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lesbian-gay-bisexual-transgender-straight alliance,” I said. “We march in the Gay Pride Parade every year in Boystown, and we make ‘It Gets Better’ videos and stuff.”
    â€œHow nice,” Mrs. Fairweather said dryly.
    When we ordered appetizers and our entrées, Delilah made Teddy order for her, whispering into his ear. It creeped me out only slightly more than his flirting with her mother did.
    Misti brought out our food, carefully balancing the plates of lobster and sautéed scallops and fried oysters and popcorn shrimp and, for the mothers and Delilah, three undressed arugula salads.
    â€œYou all get started without me,” Teddy said abruptly, rising from the table. Delilah didn’t look up from the arugula she was halfheartedly pushing around her plate.
    â€œGuess I drank that soda a little too fast,” he added offhandedly, and headed in the direction of the bathroom.
    Suddenly all I could think about was all the bottles of water I’d drunk on the plane, and on the SUV ride to the Downtown Manhattan heliport, plus a Coke at Baxley’s, and how it was all kind of straining my bladder. I tried to sit still and listen to Mrs. Fairweather talk about Senator Fairweather’s diplomatic trip to Canada, but I honestly couldn’t concentrate. My mother had drilled into me at a young age that it’s customary for only one guest to excuse him or herself to the bathroom at a time, “because more than one guest missing interrupts the flow of conversation.” I knew that rule as well as I knew her other etiquette lessons, like the one about leaving your napkin folded on your chair when you went to the bathroom, and of course, the classic no-elbows-on-the-table rule. But my need to pee was rapidly approaching emergency status, and there was no sign of Teddy returning.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I blurted out finally in the middle of Mrs. Fairweather’s criticism of the Canadian health-care system. “I just—uh, I really need to excuse myself for a minute.”
    My mother waved me away dismissively, never breaking eye contact with Mrs. Fairweather. Relieved, I got up from the table and fairly dashed to the ladies’ room. I inherited my tiny bladder and my tiny boobs from my mom—although she got the latter surgically enhanced the first time her catering business turned a profit.
    Here’s another thing I got from my mom: a terrible sense of direction. It’s the only thing that explains why I took a left out of the bathroom instead of a right. Baxley’s is in a big old Victorian house, so it’s got some twists and turns to it. Anyway, I took a wrong turn out of the bathroom and ended up in the wrong dining room, so I just kept going and ended up in the wrong corridor, which concluded with the wrong glass door, which looked out at the back of the restaurant, and with my luck it was the exact wrong moment because there was Teddy Barrington shoving Misti hard against the wall. She staggered a little.
    And I swear to God, at the exact freaking second I realized what was going on, Misti-with-an-i looked up and locked eyes with me. I immediately spun around and started walking away, but I heard the door crash open behind me and felt a big paw on my shoulder. I jumped and spun around to look at Teddy. He looked panicked, but he seemed to relax when he saw how afraid I was of him.
    â€œI’m not—I didn’t—” I tried to get the words out. “I didn’t mean to spy. I just got lost coming back from the bathroom.” I saw Misti the waitress behind him, looking terrified. Half her face was a little red.
    â€œIt’s okay,” Teddy said soothingly, putting his other hand on my other shoulder. He turned his head to Misti. “Why don’t you get back to work.” It wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order. Misti obediently scurried past us, shooting me a nervous glance.
    I was trapped.
    â€œI’m