were downstairs and on the way out of Nordstrom’s, Donna gave me a peculiar look. “You’ve been crying?” She asked.

“Just shut up,” I said.

Oddly, she did.

“You kids ready to eat here? It’s nearly noon,” Mom asked as we exited the department store into the main concourse.

My stomach embarrassed me by growling a bit, and Donna laughed. “I could eat,” she said. “Hotcakes are good but they don’t last.”

I didn’t say anything. The mall was already crowded and being around people was making me paranoid. It felt like everyone was staring at the kid with the big breasts. I was probably imagining it, I decided.

“I guess we can take our bags inside the restaurant rather than carry them back to the car and return,” Mom was saying as we headed toward The Catch. “We’ll have less time to wait for a table if we get our names in now.”

Donna leaned her head closer to mine. “Those guys near the clock are checking you out,” she whispered.

I didn’t look. “They are not!”

Donna snorted. “Yes, they are!” She paused a beat. “And the tall one is kind of cute.”

I sort of rolled my eyes and accidentally caught a glimpse of three boys near the map pillar. They were all looking in my direction. I quickly moved to put Mom between me and them.

“Joni,” Mom said. “You’d better get used to it.”

I looked up at her, a little disconcerted that she seemed to be joining Donna in teasing me. “I duwanna!” I protested.

This cracked Donna up but we made it to the doors of the restaurant without the guys coming any closer. I still hadn’t looked directly at them.

Once inside, the warm smells of hot butter and fried fish, seemed to comfort Mom and she smiled at the host. “Three please,” she told him.

Grabbing menus, he started to lead us toward the mezzanine above the pool but did a complete comic double take when he got a good look at me. I was tempted to push him off the stairs into the flamingo-infested turquoise waters.

“They’re plastic,” said Donna at my elbow.

The host did his best to drag his eyes away from my chest but Donna’s comment derailed him again and he almost missed a step. “Bumper Parton?” he said, or something like that.

“I thought they were real the first time I came here,” Donna contributed. “But I figured out they must be plastic.”

Mom pushed past the host, perhaps to escape the inane conversation on the stairs. I followed her, and Donna followed me.

“Hanh?” the poor host managed to inquire.

“The flamingos,” Donna explained, finally. “They’re plastic.”

Mom chose seats for us without waiting for an invitation—not on the pool side but looking out the windows on the topiary in the mall’s sculpture garden. “Isn’t this nice, girls?” She asked after the host had rescued his dignity by depositing the menus on the table between us.

I scowled at the ‘girls’ remark but softened it with a murmured, “thank you,” to the poor host, who promptly escaped with some scarcely intelligible remark. It wasn’t his fault Donna’s sense of humor leaves a lot to be desired.

I had the window seat and Donna had chosen to sit next to me rather than next to Mom on the other side of the table. We stuck our tongues out at each other, just on general sibling priorities, before picking up the menus.

“Girls!” Mom said sharply. “Don’t be disgusting!”

I resisted the temptation to giggle until Donna poked me in the side under the table, then we both made fizzy soda noises for about twenty seconds.

“I wanna Shrimp Three-Ways Plate,” I announced which I had been anticipating since we decided to eat at The Catch.

“You ordered that last time we were here,” Donna accused.

“It was good,” I protested. “Shrimp cocktail, fried shrimp and shrimp -uh- scampi. Good!”

Donna frowned. “I want the seafood platter, but that’s what I got last time.”

“So get it again,” I suggested.

She shook her head. “Scallops are those little round things, aren’t they?” she asked.

I shrugged. Then looked down, glaring at my chest. Shrugging was a disconcerting feeling with my new growth.

“I’m having crab legs,” Mom announced.

“Eww!” Donna commented.

“Don’t say it,” Mom warned.

Last time, Donna had complained that crab legs looked just like giant spider legs, which Mom had not appreciated and had caused Dad to snort into his clam chowder.

Which gave me an idea. “You had scallops before,” I told Donna. “The seafood platter is a cod fillet, scallops and your choice of shrimp. Right?”

“Uh huh,” she said. “So scallops are the round things,” she guessed. “I thought they might be made of potatoes.”

“Yeah, no,” I said. “They’re from a kind of marine worm.” I told her. “They slice the little guy up like salami, then bread and fry the pieces.”

“Mom!” Donna protested.

Our waiter arrived, with a friend. “Hi,” he announced. “I’m Trevor, I’ll be your server today and this is Curtis, he’s a trainee so he’ll just be watching unless I give him the signal to go out for a long one.”

Donna beamed at the two boys who didn’t seemmuch older than us, but neither of them was looking at her. I had caught their attention, and both of them were trying not to stare at my chest.

I stared back at them but they didn’t notice.

“A long what?” Mom asked, distracted from looking at the menu.

“Just an expression,” said Trevor. “Can I get you something to drink to start with?”

“Iced tea,” Mom ordered while Donna and I opted for Italian soda, vanilla for me and orange for my sister.

Trevor and Curtis retreated to get our drinks while we resumed discussing what we might order. “Maybe I’ll get crab, too,” Donna supposed.

“Spider legs,” I whispered to her and she grinned.

“Do you have any idea what scallops really are?” she asked. “Seriously?”

“Nope. Well, you know the emblem on the sign at a Shell gas station?”

“The sea shell?”

“Yeah. I think that’s actually a scallop shell. They’re sort of like oysters or clams.”

“For goodness sake,” said Mom. “I thought they came from something like a sea cucumber.”

“Well,” I said. “They do sort of look like deep-fried pickle slices.”

We were all still giggling about that when the waiters came back.

After serving our drinks, Trevor helped us sort out our menu selections, and I got my Shrimp Three-Ways on record. Curtis had brought a basket of bread and a dish of butter, too.

Donna had Trevor confirm that scallops were like oysters who lift weights, and not some kind of marine worm. I tried to look innocent.

Mom asked about the crab legs, “They’re fresh? Not all mushy?”

“No, ma’am,” said Trevor. “They trotted off the boat from Alaska just yesterday. Very fresh.”

We all laughed. Mom looked at him suspiciously, but ordered her “spider legs” anyway.

The boys had a minor collision while leaving maybe because I had accidentally locked eyes with Curtis and he didn’t see Trevor turn around.

Mom frowned at me when they were gone. “Joni!” she said sharply.

“I didn’t do anything, Mom,” I protested.

“One thing we’re not going to have to get her is flirting lessons,” Donna commented.

I know I turned lobster red. “I wasn’t flirting!”

“You didn’t intend to flirt, maybe,” Mom allowed. “But honey, when you look at a boy and make your eyes go wide like that, you’re flirting.”

I blinked several times at that information. “Really?” I said in a squeaky voice. “But he was staring at my —uh— my chest.”

Mom nodded, “And what you did with your eyes told him that you liked that.”

Donna laughed and I squeaked, “But I didn’t like it!”

Mom shook her head. “Every time you moved, those boys’ eyes bounced like pinballs.”

“Cause you jiggle,” Donna amplified.

“I’m not doing it on purpose,” I said and I could feel my lip quiver.

Mom sighed. “Lots of girls have this problem, honey. You have to learn to cope.”

“I duwanna,” I said. “Stupid boys.”

“Pouting about it is not a good idea,” said Donna. “You’re way too cute when you pout.”

“I am not,” I insisted.

“Yes, you are,” she refuted. “That’s why Rod Pick tries to avoid you.”

“Huh?” Rod had told me that he was uncomfortable when I cried or did other things he thought were unmanly. Turning queer, he called it. I felt my face go red again as Donna continued.

“He told me that you started pouting when you didn’t get your way back in middle school. If you didn’t like something, you pouted about it. He didn’t know whether to cuddle you or slap the shit out of you.”

“Donna!” Mom snapped at her. “A little less vulgarity in public.”

“Sorry,” my sis issued a rare apology.

I sat there with my mouth about half open, gob-smacked at this idea.

Donna snickered. “If you really want to drive a boy crazy,” she suggested, “show the tip of your tongue with that ‘I can’t believe how awesome you are’ expression.”

“Huh?” I closed my mouth and glared at her. “Why would I….”

“You might,” she offered. “If you’re Joni for any length of time, it could be useful.”

Mom put a hand over her eyes and still managed to shake her head. “Lord,” she said almost under her breath, “let this all be temporary and give me my Jonny back. Raising two teenage daughters at once is too much!”

Donna tried to suppress a snicker and mostly succeeded.

I didn’t like the idea of causing Mom any grief, but jeez! This whole thing was a lot more problem for me than for her!

“You’re still pouting,” said Donna. “And it doesn’t really work on other girls, like Mom and me.”

— —

“Why not?” I pouted, which got a roll the eyes from Mom and a giggle from Donna.

“Cute,” she added. “Just don’t waste your ammo on the wrong targets.”

I glanced down then wiggled a bit in the seat. Somewhere across the mezzanine, someone coughed like they were choking. I glanced that direction but didn’t see anyone looking toward me. Donna covered her eyes.

Mom shook her head. “You know what you’re doing all the time, don’t you?”

“Not really,” I said, blushing.

“It’s kind of like giving Linda a pair of drumsticks,” said Donna. She glanced sideways at me and added, “A big pair of drumsticks.”

The salads that came with our orders arrived about then and saved Donna from a devastating glare. We got busy eating for a bit. I don’t know why I felt so hungry, though I could think of two possible reasons.

At one point, Donna commented, “Why is blue cheese dressing you get in a restaurant so much better than the stuff that comes in a bottle?”

Mom had an answer. “The good places make it themselves, sometimes every day fresh. I’ve made it at home myself a few times, and it’s even better than most restaurants.”

I took notice of that idea. “What goes into it?” I asked.

“There are different recipes,” said Mom. “I used Gorgonzola cheese, a bit of olive oil, some white wine vinegar, milk, dill, basil, and garlic.” She sipped some tea, remembering. “You have to let it sit for several hours after making it to let the flavors marry.”

“It sounds neat to me!” I mentioned. “Can I try making some?”

“Little Suzy Homemaker,” Donna teased me.

But Mom said, “Sure. I’ll make sure we have the stuff and find my recipe.”

“Too much work,” commented Donna. “You have to like doing things the hard way to go to that much trouble.” She grinned. “Next you’ll be wanting to make your own bras.”