FORALLTHECYNICSWHOSECRETLY
STILLBELIEVEINLOVEContents
Cover
TitlePage
Copyright
Dedication
ChapterOne
ChapterTwo
ChapterThree
ChapterFour
ChapterFive
ChapterSix
ChapterSeven
ChapterEight
ChapterNine
ChapterTen
ChapterEleven
ChapterTwelve
ChapterThirteen
ChapterFourteen
ChapterFifteen
ChapterSixteen
ChapterSeventeen
ChapterEighteen
ChapterNineteen
ChapterTwenty
ChapterTwenty-One
ChapterTwenty-Two
ChapterTwenty-Three
Acknowledgments
AboutTheAuthorCHAPTERONE
I’mabouttochangeintomyschooluniformwhenInoticethemanfloatingoutsidemybedroomwindow.
No,floatingisn’ttherightword,IrealizeasIstepcloser,myplaidskirtstillcrumpledinonehand,mypulseracinginmyears.He’sdangling.Hiswholebodyissuspendedbytwometalwiresthatlookdangerouslythin,consideringhowwe’reonthetwenty-eighthfloorandthesummerwind’sbeenblowingextrahardsincenoon,kickingupdustandleaveslikeaminitornado.
Ishakemyhead,bewilderedastowhyanyonewouldputthemselvesinsuchaposition.Whatisthis—somekindofnewextremesport?Aganginitiation?
Amidlifecrisis?
Themancatchesmestaringandgivesmeacheerfullittlewave,asifheisn’tonefaultywireorlooseknotorparticularlyaggressivebirdawayfromplummetingdownthesideofthebuilding.Then,stillever-so-casual,hepullsoutawetclothfromhispocketandstartsscrubbingtheglassbetweenus,leavingtrailsofwhitefoameverywhere.
Right.Ofcourse.
Mycheeksheat.I’vebeenawayfromChinaforsolongthatIcompletelyforgotthisishowapartmentwindowsarecleaned—thesamewayIforgothowthesubwaylineswork,orhowyou’renotsupposedtoflushtoiletpaper,orhowyoucanonlybargainatcertaintypesofstoreswithoutcomingacrossasbrokeorstingy.ThenthereareallthethingsthathavechangedinthetwelveyearsthatmyfamilyandIwereoverseas,thethingsIneverhadthechancetolearninthefirstplace.Likehowpeoplehereapparentlyjustdon’tusecashanymore.
I’mnotkidding.WhenItriedtohandawaitressanoldonehundredyuannotetheotherweek,she’dgapedatmeasthoughI’dtime-traveledstraightfromtheseventeenthcentury.
“Uh,hello?Eliza?Areyoustillthere?”
Ialmosttripovermybedcornerinmyhastetogettomylaptop,whichhasbeenproppedupontwocardboardboxeslabeledELIZA’SNOTVERYIMPORTANTSTUFF—boxesIhaven’tgottenaroundtounpackingyet,unlikemyVERYIMPORTANTSTUFFbox.MathinksIcouldaffordtobeabitmorespecificwithmylabels,butyoucan’tsayIdon’thavemyownsystem.
“Eli-za?”Zoe’svoice—achinglyfamiliareventhroughthescreen—growslouder.
“I’mhere,I’mhere,”Icallback.
“Oh,good,becauseliterallyallIcanseeisabarewall.Speakingofwhich…girl,areyouevergoingtodecorateyourroom?You’vebeentherefor,like,threemonthsanditlookslikeahotel.Imean,anicehotel,sure,but—”
“It’sadeliberateartisticchoice,okay?Youknow,minimalismandallthat.”
Shesnorts.I’magoodbullshitter,butZoehappenstohaveagreatbullshitdetector.“Isit,though?Isitreally?”
“Maybe,”Ilie,turningthelaptoptowardme.OnesideofthescreenhasbeentakenupbyapersonalessayformyEnglishclassandaboutabilliontabson“howtowriteakissscene”forresearchpurposes;ontheothersideismybestfriend’sbeautiful,grinningface.
ZoeSato-Meyer’ssittinginherkitchen,herfavoritetweedjacketdrapedaroundhernarrowframe,herdarkwavessmoothedbackintoahighponytailandhaloedbytheoverheadlightslikeaverystylishseventeen-year-oldangel.Thepitch-blackwindowsbehindher—andthebowlofsteaminginstantnoodlesonthecounter(herideaofabedtimesnack)—aretheonlyclueit’ssomeungodlyhourofthenightinLArightnow.
“Ohmygod.”Hereyescuttomywornpolka-dotsweatshirtasIadjustmylaptopcamera.“Ican’tbelieveyoustillhavethatshirt.Didn’tyouwearitineighthgradeorsomething?”
“What?It’scomfortable,”Isay,whichistechnicallytrue.ButIguessit’salsotruethatthisugly,frayingshirtisoneoftheonlythingsthat’sremainedconsistentthroughoutsixdifferentcountriesandtwelvedifferentschools.
“Okay,okay.”Zoeholdsupbothhandsinmocksurrender.“Youdoyou.But,like,still,shouldn’tyoubechanging?Unlessyouplantowearthattoyourparent-teacherconferences…”
Myattentionsnapsbacktotheskirtinmygrip,totheforeign-lookingWESTBRIDGEINTERNATIONALSCHOOLOFBEIJINGlogoembroideredoverthestiff,plastickyfabric.Aknotformsinmystomach.“Yeah,no,”Imutter.“Ishoulddefinitelybechanging.”
Thewindowcleaner’sstillhere,soIyankthecurtainsclosed—butnotbeforeIcatchaglimpseofthesprawlingapartmentcomplexbelow.ForaplacecalledBluelake,there’sverylittlethat’sactuallyblueabouttheneatrowsofbuildingsorcuratedgardens,butthereisplentyofgreen:intheman-madelakeattheheartofthecompoundanditsadjoininglotusponds,thespaciousminigolfcourseandtenniscourtsbytheparkinglot,thelushgrassliningthepebbledpathsandmaidenhairtrees.Whenwefirstmovedin,thewholeareahadremindedmeofafancyresort,whichseemsfitting.Afterall,it’snotlikewe’llbestayingherelongerthanayear.
WhileIwriggleintomyuniform,Zoesnapsherfingersandsays,“Wait,you’renotgettingoutofthis—tellmeagainwhyyou’rewritingaboutanonexistentboyfriendforyouressay?”
“Notwriting.Written,”Icorrect,pullingmyshirtovermyhead.“I’vealreadyturneditin.Andit’snotlikeIwantedtomakeupastoryaboutmylovelife,butIdidn’tknowwhatelsetowrite…”Ipausetofreeastrandofmylong,inkyhairfromoneoftheshirtbuttons.“Thisthingisduetonight,anditcountsaspartofourcoursework,so…youknow.Ihadtogetalittlecreative.”
Zoesnortsagain,soloudthistimehermicrophonecrackles.“Yourealizepersonalessaysshouldn’tbemadeup,right?”
“No,”Isay,deadpan.“Personalessaysshouldbepersonal?Totallynewstome.Shocking.Mylifeisalie.”
Thetruthis,Ichosetoturnmyseriousnonfictionassignmentintowhat’sessentiallyafour-thousand-wordromancebecauseofhowpersonalit’smeanttobe.Thetopicitselfisbadenough,inspiredbythissappybookwestudiedinthefirstweekofschool:InWhentheNightingalesSangBack,LucyandTayloraredescribedtohavetheirown“secretlanguage”thatnooneelseknows.Whodoyoushareasecretlanguagewith?Howdiditdevelop?Whatdoesthatpersonmeantoyou?
Evenso,Imight’veheldmynoseandgonealongwithit,writtenanonlylightlyexaggeratedpieceabouteitheroneofmyparentsormylittlesisterorZoe…exceptwehavetopostourfinishedessayontheWestbridgeschoolblog.Asin,averypublicplatformthatanyone—anyofmyclassmateswhoknowmeonlyas“thenewkid”or“theonewhorecentlymovedfromtheStates”—couldseeandcommenton.
There’snowayI’msharingactualdetailsaboutmyclosestpersonalrelationships.Eventhefakedetailsareembarrassingenough:likehowI’dtracedthelinesofthispretendboyfriend’spalm,whisperedsecretstohiminthedark,toldhimhemeanttheworldtome,thathefeltlikehome.
“…notevenremotelyconcernedthatpeopleatyourschoolmight,Idon’tknow,readitandbecuriousaboutthisboyfriendofyours?”Zoe’ssaying.
“I’vegotitcovered,”IreassureherasItugthecurtainsbackopen.Lightfloodsinatonce,illuminatingthetinyspecksofdustfloatingbeforemynow-emptywindow.“Ididn’tincludeaname,sonoonecantryandstalkhim.Plus,IwrotethatImetthisfictionaldudethreemonthsagowhileIwasapartmenthuntingwithmyfamily,whichisaprettyplausiblemeet-cutewithoutrevealingwhatschoolhemightgoto.And,sinceourrelationshipisstillprettynewandeverything’skindofdelicate,weliketokeepthingsprivate.See?”Istepinfrontofthecameraandmakeagrandgesturetowardtheair,asiftheentiretyofmyessayiswrittenrightthereinglowingletters.“Foolproof.”
“Wow.”Anintakeofbreath.“Wow.Imean,allthiseffort,”Zoesays,soundingexasperatedandimpressedatthesametime,“justsoyoudon’thavetowritesomethingreal?”
“That’stheplan.”
There’sabriefsilence,brokenonlybytheslurpofnoodlesonZoe’sendandthethudoffootstepsoutsidemyroom.ThenZoesighsandasks,inatonefartooconcernedformyliking,“Areyoudoingokayatyournewschool,girl?Like,areyou…settlingin?”
“What?”Ifeelmyselfstiffenimmediately,mymusclestensingasthoughanticipatingablow.“Why—whywouldyousaythat?”
“Idon’tknow.”Zoejerksashoulder,herponytailbouncingwiththemotion.“Just…vibes.”
I’msavedfromhavingtoanswerwhenMacallsdownthehallatavolumeonewouldusuallyreserveforsearch-and-rescuemissions.“Ai-Ai!Thedriver’shere!”
Ai-AiismyChinesenickname,whichtranslatesdirectlytolove.Fictionalrelationshipaside,Ican’tquitesayI’veliveduptoit.
“I’mcoming!”Iyellback,thenturntothescreen.“Iassumeyouheardthat?”
Zoegrins,andIrelaxslightly,relievedwhateverheart-to-heartconversationshewastryingtohaveisover.“Yeah,Ithinkthewholeplanetheardit.TellyourmomIsaidhi,”sheadds.
“Willdo.”BeforeIshutmylaptop,Imakeacheesyheartsignwithmyfingers;somethingIwouldn’tbecaughtdeaddoingaroundanyoneelse.“Imissyou.”
Zoeblowsadramatickissatmeinresponse,andIlaugh.“Imissyoutoo.”
Thehardknotinmystomachloosensalittleatthefamiliarwords.EversinceIleftLAtwoyearsago,we’veendedeverysinglecalllikethis,nomatterhowbusyandtiredweare,orhowshorttheconversationis,orhowlongit’llbeuntilwecantalkagain.
Imissyou.
It’snotasgoodasthesleepoversweusedtohaveatherplace,wherewe’dsprawlonthecouchinourpajamas,someNetflixshowplayingonherlaptop,aplateofhermom’shomemadericeballsbalancedbetweenus.Andit’snowherenearasgoodasourweekendtripsdownbythebeach,theCaliforniasunwarmingourskin,thebreezetuggingatoursalt-tangledhair.Ofcourseitisn’t.
Butfornow,thissmall,simpleritualfeelsenough.
Becauseit’sours.
Ourdriverhasparkedhiscarjustoutsidetheapartmentcomplex,underthedappledshadeofawillowtree.
Technically,LiShushuisn’tsomuchourdriverasMa’sdriver—oneofthemanyperksofbeinganexecutiveatasuper-prestigiousglobalconsultingcompany,andpartofthesorry-for-asking-you-to-uproot-yourlife-almost-every-year!package—whichiswhyherushesouttogreetherfirst.
“YuNüshi,”hesays,openingthedoorforherwithalittlebow.MadameYu.
ThiskindoftreatmentalwaysmakesmeuncomfortableinawayIcan’tarticulate,evenwhenit’snotdirectedatme,butMajustsmilesathimthroughhersunglassesandslidesgracefullyintothefrontseat.Lookingathernow,withherpale,unblemishedskinandcustom-madeblazerandrazor-sharpbob,you’dneverguessshegrewupfightingforscrapswithsixothersiblingsinapoorruralChinesetown.
Therestofussqueezeintothebackofthecarinourusualorder:meandBabesidethewindows,andmynine-year-oldlittlesister,Emily,squashedinthemiddle.
“Toyourschool?”LiShushuconfirmsinslow,enunciatedMandarinashestartstheengine,thesmellofnewleatherandpetrolfumesseepingintotheenclosedspace.He’sbeenaroundmelongenoughtoknowtheextentofmyChineseskills.
“Totheschool,”Iagree,doingmybesttoignorethepinchinmygut.IhategoingtoWestbridgeenoughasitis,butwhatevertheschool,parent-teacherinterviewsarealwaystheworst.Ifitwasn’tforthefactthatEmilygoestothesameschoolasmeandalsohasherinterviewsthisevening,I’dhavemadeupabrilliantexcusetokeepusallhome.
Toolatetodoanythingnow.
Ileanbackinmyseatandpressmycheektothecool,flatglass,watchingourapartmentcomplexgrowsmallerandsmalleruntilitdisappearsentirely,replacedbytheonrushoftheinnercityscene.
Sincewemovedbackhere,I’vespentmostofourcarridesplasteredtothewindowlikethis,tryingtotakeinthesharpriseandfalloftheBeijingskyline,themazeofintersectionsandringroads,thebrightclustersofdumplingrestaurantsandpackedgrocerystores.
Tryingtomemorizeitall—andtryingtoremember.
ItkindofamazesmehowmisleadingthephotosyoutendtoseeofBeijingare.Theyeitherdepictthecityasthissmoggypostapocalypticworldpackedfullofweathered,stony-facedpeopleinpollutionmasks,ortheymakeitlooklikesomethingstraightoutofahigh-budgetsci-fimovie,allsleekskyscrapersanddazzlinglightsanddrippingluxury
Theyrarelycapturethetrueenergyofthecity,theforwardmomentumthatrunsbeneatheverythingherelikeawildundercurrent.Everyoneseemstobehustling,reaching,strivingformore,movingfromoneplacetothenext;whetherit’sthedeliveryguyweavingthroughthetrafficbehinduswithdozensoftakeoutboxesstrappedtohisbike,orthebusinesswomantextingsomeonefranticallyintheMercedesonourleft.
MyattentionshiftswhenafamousChineserapper’ssongstartsplayingontheradio.Intherearviewmirror,IseeMaremovehersunglassesandvisiblywince.
“Whydoeshekeepmakingthosesi-gesi-gesounds?”shedemandsafteraboutthreeseconds.“Doeshehavesomethingstuckinhisthroat?”
Ichokeonalaugh.
“It’sjusthowmusicsoundsnowadays,”BasaysinMandarin,everthediplomat.
“Ithinkit’skindofnice,”Ivolunteer,bobbingmyheadtothebeat.
Maglancesbackatmewithahalf-heartedscowl.“Don’tbounceyourheadlikethat,Ai-Ai.Youlooklikeachicken.”
“Youmeanlikethis?”Ibobmyheadharder.
BahidesasmilewiththebackofhishandwhileMacluckshertongue,andEmily,whoI’mconvincedisreallyaneighty-year-oldgrandmatrappedinsideanine-year-old’stinybody,letsoutalong,dramaticsigh.“Teenagers,”shemutters.
Ielbowherintheribs,whichmakesherelbowmeback,whichsetsoffawholenewroundofbickeringthatonlyendswhenMathreatenstofeedusnothingbutplainricefordinner.
IfI’mhonest,though,it’sinthesemoments—withthemusicfillingthecarandthewindwhippingpastthewindows,thelate-afternoonsunflashinggoldthroughthetreesandmyfamilyclosebesideme—thatIfeel…lucky.Really,trulylucky,despiteallthemovingandleavingandadjusting.Despiteeverything.CHAPTERTWO
Themooddoesn’tlast.
AssoonaswepullupbesidetheWestbridgeschoolbuildings,Irealizemymistake.
Everyoneisdressedincasualclothes.Cutesummerdresses.Croptopsandjeanshorts.Theteachersdidn’tspecifywhattowearthisevening,andInaivelyassumedit’dbestandarduniform,becausethat’swhattheexpectationswereatmypreviousschool.
Myfamilystartsgettingoutofthecar,andIpushdownaswellofpanic.It’snotlikeI’llgetintroubleforwearingwhatI’mwearing—IjustknowI’lllookdumbandstandout.I’lllookliketheCluelessNewKid,whichisexactlywhatIam,butthatdoesn’tmakeitanyeasiertobear.
“Ai-Ai.”Matapsthewindow.“Kuaidian.”Hurry.
Isayaquickthankstothedriverandstepoutside.Atleasttheweather’snice;thewind’squieteddowntomoreofagentle,silkybreeze,awelcomereprievefromtheheat.Andthesky.Theskyisbeautiful,ablendofpastelbluesandmutedpinks.
Iinhale.Exhale.
Thisisfine,Itellmyself.Totallyfine.
“Comeon,Baba,”Emilyissaying,alreadypullingBatowardtheprimaryschoolsectionofthecampus,whereallthewallsarepaintedbrightcolors.Obnoxiouslybrightcolors,ifyouaskme.“YouhavetotalktoMs.Chloe.Itoldherhowyouwereapoet,andyoudosigningsandstuffatbigbookstores,andshewassooooimpressed.Shedidn’tbelievemeatfirst,Idon’tthink,butthenImadehersearchyourname,andthen…”
Emilylooksactuallyfine,becausesheis.Nomatterwherewego,mylittlesisterneverhasanytroublefittingorsettlingin.WecouldprobablyshipherofftoAntarcticaandfindherjustchillingwiththepenguinstwoweekslater.
MaandIwalkintheoppositedirection,wheretheseniorclassroomsare.Thewidegraycorridorsarealreadyprettycrowdedwithparentsandstudents,someheadingin,someweavingtheirwayout.JustasIexpected,afewpeople’seyesslidetomystiffskirtandtoo-bigblazer,amixtureofpityandamusementflickeringovertheirfacesbeforetheyaverttheirgazes.
Iliftmychinhigh.Walkfaster.
Thisisfine.
Wecouldn’treachmyhomeroomfastenough.
It’sloudinside.Classmateseverywhere,teacherswaitingbehindrowsofdesks.Noneofthemsayhitome,andIdon’tsayhitothemeither.
Eventhoughschoolstartedalmostamonthago,Ihaven’treallygottentoknowanyone.Allthenamesandfacesandclasseskindofjustblurtogether.ThewayIseeit,we’llbegraduatinginlessthanayearanyway.There’snoreasontoputmyselfoutthere,asmypastteachersalllovedtorecommend,andgetattachedtopeopleonlytogrowapartmonthslater.WithMa’sjobmovingusaroundallthetime,it’salreadyhappenedtoomanytimesformetokeeptrack:thatslow,painful,far-too-predictabletransitionfromstrangerstoacquaintancestofriendsbacktostrangersthesecondIleavetheschoolbehindme.
I’dbeamasochisttoputmyselfthroughitagain.
Besides,therearefewerthanthirtykidsinmywholeyearlevel,andeveryone’sclearlyformedtheirowncliquesalready.Tomyright,agroupofgirlsaresquealingandembracinglikeit’sbeenyearssincetheylastsawoneanother,nothours.Andsomewherebehindme,anothergroupisdeepinconversation,switchingbetweenthreelanguages—English,Korean,andsomethingelse—withineverysentenceasifit’sthemostnaturalthingintheworld.
Prettyon-brandforaninternationalschool,Iguess.
“Ah!Lookwhoitis!”
MyEnglishandhomeroomteacher,Mr.Lee,wavesmeover,hiseyesbrightbehindhisthick,oversizedglasses.He’sbeencursedwiththisroundbabyfaceandunrulygray-streakedhair,whichhasthecombined,disorientingeffectofmakinghimlooklikehecouldeitherbeinhisearlythirtiesorlatefifties
“Haveaseat,haveaseat,”hesaysbriskly,motioningtotwochairsontheothersideofhisdesk.ThenhisattentiongoestoMa,andhisexpressiongrowsmorebenevolent.Thewaysomeonewouldlookatacutekidinthepark.“Andthisis…Eliza’smother,I’massuming.”
“Yes.I’mEvaYu,”Masays,instantlyeasingintothechirpyWorkVoicesheusesaroundwhitepeople,heraccentflattenedtosoundmoreAmerican.Sheextendsamanicuredhand.“It’slovelytomeetyou.”
Mr.Lee’sbrowsfurrowalittleasheshakesit,andfurrowfartherwhenherealizeshowstronghergripis.Icantellhe’stryingtomatchuphisimpressionofMawithwhateverpreconceivedideahehadofher,justbasedonthenon-Westernsurname.
Maletsgofirst,sittingbackwithasmall,self-satisfiedsmile.
She’senjoyingthis,Iknow.She’salwaysenjoyedsurprisingpeople,whichhappensoften,becausepeoplearealwaysunderestimatingher.Partofthereasonshegotintoconsultinginthefirstplacewasbecauseafriendjokedthatshe’dneversurviveinthecorporateworld.
“Now…”Mr.Leeclearshisthroat.Turnstomeagain.“Sinceyou’renewtothis,let’sjustgoovertherulesrealquick,yeah?”Hedoesn’twaitformetorespond.“Inthenexttenminutesorso,I’llbetalkingtoyourmotheraboutyouracademicperformanceinyourEnglishclassessofar,yourlearningattitude,possibleareasforimprovement—yadayadaya.Nointerrupting,askingquestions,ordrawingattentiontoyourselfuntiltheveryend,whenIcallonyou.Isthatclear?”
Andpeoplewonderwhyteenagerstendtohaveauthorityissues.
“Ah,Iseeyou’vealreadygotthehangofit,”Mr.Leesayscheerfully,wavingahandatmystonyface.
Iletmygazeandattentionwander.
Then,acrosstheroom,IspotoneofthefewpeoplehereIdorecognize.
CazSong.
Forallmylackofeffort,it’dbehardnottohaveatleastsomeideaofwhoheis:Model.Actor.God—ifyouweretogobythewayeveryonegushesoverhimandfollowshiseverymove,despitehimneveractuallydoinganythingapartfromstandingaroundandlookingobnoxiouslypretty.Evennow,inthisdepressing,heavilysupervisedsetting,asubstantialcrowdofstudentshasalreadygatheredaroundhim,theirmouthsagape.Onegirl’sclutchinghersideinhystericallaughteratajokeheprobablynevermade.
Iresisttheurgetorollmyeyes.
I’veneverreallyunderstoodthehypearoundhim,unlessit’sfromapurelyaestheticperspective.Thereisthiscertainelegancetothecutofhisjaw,theslightpoutofhislips,thesharp,leananglesofhisframe.Hisdarkhairanddarkereyes.It’snotlikehisfeaturesareinhumanlyperfectoranything,buttogether,theyjustwork
Still,Igetthesensethathe’severybitasawareofthisasallhisadoringfans,whichkindofruinsit.Andofcoursethepressloveshim;justtheotherday,Istumbledacrosssomearticlethatdeemedhimoneofthe“RisingStarsoftheChineseEntertainmentIndustry.”
He’sleaningagainstthebackwallnow,handsshovedintopockets.Thisseemstobehisnaturalstate:leaningonsomething—doors,lockers,tables,younameit—asifhecan’tbebotheredstandinguprightonhisown.
ButI’vebeenstaringtoohard,toolong.Cazlooksup,sensingmygaze.
Iquicklylookaway.Tunebackintotheinterview,justintimetohearMr.Leesay:
“HerEnglishisreallyquitegood—”
“Yeah,well,IdidlearnEnglishwhenIwasakid,”IpointoutbeforeIcanstopmyself.YearsofgettingvaguelycondescendingcommentsaboutjusthowgoodmyEnglishisandhowIdon’tevenhaveanaccent—almostalwaysspokenwithanoteofsurprise,ifnotconfusion—havemadethisanaturalreflex.
Mr.Leeblinksatme.Adjustshisglasses.“Right…”
“Justwantedtoputthatoutthere.”Ileanbackinmyseat,suddenlyunsureifIshouldfeeltriumphantorguiltyforinterrupting.Maybehereallyhadmeantitinyourtypicalshe-sure-knows-her-conjunctionskindofway,ratherthananI-don’t-expect-people-who-look-like-her-to-speak-any-Englishway.
Maclearlyseemstobelievetheformer,becausesheshootsmeasharplook.
“Sorry.Carryon,”Imutter.
Mr.LeeglancesoveratMa.“SowhatI’mcurioustoknow,ifyoudon’tmind,isabitaboutEliza’sbackgroundbeforeshecamehere…”
Manods,wellpreparedforthis,andlaunchesintotheusualscript:borninChina,movedwhenshewasfive,wenttothisschoolandthatschoolandmovedcountriesagain…
Itrynottofidget,toflee.Beingtalkedaboutthiswaymakesmyskinitch.
“Ah,butthebestthingabouthavinglivedeverywhereisthatshebelongsanywhere.”Mr.LeestretcheshishandsoutwideinagesturethatI’massumingrepresents“anywhere”—andknocksoveratissueboxintheprocess.Hepauses,flustered.Picksitup.Then,unbelievably,continuesrightwhereheleftoff.“YoushouldknowthatElizaisnotacitizenofonecountryorevenonecontinent,butrathera—”
“Ifyousaycitizenoftheworld,I’mgoingtothrowup,”Imutterundermybreath,lowenoughforonlymetohear.
Mr.Leeleansforward.“Sorry,what’sthat?”
“Nothing.”Ishakemyhead.Smile.“Nothing.”
Abeat.
“Well,sincewe’reonthetopicofEliza’scircumstances,”Mr.Leesaysdelicately,hesitantly,andIhaveaterriblefeelingIknowwhat’scoming.“IdoworrythatElizaishavingahardtime…adjusting.”
Mythroattightens.
This.ThisiswhyIhateparent-teacherinterviews.
“Adjusting,”Marepeatswithafrown,thoughshedoesn’tlooktoosurprised.Justsad.
“Shedoesn’tseemtobeclosewithanyoneinherclass,”Mr.Leeelaborates.Thetrilingualgroupwaitingfortheirparentsinthebackchoosethistimetoburstintoloudlaughteratwhateveritisthey’rechattingabout,thesoundbangingagainstallfourwalls.Mr.Leeraiseshisvoice,almostyelling,“Thatistosay,it’ssomewhatconcerningthatshestilldoesn’thaveanyfriendshere.”
Unfortunatelyforme,thenoiselevelshappentodiedownagainhalfwaythroughhissentence.
Andofcourse,everyonehearseverylastword.There’sanawkwardpause,andaboutthirtypairsofeyesburnholesintomyskull.Myfacecatchesfire.
Irisefrommyseat,wincinginwardlywhenthechairlegssqueakagainstthepolishedfloor,scrapingagainstthesilence.Imumblesomethingaboutusingthebathroom.
ThenIgetthehelloutofthere.
Inmydefense,I’mgenerallyprettygood—anexpert,even—atpushingmyfeelingsasideanddisconnectingmyselffromeverything,butsometimesitjusthitsmehard:thishorrible,crushingsenseofwrongness,ofotherness,regardlessofwhetherI’mtheonlyAsiankidataneliteCatholicall-girlsschoolinLondonortheonlynewkidinatinycohortataChineseinternationalschool.SometimesI’mconvincedI’llspendtherestofmylifethisway.Alone.
SometimesIthinklonelinessismydefaultsetting.
Tomyrelief,thecorridorisempty.Iretreatintothefarthestcorner,benddownintoahalfcrouch,andtakemyphoneout.Scrollthroughnothingforaminute.Feelintuitivelyfortheroughstringbraceletaroundmywrist,agiftfromZoe,letitcomfortme.
Thisisfine,I’mfine.
ThenIheadontotheCraneswiftwebsite.
IdiscoveredCraneswiftafewyearsback,whenIpickeduponeoftheirnewslettersataLondontrainstation,andI’vebeenreadingtheirstuffeversince.Theydon’thaveamassivereadership,buttheymorethanmakeupforitinqualityandreputation.Basicallyanyonewho’severbeenluckyenoughtopublishtheirwritingthroughCraneswifthasgoneontoachievethekindofsuccessIcouldonlydreamof:journalismawards,prestigiousnonfictionwritingscholarshipsinNewYork,internationalrecognition.Allbecausetheywrotesomethingbeautifulandprofound.
Wordsjustmoveme.Abeautifulsentencewillsneakundermyskinandcrackmeopenthewayaphraseofmusicmight,oraclimacticscenefromamovie.Awell-craftedstorycanmakemelaughandgaspforbreathandweep.
AsIsettleintooneofCraneswift’srecentlypostedessaysaboutfindingsoulmatesintheunlikeliestofplaces,thefamiliarbluewebsitebannerglowingoverthescreen,Icanalreadyfeelsomeoftheweightonmyshoulderseasing,thetensioninmybodydissolving—
Adoorcreaksopenandnoisespillsintothehallway.
Istiffen,squintdownthecorridor.CazSongstepsoutalone,hisgazesweepingrightpastmelikeI’mnotevenhere.Helooksdistracted.
“…allwaitingforyou,”he’ssaying,ararecreasebetweenhisbrows,anevenrareredgetohisvoice.Cazhasalwaysgivenmetheimpressionofsomeonepulledstraightoutofamagazinecover:glossyandairbrushedanddigestible;marketableandinoffensive.Butrightnowhe’spacinginanagitatedcircle,hisfootstepssolighttheybarelymakeanysound.“Thesearetheparent-teacherinterviews.Ican’tjustdoitalone.”
Foroneconfusingmoment,Ithinkhe’stalkingtohimselfortryingoutsomeweirdactingtechnique,butthenIhearthemuffledfemalevoicecomingoutthroughhisphone’sspeakers:
“Iknow,Iknow,butmypatientneedsmemore.Canyoutellyourteachersomethingcameupatthehospital?Haoerzi,tinghua.”Goodchild.Behave.“Maybewecanreschedulefornextweek—thatworkedlasttime,didn’tit?”
IwatchCazbreathein.Out.Whenhespeaksagain,hisvoiceisremarkablycontrolled.“No,that’sfine,Mom.I—I’lltellthem.I’msurethey’llunderstand.”
“Haoerzi,”thewomansaysagain,andevenfromthisdistance,Icanheartheoddcommotioninthebackground.Slammingmetal.Thebeepofamonitor.“Oh,andjustbeforeIgo—whatdidtheysayaboutthosecollegeapplications?”
Applications.
Iturntheunexpectedsnippetofinformationoverinmyhead.Thisisnewstome.I’dfiguredsomeonelikeCazwouldskipthecollegeroute,godowntheactingpathinstead.
Butatpresent,theRisingStarhimselfisrubbinghisjawandsaying,“It’s…fine.TheyreckonthatifIcanpulloffareallygreatcollegeadmissionessay,itshouldbeabletomakeupformygradesandattendancerecord…”
Asighhissesthroughthespeakers.“WhatdoIalwaystellyou,ya?Gradesfirst,gradesfirst.Doyouthinkthecollegeadmissionsteamcaresifyouplayleadroleincampusdrama?DoyouthinktheyevenknowanyAsiancelebritiesotherthanJackieChan?”BeforeCazcanreply,hismothersighsagain.“Nevermind.Toolatenow.Youjustfocusonthatessay—areyoualmostdone?”
Itmightbeatrickofthelowcorridorlights,butIswearIseeCazwince.“Sortof.”
“What’ssortof?”
“I—”Hisjawclenches.“Imean,Istillneedtobrainstormandoutlineand…writeit.ButIwillfindawaytowriteit,”headdsquickly.“Promise.Trustme,Mom.I—Iwon’tletyoudown.”
There’salongpause.“Allright.Well,listen,mypatient’scallingforme,buttalksoon,okay?Andmakesureyoufocusonthoseessays.Ifyouputinevenhalfasmucheffortintothemasyoudomemorizingthosescripts,then—”
“Igotit,Mom.”
Somethinglikeworrybrieflypincheshisfeaturesasheendsthecall.
Then,ashespinstoleave,heseesmesquattinglikeafugitiveinthedarkofthecorridor,caughtstaringathimforthesecondtimethisevening.
“Oh,”hesays,thesametimeIstandupandblurtout,“Sorry!”andtherestofoursentencesspilloveroneanother:
“Ididn’tsee—”
“IpromiseIwasn’ttryingto—”
“It’scool—”
“Justabouttoheadin—”
“You’reEliza,right?ElizaLin?”
“Yes,”Isayslowly,andevenIcanhearthewaryedgeinmyvoice.“Why?”
Heraisesadarkbrow,allsignsofworrynowwipedcleanfromhisface.FastenoughtomakemewonderifI’dimaginedthemthereinthefirstplace.“Nothing.Justtryingtobefriendly.”
Aninnocuousreply.Perfectlyreasonable.
Andyet…
Shestilldoesn’thaveanyfriendshere.
“Didyou…hearwhatMr.Leesaidearlier?”Assoonasthewordsleavemymouth,Iwanttoretractthem.Erasethemfromexistencecompletely.Therearecertainthingsyousimplyshouldn’tdrawattentionto,evenifbothpartiesarewellawareoftheissue.Likeabadacneflare-up.Oryourhomeroomteacherdeclaringyoufriendlessinfrontofyourentireclass.
ThefactthatIdon’treallyneednewfriendsmakesthisnolessembarrassing.
Cazconsidersthequestionforasecond.Leansagainsttheclosestwall,sohalfhisbodyisangledtowardme.“Yeah,”headmits.“Yeah,Idid.”
“Ohwow.”
“What?”
Iletoutasmall,awkwardlaugh.“Iwaskindofexpectingyoutolieaboutit.Youknow.Tosparemyfeelingsorsomething.”
Insteadofrespondingdirectlytothat,hetiltshisheadandasks,histoneguarded,“Didyouhearmeonthephone?”
“No,”Itellhimwithoutthinking,thencringe.“Imean—well—”
“Veryniceofyoutocareaboutprotectingmyfeelings,”hesays,butthere’sacurlofironytohisvoicethatmakesmewanttoevaporateonthespot.Andthenanevenmorehorrifyingthoughtmaterializes:WhatifhethinksI’mafan?Orastalker?Anotheroneofthosewide-eyed,overenthusiasticclassmateswhofollowshimeverywherelikeadisciple,whowaswaitingoutherejusttogethimallalone?I’vewitnessedithappenmyselfadozentimesbefore:studentsduckingbehindliteralbinsorwallsandspringingonhimthesecondheroundsthecorner.
“IswearIdidn’tmeantooverhearanything,”Isayfrantically,holdingupbothhands.“Ididn’tevenknowyou’dcomeouthere.”
Heshrugs,hisfaceimpassive.“Allright.”
“Really,”Isay.“Swearonmyheart.”
Hegivesmealonglook.“Isaidallright.”
Buthedoesn’tsoundlikehefullybelievesmeeither.Myskinprickles,embarrassmentandannoyancewarmingmycheeks.Andthenmymouthdecidestomakeeverythingworsebysayingthemostridiculousthing:“I’mnot—I’mnotevenafan.”
Atersesecondpasses,hisexpressionshiftingbrieflyintosomethingimpossibletoread.Surprise,perhaps.Icanfeelmyinsidesdisintegrating.
“Goodtoknow,”hesaysatlast.
“Imean,I’mnotananti-faneither,”Isplutter,withthatdreadful,helpless,out-of-bodyfeelingofwatchingaprotagonistinsideahorrorfilm:whenyouwanttoscreamatthemtostop,buttheykeepmovingcloserandclosertowardtheirowndoom.“I’mjustneutral.Nothing.A—anormalperson.”
“Clearly.”
Iclampmymouthshut,mycheekshot.Ican’tbelieveI’mstillstandingherewithCazSong,whoapparentlyhasauniquetalentformakingmefeelevenmoreself-consciousthanIusuallydo.Ican’tbelievewe’restilltalking,andMr.Lee’sstillinsidethatcrowdedclassroomwithMa,andbothofthemthinkI’mstillinthebathroom.
Thisisanightmare.TimetofigureoutanescapestrategybeforeIcanembarrassmyselffurther.
“Youknowwhat?”IcranemyneckasthoughIjustheardsomeonecallforme.“I’mprettysurethatwasmymom.”
Cazliftsbotheyebrowsthistime.“Ididn’thearanything.”
“Yeah,well,shehasasoftvoice,”Ibabble,alreadymovingpasthim.“Hardtopickout,unlessyou’rereallyaccustomedtoit.So,um,Ishouldprobablygo.Seeyouaround!”
Idon’tgivehimachancetoreply.Ijustboltbackintotheclassroom,readytograbmymomandbegLiShushutocomepickusupassoonaspossible.Afteranordealthismortifying,Icannever,evertalktoCazSongeveragain.CHAPTERTHREE
Iwakeupbeforedawnthenextday,theheatheavyonmyskin,myblanketstwistedaroundme.
Myphoneisflashing.
237newnotifications.
Isquintatitforaminute,uncomprehending,mybrainstillfoggyfromsleep.Butagainandagain,thescreenlightsup,castingasoftblueglowoverthebedsidetable,andajoltofalarmcutsthroughmyfatigue.Nooneusuallymessagesmeatthishour.Andcertainlynoone—notevenZoe—wouldsendmethismanymessagesinarow.
239newnotifications.
240new…
Ikickmyblanketsaside,fullyawakenow,andcheckmyiMessage,myconfusionquicklycurdlingintoapprehension.
ThenIreadZoe’stexts:
holyshit.
Holyfuckingshit!!!!!!
okiknOWIT’STHEMIDDLEOFTHENIGHT
BUT
PLSGETONYOURPHONEasdfghjkklkll
girlhaveyouSEENTHISwhattheactualhELL
She’sattachedascreenshotbelow:anarticle.I’malmosttooscaredtoopenit,butaftertwosecondsofstaringatthescreen,myheartpunchingholesinmyribs,Igivein.
Agiant,boldheadingleapsoutfromthepage:
“ARom-ComintheMaking:ThisGirl’sBlogPostaboutHerLoveLifeHasUsBelievinginLove.”
Mypulsequickens.
Idon’tunderstandwhatI’mseeingatfirst.Ionlyknowthatthere’sanexcerptfrommypersonalessay—theessayIproofreadatleastthreetimes,postedonlyyesterday—andmyownnameand…theBuzzFeedlogoaboveitall.ThesameBuzzFeedIusedtospendhoursscrollingthroughwithZoe,takingquizzestofindoutwhichpartysnackweresembled.Noneofitmakessense.IhavenoideahoworwhyBuzzFeedevenhasmywriting.
It’slikecomingacrossaphotoofyourselfinsomeoneelse’shouse,thisjarringcombinationof“hey,thislooksfamiliar”and“whatthehellisthisdoinghere?”ItfeelslikeI’mdreaming.
Butohgod—there’smore.Somuchmore.
Apparentlymyessaywasalreadyspreadinglastnight,butwhensomeonesemi-famoustweetedascreenshotandalinktomypostontheschoolblog,itallblewup.IquicklysecuremyVPNandheadovertoTwitter,andmyheartalmostfallsoutofmychest.
Lastnight,Ihadagrandtotaloffivefollowersonmylurking-onlyTwitteraccount,andI’mprettysuretwoofthemwerebots.
NowIalreadyhavemorethantenthousandfollowers.
“Holyfuckingshitindeed,”Imutter,andthesoundofmyownvoice,lowandslightlyscratchywithdisuse,onlymakesitallmoresurreal.Noneofitmakessense.Itdoesn’tmakesensethatIcouldbesittinghereonmybed,thelightofmyphoneilluminatingmyplainbedroomwalls,whilethistweetabunchofpeoplehavesothoughtfullytaggedmeinhasgottenhalfamillionlikesandcounting.
MyhandsareshakingasIscrollthroughsomeoftherecentcomments.
@alltoowell13:maybeguysdodeserverightsafterall???
@jiminswife:I’mactuallycryingomgthisisSO.CUTE.(plsfeedusmorequalitycontentmysoulneedsit)((iftheyeverbreakupisweari’llstopbelievinginlove))
@angelica_b_smith:LmaohowareteensthesedayswritingShakespeare-levelessaysabttheloveoftheirlife…likewheniwasthatageicouldn’tevenstringtogetherafullsentence
@drunklanwangji:nottobedramaticoranythingbutiwouldliterallydieforthemtojuststaytogetherandholdhandsandbehappyforever.
@user387:pLEASEsomeonemakethisintoamovieiamBEGGING—
@echoooli:AmItheonlyonehellacuriousaboutwhotheboyfriendis?(andwherecanIfindone??)
IdropmyphonebeforeIcanreadanymore,anunsettlingmixofpanicandeuphoriashootingthroughmyveins.
So.
Thisisridiculous.
Mybrainfeelslikeit’sglitching.Overheating.Peopleacrosstheworldarereadingmyessayandimaginingmecuddlingwithsomeguyonhiscouch,kissinghimonabalcony,whisperingthingslikeImissyouevenwhenyou’reclosetomeandYou’resobeautifulsometimesIcan’teventhinkstraightaroundyou.
Peoplehavereadit…andactuallylikedit.Mywords,mywriting,mythoughts.Recognizedsomepieceofthemselvesinit.Despitemyembarrassment,Ican’tstopthesmilefromspreadingacrossmyface.Isthiswhatit’sliketobeacelebrity?Ican’thelpwonderingbriefly,throughmyutterdisbelief.Isthishowsome-onelikeCazSongfeelsallthetime?
Butno—Icatchmyself.Allthis,asexcitingasitis,isn’tthepoint.Becausegoingviraljustformywritingwouldbeonething—agoodthing,even,thestuffofmodern-dayfairytales.Butgoingviralfora“wholesomereal-lifelovestory”(@therealcarrielo’swords,notmine)that’sactuallycompletelyfictionalisanother.
IcanjustpicturehowthenextBuzzFeedarticlewouldlookifthetruthgetsout:“ACriminalintheMaking:ThisGirl’sViralPersonalEssayaboutHerLoveLifeTurnsOuttoBeaTotalLie.”
Overthenexthourorso,whiletherestoftheapartmentstirsandthebathroomtapscreakandMashufflesintothekitchentoturnthesoymilkmachineon,thisisallIcanthinkabout.TheBuzzFeedheading.Thecomments.Howinvestedpeoplealreadyseemtobe,howmanyhavefollowedmefor“updates”thatIdon’thave…
GuiltsoonwormsitswayintomychestandIwanttoscream.
Butbysomemiracle,ormaybeyearsofpractice,Imanagetoactlikeeverything’sfineatbreakfast.Itjustdoesn’tfeelrighttoblurtoutsomethinglikeOh,bytheway,ImayhavetreatedmypersonalessayassignmentasacreativewritingexerciseanditsomehowwentviralandnowoveramillionpeoplethinkI’vemettheloveofmylifeinBeijing,whenitisn’teveneighto’clockinthemorningyet.SoIdrinkmyhomemadesoymilkandeatmyteaeggandtrynottothinkaboutthefactthatmylifemayhaveirrevocablychangedoverthecourseofonenight.
“…iskillingme,”Maissayingasshecrackshereggonabowl,theshellbreakingapartwithasatisfyingcrunch.“It’sanabsolutedisaster.”
Idon’tevenhavetopayfullattentiontoknowexactlywhoshe’stalkingabout:Kevinfrommarketing.SomerecentHarvardgraduatewithageniusIQand,accordingtoMa,zerocommonsense.
“Sorry—what’sanabsolutedisaster?”Iask,hopingshe’llelaborate.Somedisaster-managementtipswoulddefinitelycomeinhandyrightnow.
“Mylife,”Emilyvolunteersfromtheotherendofthediningtable.Herschooluniform’sonbackward,andhershoulder-lengthjet-blackhairhasbeentiedintowhatIsuspectshouldbeaponytailbutlooksmorelikeabeansproutinstead.Clearly,Ba’sbeenputinchargeofhelpingEmilygetreadytoday.
Marollshereyes.“Savethatattitudeforyourmid-forties,”shechidesEmily,thenturnsbacktome.“Andsincewhenareyousointerestedinmyworklife?”
“Sincealways,”Isayinnocently.
“Ithoughtyoufoundmyjobconfusing,”Mapointsout,passingoveraplateoffluffyroundmantousstillwarmfromthesteamer.
“Yeah,well,that’sonlybecauseyourcompanyinsistsondescribingitselfasa‘creativecollaboratorandleader’thatseeksto‘influencecultureandinspire’anddeliveron‘keymarketingprojectinitiatives’orwhatever.”Ishredhalfamantouintobite-sizepieces,thedoughsofteningbetweenmyfingers.“Like,thoseareliterallyjustwords.ButIunderstandwhatyoudo.Sortof.”
Madoesn’tlooktooconvincedbythis,butshesighsandexplains,“Kevingotthishugeinvestortosignwithus.”
“Andthat’saproblembecause…?”
“Theyonlysignedbecausehetoldthemwewereongreattermswiththatpopulartechstart-upSYS.”Shegrabsamantouforherselfanddoesn’teatit.Justwatchesitgocoldbesidetheegg.“Exceptwe’veneverevenspokentoanyonefromSYSbefore.Wehavenoconnectionswhatsoever.”
“Ah.”Inodslowly,shovingdownasmallbubbleofhysteriaattheobviousparallelbetweenKevin’scrisisandmine.“Idoseehowthatmightbechallenging.”Then,hopingIdon’tlookovereager,Itakeacasualsipofmysoybeanmilkandask,“So,um,what’stheplan?Areyouguysgoingtocomeclean,or—”
“God,no.Ofcoursenot.”Maactuallylaughs,liketheveryideaisabsurd.“No,we’vebeentryingtogetthisinvestoronboardforyears.We’lljusthavetoworkinreverse:reachouttoSYSandforgeaconnectionandactlikewe’vebeencloseallalong.Maybeifweapproachedoneoftheirmarketingteamsfirst,orthatguyfromtheCartiercampaign…”Shegetsthisdistant,almost-zealousgleaminhereye,thewayshetendstowhenevershe’spuzzlingoutaworkissue.Thensherememberswhoshe’stalkingto.“Butlyingisbad,”sheaddshastily,shootingEmilyandmeasternlook.
“Noted,”Isay,andswallowthelastofmymilkwithsomedifficulty.Thesoybeanpulpscratchesmythroatlikesand.
Wheneveryone’sfinishedeating,IhelpMacleanupthetable,andweheaddowntothedriver’scartogether,myphoneburningaholeinmyblazerpocketthewholeway.Ihaven’tcheckeditproperlysincethismorning,butthenotificationskeepcomingin.Bythetimewe’redroppedoffatschool,Ihave472unreadmessagesandgodknowshowmanyTwittermentions.
Andthenthingsgetsignificantlyweirder.
I’mthefirstpersontoarrivetomymathclass,asusual.
NotbecauseI’mparticularlypunctualbynature,orbecauseI’minanywayenthusiasticaboutquadraticequations,butbecausethere’snowherebettertogo.Inthespareminutesbeforeandbetweenclasses,peoplelovegatheringaroundlockers,blockinguphalls,chattingandlaughingsoloudtogetherthewallsseemtotremble.
Itriedhangingaroundoncetoo,onmythirddayhere,anditonlymademefeelridiculous.Ridiculousandkindofsad,sinceIhadnoonetowaitfor.Iendedupjuststandinginthemiddleofthecorridor,mybaggrippedtightinmyhands,prayingfortheschoolbelltohurryupandring.
Afterthat,IdecidedImightaswellwaitaroundintheclassroom,booksandpensoutlikeI’mactuallystudying
I’mpretendingtolookovermycalcnotesfromtheotherdaywhenIhearfootstepsapproach.Pause,rightbeforemydesk.Then—
“Hey,Eliza.”
Ijerkmyheadupinsurprise.
ThesetwogirlsI’veneverspokenawordtoinmylifearesmilingatme—positivelybeaming—asthoughwe’rebestfriends.Idon’tevenknowtheirnames.
“Hi?”Ireply.Itcomesoutlikeaquestion.
Theytakethisasaninvitationtoslideintothetwoemptyseatsbesideme,stillsmilingsowideIcanseealltheirpearly-whiteteeth.Asoneofthemnudgestheother,andaquick,meaningfullookpassesbetweenthem,Ibegintohavesomeideaofwhytheymightbehere.
“Wereadyouressay,”thetaller,tannergirlontheleftblurtsout,confirmingmysuspicions.
“Oh,”Isay,unsurehowelsetorespond.“Um,good.I’mglad.”
“Ijust—god,Iloveditsomuch,”shecontinuesbrightly,inthemannerofsomeonebuildingtoabig,emotionalspeech.“Iwasliterallyupallnightreadingitand—”
“Itwassocute,”theothergirlchimesin,handflutteringtoherheart.
Okay.Idefinitelywasn’texpectingthis.Northesmall,involuntarysmiletuggingatmylips.
Butsoonthey’rebothgesturingwildlyandtalkingatthesametime,theirvoicesgrowinglouderandlouderwithexcitement:
“Myfavoritepartwasthebitatthegrocerystore,ohmygod—”
“Ihadnoideayouweregoingoutwithsomeone!You’vebeensolow-keyaboutit—”
“Doyouhaveapictureofhim?Imean,youdon’thavetoshowusifyoudon’twantto,but—”
“What’shisname?Doeshegotoourschool?”
“Isheinouryearlevel?”
“Isheinourclass?”
Theybothturn,wide-eyed,totheclassroomdoor,wheremorestudentsaretricklingin,asifoneoftheguysmightsuddenlystepforwardanddeclarehimselfmysecretboyfriend.Nothingofthesorthappens,ofcourse,butpeopledoslowdownandstareatmelikethey’veneverreallyseenmebefore.Likethey’rehopingImightsharesomethingaboutmyfakelovelifewiththemtoo.
TheonlypersonwhogoesstraighttohisdeskattheverybackisCazSong.Handsinpockets,oneAirPodin,expressionofperpetualboredomonhisface.Justlikeyesterday.Heglancesmyway,briefly,impassively,thenturnsaway
Andthoughit’sreallytheleastofmyconcerns,myribcagecurvesinward.I’mnotevensurewhatIwashopingfor,whyIimaginedhe’dacknowledgemyexistenceafterthatoneanomalyofaconversationoutinthecorridor.CazSongandIaresodifferentwemightaswellinhabitseparateplanets.
“Well?”thegirlonmyleftprompts,drawingmyattentionbacktoherandherfriend.“Ishe?”
Istudythetwoofthem,searchingforanysignsofillwillormockery.Buttheybothjustcontinuesmiling,andInoticethelightscatteroffrecklesacrossthetallergirl’snose,theyellowbutterflyclipintheothergirl’swavyhair.Theyseem…nice.Genuinelyfriendly—
“Um,Ican’ttellyouthat,”Isaywithasmall,apologeticsmile,hopingthey’llleavetheconversationthere.“IwishIcould,but,youknow.Wehaven’tbeentogetherthatlong,sowewanttokeepthingsprivatefornow.”
“Ah.”Theybothnodslowly.Beamsomemore.Neitherofthembudges.“That’stotallyunderstandable.”
EventhoughthisisallpartofthescriptI’dpreparedwhensubmittingmyessay,itwasonlyevermeanttobeapreventativemeasure,notsomethingtobesharedwithpeopleacrosstheworld.It’slikethoselifejacketstheystoreonairplanes;nobodyactuallyexpectstohavetousethem.
Asifoncue,myphoneflashesagainonmydesk.
531newnotifications.
ThetallergirlseesbeforeIcanflipthescreendown.
“Wow,”shesaysasshefinallystartsunpackingherownstuffforclass.AMacBookAirinshinycasing.Highlightersandpenswithcutedesignsalloverthem.AthickplannerthathardlylooksusedbuthasbrightcoloredtabsrunningdownthesidesandagiantstickerofsomeK-popgroupplasteredonthecover.“Youmust’vehadaprettywildmorning,huh?”
“Wildisdefinitelyonewordforit,”Isay,relievedIcanatleastbehonestaboutthis.
“I’vealwayswonderedwhatit’sliketogoviral,”theothergirlmuses.Shehasherlaptopout,andnothingelse.Thisisactuallystandardforstudentshere,I’velearnedthehardway.Atmyoldschool,wewereonlyallowedpapernotes,soIdidn’trealizeIwouldevenneedtobringalaptopuntilmyfirstclassatWestbridge,wheneveryonewasworkingonaGoogleDocandallIhadwasanotebookandpencil
Yeah,notexactlythebeststart.
“Nadia,didn’tthatDouyinofyoursgoviralforawhiletheothermonth?”thetallgirlissaying.
“Thevideogot,like,twentythousandviews.”Nadiawavesadismissivehandintheair.“That’sverydifferentfromhavinglikeabajillionpeoplereadyourwriting.Plus”—shewrinkleshernose—“Ikeptgettingallthoseweirdcommentsaboutmyfeet.”
“True.Wedon’tlovethat.”
Asthetwoofthembreakintogiggles,Ifeeladullpanginmychest.I’dkilltohavethat—tobesittingnexttoZoe,laughingoversomesillyinsidejokewithoutworryingthatI’llbeleavinginayear.Tofeelsocomfortable,atease,athome.
Somethingmustshowonmyface,becausethetallgirlstopsandturnstomewithconcern.“Areyouokay,Eliza?”
“Huh?”Ifeignconfusion,thenquicklypullmylipsintoasheepishsmile.“Yeah,ofcourse.Just…thinkingabouttheessay,Iguess.AndwhatI’mgoingtodoaboutit.”
Thetwoofthemmakelongahingsoundsandnodagainintotalsync.
“That’sagoodpoint,”thetallgirlsays.“Youshoulddosomethingaboutitforsure.Youshould—Oh!Youshouldcapitalizeonthefame.”
“Yes!”Nadiapointsonefingeratmeexcitedly—andalmostpokesmyeyeout.“Oops—sorry!ButStephanie’sright.WheneverpeoplegoviralonTwitter,theyalwaysuseittopromotethemselvesorboosttheirfriend’sbakingaccountorsomething.”
“Doyouhaveone?”Stephanieasks,leaningoverthebackofherseat.
“What,abakingaccount?”
“Somethingtopromote,”sheclarifieswithalaugh.“So?Whatareyouthinking?”
Andit’ssilly,andbesidethepoint,andcompletelyunrealisticgiventhecircumstances,butIdofindmyselfthinkingaboutit,someofmyinitialgiddinessfromthismorningbubblingbackupinsideme.I’vealwaysdreamedofhavingpeoplereadmywriting—readit,andactuallylikeit—andnow,forthefirsttimeever,Ihaveapotentialreadership.Ihaveafollowing.MaybeifIpublishedmoreessayswhilepeoplearestillpayingattention,Icould…Idon’tknow.Jump-startalegitimatewritingcareer.Makeanameformyself.IcouldbeaWriter,notjustsomeonewhowrites.
Butjustasquicklyashopesproutsinmychest,Icrushitbackdown.
Peopleonlywanttohearmorefrommebecausetheythinkmyessaywasreal.TheythinkI’mdatingagood-lookingboywhotakesmeoutonspontaneousmotorcycleridesaroundthecityandonceslow-dancedwithmeinthemiddleofagrocerystoreaisleandtextsmegoodnighteveryeveningbeforeIfallasleep.They’reinlovewithmylovestory.
IfIwanttokeepwritingandcapitalizeonmyfame,asStephaniesays,I’llhavetokeeplying.
“Idon’tknow,”Isayslowly.“Maybe—”
ThedoorswingsopenbeforeIcangiveavagueresponse,andeveryonesnapstoattentionatonce.
Ourmathteacher,Ms.Sui,stridestothefrontoftheclassroom,anintimidatingsheafofworksheetsbalancedononehand,abriefcaseswingingfromtheother.SheremindsmeoftheteachersatmyoldChineseSaturdayschools.Everythingaboutherissharp:hergaze,hervoice,thecutofherpurewhiteblazer.Herteachingstyleremindsmeofthemtoo.
Shedoesn’tgreetus.ShesimplyletstheworksheetsdroptothedeskwithamenacingthudandcallsonStephanietohelppassthemout.
Weeachgetfiftydouble-sidedpagesofmathquestionsprintedinthetiniestoffonts,allduebytomorrowmorning.Thisfeelsillegal.Someonemakesastranglednoisethattheyquicklydisguiseasacough.
Still,I’malmostgratefulfortheinsaneworkload,forthefocusedsilencethatcontinuesthroughouttherestofclass.Imightbeagoodbullshitter,butIhonestlydon’tknowhowmanymorequestionsIcouldfieldwithoutlettingsomethingslip.
Bythetimelunchrollsaround,I’vespokentomorepeopleinthepastfewhoursthanIhavesinceIstartedschoolhere.Peoplekeepcominguptome,callingformeinthebusycorridorsbetweenclasses,atthestartofdoubleEnglish,evenonmywaytothebathroom—andnowhere,inthemiddleofthecafeterialine.
Someonetapsmyshoulder.“Hey,you’rethegirlwiththeessay,right?”
Thisismyreputationnow,Iguess:not“TheNewGirlfromAmerica”but“TheGirlwiththeViralEssay.”Iwouldconsideritanupgradeifitweren’tformyoverwhelmingfearofbecomingknownas“TheGirlWhoLied”inafewdaysorweeks.DependingonhowlongIcankeeppretending.
Ispinaroundandfindawholesquadofgirlsandthreeguysgapingatme.
TheylookafewyearsyoungerthanIam,maybeyearninesortens.Someofthemhaven’tevenshedtheirbabyfatyet,butthegirlsareallwearingheavymakeupandtheguyshaveoncopiousamountsofhairgelinanattempttolookmoreGrownUp.
“Yeah,”Isay,smilingalittledespitemyself.“Yes.That’sme.”
“See,Itoldyou,”oneofthegirlssaystotheguybehindher.Theguyscowls.“Shelookstheexactsameasherphoto.”
Iblink.“Uh,myphoto?Whatphoto?”
Thesamegirl’seyeswidenwhileherfriendstitter.“Haven’tyouseenit?It’sbeengoingaroundeverywhere—prettyflatteringtoo,”sheaddshastily,inawaythatmakesmesuspectshe’slying.Asweshufflefartheruptheline,shefishesherphoneoutfromherpocketandbrandishesitinfrontofmyface.
AndIdon’tknowwhethertocryorlaugh.
Inanarticleforsomeonlineteenmagazine(titled“WhyWe’reAllSwooningOverThisSeniorStudent’sLoveStory”),someone’sattachedoneofmyoldschoolphotosfromwhenIwasstilllivingintheStates.It’sactuallyimpressive,howtheymanagedtofindtheworstpossiblephotoofme.Myhair’sbeentiedintoasuper-tighthighponytailthat’shiddenbehindmyhead,soIprettymuchlookbald,andmyeyesareonlyhalf-openandwateryfromhavingjustsneezed.
I’dbeggedtheschoolphotographer—almostbribedhim—toletmeretakeitatthetime,buthe’dwavedmeawaywithacheery“Don’tworry!Onlyyourparentswillseethisanyway!”
Funnyhowthatturnedout.
“Wow,”Isay.“Thisisjust…great.”
“Iknow,right?”Thegirlbeams,eithermissingmysarcasmorchoosingtoignoreit.“You’re,like,famousnow.”
Famous.Thewordtastesfunny,butnotentirelyinabadway.There’ssomethinginherentlycoolaboutit,somethingflashyandshinyanddesirable,allthethingsIneverthoughtIcouldbe.Ijustwishitwereonlymywritingthatwasfamous,andnotme.
Imakeanoncommittalsoundwiththebackofmythroatandgrabanemptytray.Trytofocusonselectingmylunch.Ifthere’sonethingWestbridgeInternationaldoeswell,it’sthefood.Theschoolchefsserveactualthree-coursemeals,andtheychangeitupeveryday;wehadpineapplefriedriceandbraisedchickenandsilktofuearlierthisweek,thendimsum(completewithshrimpdumplingsandfreshmangopuddingandall)thedayafter.
Today,they’reservinguproujiamo—shreddedporkbellyanddicedscallionsandwichedincrisp,goldenpiecesofbing.
Iheapfourontomytrayandturntogo,butthekidsbehindmearen’tdoneyet.
“Isittruethatyourboyfriend’sidentityistopsecret?”thesamegirlasks.
Mybodystiffens,butmyvoicecomesoutsmooth.“No.Imean…No,Iwouldn’tsaythat.”
“Soyoucantelluswhoheis?”anothergirlpipesup.
“Alsono.”
EventhoughIcanonlyseethemoutofthecornerofmyeye,Icanpracticallysensetheirdisappointment.
“Cany’allgivehersomespace?”
This,fromagirlinmyyearlevelIvaguelyknow.HernamestartswithS:SamanthaorSallyorSarah…No,Savannah.She’sstandingatthefrontoftheline,hertraystackedwithatleastsixroujiamos,onehandonherhip.
Afterastunnedbeat,thekidsmumbleapologiesandbackaway.Ialmostfeelbadforthem.Savannahisoneofthosepeoplewho’seffortlesslycoolandabsolutelyterrifyingatthesametime.Herwingedeyelineraloneissharpenoughtocutglass,andshe’ssotallIhavetocranemyneckalittlejusttolookather.Italsodoesn’thurtthatshe’sdatingoneofCazSong’sfriends;anyonewithanyconnectiontoCazSongisbasicallygrantedinstantmembershiptotheschool’sSuperPopular,They-Could-Step-on-Me-and-I’d-Thank-Themcircle.
“Um,thanksforthat,”Imanage.
“Nobigdeal,”shesays.ShehasafaintNewYorkaccent,andIrememberhearingsomewherethatshe’sVietnameseAmerican.Quiteafewstudentsaroundherefallintosimilarcategories:ChineseAmerican,KoreanAustralian,BritishIndian.Allpeoplewhohavegrownupbalancingdifferentcultures.Peoplelikeme.“Mustbeprettyoverwhelming,huh?Gettingquestionslikethatallday.”
“It’sokay.”Ishrug,hopingtoplayitcool.“Couldbealotworse.”
“Yeah,Imean,youcould’vegoneviralfortryingtogoupadownescalatorinthemiddleofacrowdedmallonlytoendupfallingandknockingoveramascotinagiantchickencostume.”
Istareather.“That’s…veryspecific.”
Shelaughs.“Itwastrendingtheotherday.Infact,Ithinkyourposttookitsspot.”
“That’snice?Iguess?”
“Hugeaccomplishment,”sheagreesjokingly.“Youshouldbeproud.”
We’restandingnearthecafeteriatablesnow,andforamoment,Idebateaskingifshewantstohavelunchtogether.Butthat’ssilly.It’snotlikeIhaveagreattrackrecordwithkeepingnewfriends;Ican’timaginebuildingafriendshiponadeeplyembarrassingliewouldyieldgreatresultsinanycase.Andlikeshesaid,herspeakingupformewasn’tabigdeal.
Plus,ascanofthecafeteriamakesitclearthatherboyfriend—Daiki,Irememberfromrollcall—iswaitingforheratthelargestcornertable,alongsideCazSong,Stephanie,andNadiaandabunchofotherloud,gorgeous,perfectlysociablepeoplefromouryearlevel.They’relaughingtogetheratsomejokeCazmust’vetoldjustnow,theirmouthswideopen,someactuallydoubledoverinmirth.Ican’thelpbutstareforafewbeats,anunwelcome,unreasonablestoneofenvylodgedinmygut
“Well,thanksagain,”ItellSavannahwithaweakhalfwave,eagertobealone.“Um,bye.”
Shelookssurprised,butshenodsatme.Smiles.“Anytime.”
ThenIleaveherthere.Ileavethecafeteriaentirelyandclimbthefiveflightsofstepsuptotheverytopofthebuilding,mylunchtraystillgrippedtightinmyhands.Soon,thebabbleofvoicesandclatterofplatesfadeaway,andit’sjustmestandingaloneontheroofwithwarm,butterysunlightfallingaroundme.
Forthefirsttimesincethismorning,Ifeelmyselfrelaxslightly.
Ilovecominguphere,notonlybecauseit’squietandmostoftenempty,butbecauseit’sbeautiful.Therooftopisdesignedlikeagarden,withbrightmandarintreesandslenderbamboosandthisgnarled-lookingplantIcan’tnameliningthesidesandfreshjasmineflowers—Ma’sfavorite—bloomingeverywherelikelittleclustersofstars,sweeteningtheairwiththeirscent.Thereareevenfairylightsstrunguparoundtherailingsandoverthewoodenswingsetinonecorner,thoughI’veneverstayedbehindlateenoughtowatchthemglow.
Theview’sgorgeoustoo.Fromhere,youcanseetheentirestretchoftheschoolcampus,andBeijingrisingbehindit,allthatshinyglassandsteelreflectingthecloudsinthesky.
Thisismytricktosurvivingnewschools:Findaspacelikethis,aplacenoonecandisturbme,andclaimitasmyown.
It’sespeciallyusefulnow,whenIneedtofigurethingsoutalone.
Ilowermyselfontotheswingandbalancemytrayonmylap,rippingoutalargebiteoftheroujiamowithmyteeth.ThenIdothethingI’vebeenputtingoffallday:Icheckmyphone.
Generallyspeaking,Itrytostayoffsocialmediaasmuchaspossible.Everynewpostfromanoldfriendservesasapainfulreminder:Thisistheirlifenow,withoutyou.Thisistheirgroupofbestfriends,theirboyfriendtheydidn’ttellyouabout;thisisthemmovingoncompletely.Thisisproofthatwhentheysaidthey’llrememberyou,stayintouchwithyou,theywerelying.SometimesI’llstareatanInstagramphotoofsomeoneIwasclosetoinLondon,NewZealand,Singapore,attheirfresh-dyedhairandwidegrinandthekindofcroppedjackettheywouldn’thavebeencaughtdeadwearingyearsago,andgettheoddsenseofseeingatotalstrangeronmyfeed.
Buttoday,somanymessagescomefloodinginthatmyphonefreezesforasolidminute.Myheartfreezesaswell.PeopleIhaven’tspokentoinyears—peoplefromprimaryschool—havereachedouttome,allwithscreenshotsorsomevariationofomgyoumadeit!AfewhavefollowedupwithquestionslikeHowhaslifebeen?orIt’sbeenages!butthedistantpolitenessofitall,comparedwiththekeyboardsmashesandemojispamweusedtosendoneanotherwithoutthought,onlydrivesanotherpangthroughmygut.
AndallIcanthinkis:ThankgodforZoe.
She’stheonlyoneleftinmylife.Theonlyonewho’sstayedovertheyears.Andtheonlyonewho’smessagedmewithacompletelyunrestrainednumberofexclamationmarksdemandinganexplanation.
Ishootbackaquickmessagepromisingtoupdateheroneverythingthenexttimewecall,beforemovingontomyinboxwithquiveringfingers.Mymouthfeelstoodry.Icanbarelyswallow.
Atleasttwentyemailsfromjournalistsandwritersforallkindsofmediasitespopup,somerequestinginterviews,someaskingformoreexclusivematerial,includingacoupleselfie.Iimaginemyselfposingwithonearmaroundnothingbutair,oroneofthosecardboardcutoutsofaK-popidol,andhysteriarisestomythroat.
Buttheabsurditydoesn’tstopthere.Afewpeoplehavesentmelinkstothinkpiecesinspiredbymyessay.“TheTeenLoveStoryPeopleCan’tStopTalkingAbout:JoyintheAgeofCynicism,”onereads.Anotherhastiedthe“surprisingsuccess”ofmyessaytotherevivalofrom-coms,aswellasmygeneration’s“growingdisillusionment”withdatingappslikeTinder.Yetanotherhassomehowmanagedtodragmyracialidentityintotheiranalysis,warningthatthewholethingcouldbeanelaboraterusedesignedbytheChinesegovernmentto“softentheimageoftherapidlyemergingglobalsuperpower.”
Despitethedreadchurninginmystomach,Ican’thelpit;alaughofdisbeliefburstsfrommylips.Thisisbyfarthemostridiculousthingtohaveeverhappenedtome.Thatprobablyeverwillhappentome,period.
Butthenanewemailcomesinwithafaintping,andmyincredulitygiveswaytopureawewhenIseewhoit’sfrom.CHAPTERFOUR
DearEliza,
Ihopethisemailfindsyouwell!
MynameisSarahDiaz.Ihadthetremendouspleasureofreadingyourviralessay“LoveandOtherSmall,SacredThings”lastnight,andIfoundmyselfextremelymovedbyyourlovestory(ararethingforacyniclikeme).AttimesIlaughedaloud;atothertimesIwantedtoweep,inthebestkindofway.AllofthisistosaythatIthinkyouhaverealpotential,andI’dlovetoofferyouaninternshipopportunitywithushereatCraneswift.Thiswillbeapaidposition,foratotaldurationofsixmonths,andI’dbemostpleasedtowriteyoualetterofrecommendationattheendofit,shouldyouchoosetoaccept…
Ireadovertheemailforwhatmustbethehundredthtimeonthecarridehome,mybreathcaughtinmythroat.
Craneswift.
I’mscaredthatifIexhale,thewordswilldissolve.ThatthepeopleatCraneswiftwillsendmeanotheremail,tellingmeitwasahugemistake,thatthey’vereadovermyessayagainandrealizedtheirjudgmentwaswrong.
Becausethis—thisiseverythingI’veeverwanted.Imean,Ididn’tevenknowIwantedit,sinceIneverwould’vedareddreamofgettingtointernatCraneswift.Thepublicationbehindsomeofthemostsuccessfulwritersintheworld
AndSarahDiazisoneofthebestwriterstheyhave.MaybeoneofthebestwritersIknow.Ihaveawholenotebookfilledwithannotatedquotesfromherpublishedessaysandarticlesalone,carrieditwithmefromcitytocity.Twoyearsago,she’dofferedupathirty-minutewritingconsultationforsomekindofauction,andthehighestbidderhadpaidoverfivegrandforit.That’showbadlymostaspiringjournalistscraveherfeedback.
Ifshereallywantsmetoworkforher—toworkwithher—thenhowcouldIsayno?
ButwhatamIgoingtodoaboutmymade-uprelationshipifIsayyes?
“Jie,whyarepeopleatschoolsayingyouhaveaboyfriend?”
Myheadsnapsup.
Emilyiswatchingmecuriouslyfromtheothersideofthebackseat.It’sonlythetwoofusinthecarrightnow,plusLiShushu,who’sbusylisteningtohisfavoritePekingoperaradiostation.
Thankgod.I’mnotsurewhatIwouldsayifMaorBawerehere.
“Idon’tknow,”Itellher,attemptingtolaughitoffasajoke.“Don’tlistentothem.”
“Butdoyouhaveaboyfriend?”Emilypresses,eyeswide.
“That—that’snoneofyourbusiness.”
Wrongthingtosay.Emilyloosensherseatbeltandedgesclosertowardme,despitemyprotests.
“Itissomybusiness,”shesays,drawingherselfuptolooktaller,moreimportant.“I’myoursister.Youhavetotellme.”
“You’reonlyakid.”
Sheshootsmeanindignantlook.“I’mtenyearsold.”
Isnortdespitemyself.“Mypointstands.Andalso,you’renine.”
“I’llbeturningteninlessthanhalfayear,”sheargues,hervoiceborderingonawhine.“It’sthesamething.”
“Stilldoesn’tchangethefactthatI’molderthanyou.”
Shegoessilentatthat,butIknowtheconversationisn’tover.She’sjusttakinghertimetothinkupagoodcounterargument;we’rebothlikeMainthatway.
I’mthinkingtoo—thinkingabouthowIshouldhandlethis,whatstoryIshouldfeedher.ThegoodnewsisthatEmilyisn’tallowedtousesocialmediauntilsheturnsthirteen,soshecan’tknowthedetailsofmyessay.Butpeopleatschoolwillcontinuetotalk…
Ileanbackagainstthesoftleatherseatandclosemyeyes.Icanfeelastressmigraineforming.
WhenIopenmyeyesagain,Emilyistakingoutapacketofmatcha-flavoredPockyfromherschoolbag,averytriumphantexpressiononherface.
“What?”Isay.
“Nothing.”Butshe’ssmilingnow.Adangeroussign.“It’sjustthat…youmightnothavetotellme,butyou’dhavetotellMaandBa,right?”
Mypulsejumps.“Emily—don’tyoudare…”
“Thenjustanswermyquestion,”sheinsists,rippingthepacketopen.“I’llkeepitasecret.Crossmyheart.”
Iclenchmyjaw,weighingoutmynextmove.Iessentiallyhavetwochoices:briberyorblackmail.ThenmygazelandsonthePockysticksinherhand.
Perfect.
“I’llexplainwhenI’mready,”Isay.Sheopenshermouthtoargue,butIcontinue,louder.“Untilthen,youhavetopromisenottospeakawordaboutthisathome.I’llbuyyoutenpacketsofPockyifyoudo.”
Shefalters,mouthstillhalf-open.Ifthere’sanythingEmily’swillingtomakeacompromisefor,it’sfood.
“Fine,”shebitesouteventually,andIletlooseasmall,silentsighofrelief.Atleastthat’sonelessthingtoworryaboutfornow.ThenEmilycrossesherarmsoverherchest,juttingherchinforward.“ButIwantfifteenpackets,andIwantthecookies-and-cream-flavoredonestoo.”
Ifrown.“You’regettingthirteen.Cookies-and-creamonlyifthey’reavailable,plainchocolateifnot.Andthat’sfinal.”
It’snotuntilIseethehappygleaminhereyesthatIrealizeshewasplanningthisallalong—thatsheprobablyonlywantedtwelveorthirteenpacketsinthefirstplace.I’mgoingtohavetobemorecarefularoundherwhenshegetsolder.She’salreadypickinguponsomeofMa’snegotiationtactics.
Unsurewhethertobeannoyedorimpressed,Iholdoutmypalm.
“Um,areyougoingforahandshake?”Emilyasks.
“No.I’maskingforaPocky;Ibarelyhadlunch.”Oncue,mystomachgrumbles.Asgoodastheroujiamoswere,Ionlyhadafewbitesintheend.AfterIreceivedSarahDiaz’semail,Iwastoobusyfreakingouttoeatanythingelse.Imean,theopportunitycouldchangethecourseofmywholecareer—mywholelife.Justthinkingaboutitnowmakesmealittledizzy.
“That’snotmyfault,”Emilyprotests,holdingthesnackpacketclosetoherchest.Butafterabeat,shegrudginglyhandsmethreePockysticks.
“Thanks,kid.”Igrin,andshepullsafaceatme.Shehatesitwhenpeoplecallherthat.
We’rebothquietfortherestofthedrive,Emilybecauseshe’seating,andmebecauseI’mtryingtodraftareplytoCraneswift.Afteraboutadozenattempts,Iendupslidingmyphonebackintomypocket,emailunsent.
Idon’tknowwhattosay.That’stheproblem.Idon’tevenknowwhattheinternshipitselfwouldentail,whattheconsequenceswillbeifmystoryisanythingbutairtight.
AllIknowisthatIneedaproperplan—andsoon.
Ispendtherestoftheafternoontryingtoformulateaplanwhilecompletingmymathhomework,andtheonlythingsIendupwithareabunchofmostdefinitelyincorrectanswersandaworseningheadache.
Soafterdinner,Idecidetogivemyselfabreakandjoinmyfamilyinthelivingroom.
Thisisourroutine:Ataroundnineo’clockeverynight,thefourofushuddletogetheronthecouchwithabowlofcutfruitorroastedsunflowerseeds,andwatchoneepisodeofaC-drama.
“So,”IsayasIgetcomfortable,drapingathinblanketovermylegs.“Whoseturnisittochoose?”
Emilybeams.“Mine.”
Masighsfrombesideme.“You’regoingtopicksomethingwithaxiaoxianrouasthelead,aren’tyou?”
XiaoxianrouisoneofthosetrendytermsIlearnedonlyafterwemovedbacktoBeijing.Itliterallymeans“littlefreshmeat,”whichIrealizesoundssomewhatcarnivorous,butit’susedtodescribemostattractivemalecelebritiesintheirteensorearlytwenties.
“Whatdoyouthink?”Emilysays,hersmilewidening.Then,seeingMa’sexpressionofrelativedespair,sheadds,“Don’tworry,Ma.You’llgetyourpicknexttime.”
“Whenwillitbemyturn?”Bagrumbles,rubbinghiseyes.“YouknowhowIfeelaboutthoseromancedramas;whydopeoplekeepcrashingintoeachother?Andwhydothefemaleleadskeeptellingthemselvestojiayou?Nobodytalkslikethat.”
“Itwasyourturnlasttime,”Iremindhim.“Rememberthattorturescenewiththebloodandgutseverywhere?Emilycomplainedaboutnotbeingabletofallasleepafterward?”
Bablinks,thensinksbackinhisseat.“Therewashardlyanyblood—”
EmilyandIburstintoloudprotestsatthesametime.
“Ohmygod,Ba,therewassomuchblood—”
“Thefloorswerebrightred—”
“Youcouldn’tevenseetheactor’sface—”
“Myeyeswerebleedingjustwatchingit—”
“Andeveryonediedattheend.”
“Okay,okay,”Basayshastily,exchangingaswift,amusedlookwithMa.“Yougirlschoose.”
Emilyliftsherchinandsniffs.“Asweshould.”
Wehavesomethingofasystemgoing,sinceallourtastesaresodifferent:Balovesthoseoldwardramaswhereallanyoneeverdoesisscream“traitor”atthetopoftheirlungsandgethitbyanunnecessaryamountofbulletsinslowmotion;Maprefersherbusinessdramas,eventhoughshespendshalfthetimescoffingandyellingthingslike“That’snothowCMPswork!”atthescreen;andEmilyandIwillwatchprettymuchanyidolromancefeaturingagood-lookinglead.
IhaveatheorythatMasecretlylikesheridolromancesasmuchaswedo,though.ImadeeveryonewatchTheUntamedwhenitwasmyturn,andsheseemedmoreinvestedinthecharactersthananyofus.
Emilysnatchestheremoteandstartsstreamingthiscutecampusromancedrama.Ba’seyesglazeoveralittle,andMagrumblessomethingabouthowalltheopeningcreditslookthesamethesedays,butIleanclosertotheTV.ThisisexactlywhatIneedrightnow:pure,joyfulescapism.
We’reabouttwominutesintothefirstscene(which,predictably,involvestheprotagonistandloveinterestcrashingintoeachotherinthehallwayandgettingtheirphonesmixedup)whenIrealizethemaleleadlooksfamiliar.
Veryfamiliar.
Hehasthesamesharpjaw,thesamedarkgazeandperfectlyrumpledraven-blackhair.Thesameelegantcheekbonesandtallnose.Andeventhoughhischaracter’spostureisdifferent—foronce,he’snotslouchingorleaningonanything—hisexpression,thewayhe’slookingattheprotagonistwiththatdisarmingmixtureofexasperationandamusement,isalltoofamiliaraswell.
CazSong.
I’mwatchingoneofCazSong’sdramas.
Well.Somuchforescapism.
Itrytoactnormalaboutthisrevelation—Imean,farmoresurprisingthingshavehappenedtoday—butIcan’tdescribehowweirditfeelstoseeoneofyourclassmatesflirtingwithsomefamousactressontheTVscreeninyourownlivingroom.Itsomehowfeelslikeaninvasionofprivacy,thoughI’mnotsureifit’shisprivacyormine.Maybeboth.
“He’shot,”EmilycommentsasthecamerazoomsinonCaz’seyes,thenonhisfull,naturallypoutedlips.
Ialmostchoke.“Don’t—don’tsaythingslikethat,Emily.”
“What?Heis.”EmilyturnstoMaforsupport.“Isn’thegood-looking,Ma?”
Mastudiesthescreencarefully.“Mm.BetterthanmostofthexiaoxianrousI’veseen.”Then,catchingBa’seyeacrossthecouch,sheaddswithemphasis,“Butobviouslyyourfatheristhebest-lookingguyoutthere.”
“OfcourseIam,”Basays.
Emilysnorts.“Su-ure.”
“Well,Idon’tthinkhe’sthathot,”Igrumble,pullingmyblanketuptomychin.On-screenCazisstrokingthegirl’scheeknowwithonethumb,andIcanfeelmyowncheeksgrowingwarm.“It’sprobablyjustmakeup.Andfilters.”
Iknowforafactthatitisn’tmakeuporfilters,becauseCazlookslikethateverytimeIseehimatschool,butthere’snowayI’madmittinghe’sattractiveoutloud,tomyfamily.
“Yourstandardsarewaytoohigh,Jie,”Emilysays.
“She’sright,”Maagrees,pattingmyknee.“You’llneverfindaboyfriendifyoudon’tevenwantsomeonelikehim.”
Emilyopenshermouthasiftomakeacorrection,andmyheartalmoststops.Butthenshewinksatmeandmimeszippingherlipsshut.Ireadsomewherethatsistersdeveloptheirownkindoftelepathy,whichmustbetrue,becauseI’monehundredpercentsureIknowwhatsilentmessageEmilyissendingme:RememberthePocky.
OfcourseIremember,Isendbackwithaglare.Justkeepquiet.
Gotit,shereplies.Bytheway,canyougetmesomewater?
Irollmyeyes,butIgetupandpoureveryoneaglassofwarmwaterfromthekettle,thencutupamangojusttobenice.AsIsitbackdown,Ican’thelpreadingoverSarahDiaz’semailonmyphoneagain.It’sstillthere,stillreal,tangibleevidencethatCraneswiftwantsmetoworkforthem—butalsothatIcan’tpossiblykeepupmylieonmyown.Myeyesfastenononeoftheinternshiprequirements:
Itwouldbewonderfulifyourpostscouldsharemoredetailsaboutyourrelationship,andprovidephotosofyoutwotogether…
WherethehellamIsupposedtogetphotos?DoIhiresomeonefromthosedodgyrent-a-boyfriendsites?Photoshopsomerandomguyintoaselfie?Butno,neitheroptionsoundsreliable.Andwithhowfasttheinternetmoves,I’mprettysureeveryonewouldfindoutthetruthwithinaday.IthastobesomebodyIactuallyknow,somebodyconvincing…
“Jie,areyouevenwatching?”Emilycalls.
“Huh?Oh—yeah.Ofcourse.”Isnapmyheadupjustintimetoseeon-screenCazSonginvitethefemaleleadontothebackofhismotorcycle.AsIwatchthetwoofthemridethroughthecity,theartificialsunlightmovingoverthem,I’mstruckbyanidea.
Aridiculous,absolutelylaughableidea.Anideathatmightcomplicateeverythingfurther.
Butanideathatmightjustwork.
Laterthatevening,wheneveryone’sasleep,Iturnonmylaptop.Suckinadeepbreath.Then,feelingweirdlyself-consciousandalmostnervousforsomereason,Isearch“CazSong”onBaidu.
Theresultscomeupatonce.
ThereareevenmorerelevantarticlesandinterviewsthanIexpected,because—tomyslightdismay—CazSongissomehowevenmorepopularthanIexpected.HehasoverfivemillionfollowersonhisofficialWeiboaccountalone,aridiculousnumberoffanpagesdeclaringtheirundyingloveforhim,andawholeseriesofprofessionalphotoshootsandspecialcampaignshotswithsponsoredbrands.Ineachone,he’ssobeautifulhelooksfake.It’salmostoffensivehowperfectheis,ateenfantasymadeflesh.
There’ssomethingbizarreabouttheideathatthisoneguyinmyclass,whoIseearoundthelockersandcafeteriaandsufferthroughmathpopquizzeswitheveryday,isknownbymillionsofpeopleacrossthecountry.Notonlyknown,butliked.Adoredtotheextentthatsomeoneleftasix-paragraphcommentunderavideoofhim,askinghimtosleepwellandstayhydratedandtakecareofhishouseplants.
ThenIrememberthatmywritinghasbeenviewedbymillionsofpeopletoo,thatallthosepeoplenowknowmebyextension,andmyheadjustaboutimplodes.WhichbringsmebacktowhyI’mdoingthisinthefirstplace.
WhyIneedtodothis.
BeforeIcanlosemynerve,Istartwiththebasics:Caz’sBaikepage.
It’sbasicallytheequivalentofWikipedia,inthatit’llgiveyouallthebiographicalinformationyouwantonafamousperson,dividedupintonice,neatcategories.
SomeofthestuffI’vealreadybeenmadetoknowagainstmywill,justfromoverheardconversationsatschool.LikehowhewasborninAmericabutmovedtoBeijingwhenhewasnine;orhowhisparentsarebothdoctors,bothoriginallyfromatinytowninSouthChina;orhowhe’sprofessionallytrainedinmartialarts,abouttendifferentinstruments,horseriding,andarchery.
Butthereareotherdetailslistedtoo,importantthingsI’vedefinitelymissed—
Likethefactthathelivesinmycompound.
Myheartleaps.It’sperfect.It’salmosttooperfect,asthoughdesignedbyfate,ormaybeGodhimself,ifGodwereinterestedinthepettydramaofawkwardteenagers.
Iscrollfurther,faster,movingontothemoregossipy,fan-madesites.
Themostviewedarticledatesbacktoonlyacoupleweeksago.Apparently,there’dbeensomethingofascandalatahugeawardsceremony,allbecauseCazSonghadfailedtohelpanolder,well-respectedactressintoherseat.Thecommentsectionbelowis,ofcourse,awarzone.Somearesoenragedbyhisbehavioronewouldthinkhehadshovedtheactressdownthestageandlaughedinherfaceorsomething.I’msorry,butIsimplycan’tstandhimanylonger,oneuserwrote.Iusedtoimaginehe’dbethethoughtful,chivalrous,perfect-boyfriendtype,butclearlyhedoesn’thaveeventhemostbasicmanners.Goodbye,Caz.Itwasgoodwhileitlasted.Otherhard-corefanshavejumpedouttodefendhim:Butmaybehedidn’tseeher!Or:Ifhe’dhelpedher,alltheantiswould’veblamedhimfornotrespectingherpersonalspace.There’sliterallynowinning.
Thewholething’sabsurd,yetwhat’swilderisthatamassivecosmeticsbrandactuallydroppedCazSongafterthebacklash,claimingthatalltheirambassadorsoughttobe“thoughtful”and“sensitive”and“courteous,”anddemandinganexplanationforhisbehavior.Someone’sevenmadeavideoanalyzingthesituation,whichIclickon.It’sfollowedbyanothervideo,titled“AllofCazSong’sInterviewsPt.1”.
Idon’tnoticehowdeepI’vewandereddownthisparticularrabbitholeuntilIfindmyselfwatchingatwenty-minute,fan-editedvideocompilationofCazSongdrinkingwater.
“Thisisridiculous,”Imuttertomyself,promptlyslammingmylaptopshut.“I’mbeingridiculous.”
Forawhile,Ijustsitthereinmyownsilence,listeningtotheapartmentbreathingaroundme.Thebirdssinginginthenight’sdistance.Thedulltangleofpianochordsdriftingfromsomefloorsdownbelow,bysomeneighborIknowofbuthavenevermetbefore.
ThenIgrabmyphone.ReadovertheemailI’veprettymuchetchedintomybrainbynow.
Ihadthetremendouspleasureofreadingyourviralessay“LoveandOtherSmall,SacredThings”lastnight,andIfoundmyselfextremelymoved…
Andresolvehardensinsideme.IopenmylaptopagainandpullupablankPowerPoint,suddenlygratefulforallthetimesMaaskedmetolookoverherworkbeforedeliveringapresentationtohercompany.Thisshouldn’tbetoodifferentfromthat.
Inbig,boldletters,Itypeoutthefirstslide:AStrategic,MutuallyBeneficialandRomanticallyOrientedAlliancetoHelpFurtherOurRespectiveCareers.CHAPTERFIVE
Theonemajordownsideofmyplan,Iquicklyrealize,ishavingtospeaktoCazSongalone.
BecauseCazisneveralone.Like,never.
Earlyinthemorning,Ifindhimsurroundedbyatleasthalfouryearlevelatthelockers,allofthemseeminglyfascinatedbythewayhetakeshisbooksoutofhisbag.Then,duringclass,peoplekeepslidingintotheseatnexttohimandgoinguptohimforhelp,despitethefactthathe’sfarfromthebeststudent.Evenhiswalkstotheschoolcafeteriaaresomehowabiggroupactivity,withatleasttenpeopletrailingafterhim,offeringtobuyhimlunchordescribetoday’sspecials.
Bytheendoffifth-periodPEclass,I’mstartingtofeelrestless.
Desperate.
Sowheneveryone’sreleasedearlytogochange,allstinkingoffreshsweatandancientgymequipment,IthrowonmyuniformasfastasIcan,packmystuff,andwaitoutsidetheboys’lockerrooms.
Afewguyscomeoutfirst,hairstilldrippingwetfromtheshowers(I’veneverunderstoodhowguyscanactuallyshoweratschool),andstartatthesightofme.Igivethemanawkwardwave.
“Nothingtoseehere,”Icallcheerily,steppingasidetoletthemthrough.“Justchilling…”
Tomyimmenserelief,Cazisthenextpersontoemerge.Hishairismoredampthanwet,fallinginmessyink-blackstrandsoverhisface,andforamomentIrememberthewayhe’dlookedonmyTVscreenlastnight.Thewayhe’dtouchedthatothergirl’scheek.
“Hi,”Isay.MyvoicecomesouthigherandlouderthanIintended,bouncingoffthedulltiledwallsaroundus.
Hepauses.Staresatme.“Oh,look,”hesaysfinally,hismouthcurvingintosomethingtoomutedtoqualifyasasmile.“It’smynonfan.”
IsuppressawinceandtrytogoonasifIhaven’theardhim.“Doyou—doyouhaveaminute?”
Mypulsespeedsup.I’veneverdonethisbefore,neverapproachedaboyoutofnowhere,letaloneacelebrity.We’restandingsoclosethatIcansmellhisshampoo—afresh,mildlysweetscentthatremindsmeofsummer.Greenapple,maybe.
Cazshrugs,lookingsomewhatbemused.“Yeah,sure,Iguess.”
“Perfect.”
Withoutanotherword,Igrabhiswristanddraghimintothenearestemptyroom—
Whichhappenstobeajanitor’scloset.Great.
“Uh,”CazsaysasIshutthedoorbehindus.Thesharpstenchofbleachanddampclothinstantlyrisestomynose,andI’macutelyawarethatthere’sadirtymopproppedupinchesawayfrommyhair.“Whyarewestandinginajanitor’scloset?”
“That’sanexcellentquestion.”
Iyankopenmyschoolbagandfisharoundformylaptopbeforesettingituponashelfofhandsanitizer.Tobehonest,I’dreallybeenimaginingthisplayingoutadifferentway;there’dbeaprojector,forone,tobringoutthehigh-resvisualsofmyslideshow,andenoughspaceformetomakeelaboratehandgestureswithoutknockingoveragiantmountainoftoiletpaper.
Butwhatever.Icanbeflexible.
“So.Ihaveanidea,”ItellCazasformallyaspossiblewhileIwaitformyPowerPointtoload.“Andit’sgoingtosoundalittle…outlandish,maybe,butIpromiseit’llbegood.Forbothofus.Life-changing,even.”
Cazarchesadarkbrow.“Areyoutryingtorecruitmeforacult,Eliza?”
“What?No,I—”
“BecauseI’mnotallowedtojoin,”hecontinuesoverme,leaningbackagainstavacuumcleanerandsomehowmanagingtomakeitlookcool.“Contractuallyspeaking,Imean.Mymanagerdoesn’twantmetojoinanygroupororganizationunlessit’sthenextbigboyband.”
Idon’tevenknowhowtorespondtothat.
“No…”Ifinallymanage.Shakemyhead.“No,thisisn’taboutacultora—aboyband,forthatmatter.It’saboutthis.”Ipointtomylaptopscreen,wherethefirstslideisnowupandready,thegianttitleglowinginthedimlightofthecloset.
Icansense,ratherthansee,Caz’ssurprise.
“Beforeyousaynoorgetweirdedout,”Itellhim,takingadvantageofhissilence,“justletmegiveyoumoredetails,okay?”
“Sure.”Nowhesoundsamused,whichisn’texactlywhatIwasgoingfor,butit’sbetterthanimpatienceoroutrightcontempt,Iguess.
Withaclick,thePowerPointchangestothenextslide:AVeryBriefSummaryofMyCurrentPredicament.Screenshotsofmyessay,theBuzzFeedarticle,andacoupleofthemostlikedTwittercommentsarepastedbelow.
“Areallyourslidesthiswordy?”Cazmuses.
Ifrownathim.“That’sobviouslynotthepoint.”
“Right,”hesays.Cockshishead.“Soenlightenme:Whatisthepointhere?”
Faintirritationrisesinsideme,likethejust-audiblebuzzingofaflyortheitchofanewclothingtagagainstyourskin.Still,Iforcemyselftosmile.Keepmycool.“Well,youknowhowIsaidinmyessaythatI’vebeendatingthisguysince…”ItrailoffwhenInoticetheblanklookonCaz’sface.“Youhaven’treadmyessay?”
Hejerksashoulder.“Honestly?No.”
Okay.ThisisgoingtobeevenharderthanIthought.
“Icancheckitoutnow,ifthathelps,”heoffers,reachingforhisphone.
TheideaofhimreadingmyessaywithinsuchcloseproximityofmewhileIstandaroundandwaitforhisreactionkindofmakesmewanttoboltoutthecloset,butIwaitsilentlyashesearchesfortherightlink,takingwhatfeelslikeallthetimeintheworld.
Hiseyebrowsrisewhenhefinallyfindsit.Hislipstwitch.
Then,tomyabsolutehorror,hestartsreadingmyessayaloud.
“Itwasthekindofsmall,subtlemomenttheyrarelyshowinthemoviesorincludeinthenovels.Therewasnodramaticorchestraplayinginthebackground,nofireworks,nothingbutthepalesum-merskysimmeringgentlyaroundus,thesoftscratchofhissweateragainst—”
“Ohmygod,”Isay,mortified.
Hekeepsreading,louder.“—mycheek.Imissedhim.Thatmustsoundridiculous,becausehewasalreadystandingasclosetomeasthelawsofphysicswouldallow—”
“Ihatethissomuch,”Itellhimthroughgrittedteeth.Icanphysicallyfeelmyselfcringing.“Pleasestop.”
Heflashesmeagrin,andtherarityofitisenoughtomakemefalter,ifonlyforonesecond.Thenhesays,“Areyousureyoudon’twanttohearabouthowyoulethimburyhisfaceinthecrookofmyneck,almostlikeatiredchild.Itriedmybesttostaycompletelystill,tojustbethereforhim,theway—”
“Caz,”Isnap.
“Eliza,”hereturns,butthankfullyhestopstorturingmewithmyownwriting.“Youknow,Ihatetobreakittoyou,butifyoucan’tstandtheideaofmereadingthosefewsentences,you’rereallynotgoingtolikethefactthat”—heconsultshisphoneforasecond—“overamillionpeoplehavealreadyreadyouressay.”
“That’sfine.Imean,that’snotthesamething.Thosearestrangers.”
Icantellhedoesn’tunderstandmyreasoning,andI’mnotsurehowtoexplainittohim,whyI’dmuchrathershowmyworktorandompeopleontheinternetthanpeoplewhoknowmeinreallife,soIswiftlymovetheconversationalongtomorepressingissues.
“Here’sthething,though,”Ibegin,gesturingbacktomyPowerPointslide.“Theessayyoujustreadis…well,it’sfake.”
“Fake,”Cazrepeats.Hisexpressionisunreadable.“Whichpart?”
“Um,prettymuchallofit,”Isayinarush,asifthismightmakethesituationlessembarrassing.“Imean,Iwastheonewhowroteit,but…thereisnoboyfriend.There’snotevenaboy.It’sjust—thepersonalessayassignmentwasdue,andIdidn’tknowwhotowriteabout,soIkindofpanickedand—”
“Madesomethingup?”hefinishesforme.
“Yeah,”Isayawkwardly.“Yes.”
Henodsonce.Looksaway.AtfirstI’mscaredI’veupsethim—maybehe’soneofthosestudentswho’ssuperseriousaboutacademicintegrityorsomething,inwhichcaseI’mscrewed—butthenhepressesonehandtohismouth,andIrealizehe’stryingnottolaugh.
Unbelievable.Absolutelyunbelievable.
“It’snotfunny,”Iprotest,crossingmyarms.“Thisisa—amajor…”
Hepointstotheslidetitle.“Apredicament?”
“Yes.Nowstopfinishingmysentences,”Itellhim,annoyed.“Andstoplaughingatme.”
“Allright,allright.”Hestraightensandcomposeshisfeatureswithimpressivespeed,allremainingtracesofhumorwipedcleanfromhisface.Nowonderhe’saprofessionalactor.“Soletmegetthisstraight:Noweveryone’srootingforyouandthismade-uprelationship,andyouwantmetopretendtobetheboyfriendfromyouressayuntileverythingdiesdown.Isthatit?”
Iopenmymouthtorespondwhenthewarningbellrings,aharsh,shrillsoundthatcutsthroughthecloseddoor.Withinseconds,loudfootstepsandvoicesandlaughterspilloutintothehalls,abouttwohundredteenagerstalkingatonce,accompaniedbytheslammingoflockers,thesnapandthudofbooks.Thesoundofpeopledrawingcloser.Crap.Ionlyhavetenminutesbeforethefinalbellgoesoff.“Look,whatever.Thepointis,ifyouagreetodothiswithme,you’llbebenefitingfromittoo.I’llhelpyououtwithyourcollegeessays,forone—”
“Holdup.”Heraisesahand,verynarrowlyavoidingknockingoverabottleofcleaningspray.Hisbrowsfurrow,thefirstcrackinhiscavalierdemeanor.Hisvoiceiscareful,controlled,whenheasks,“WhosaidIneededhelpwithmycollegeessays?”
“Um…Youdid.Onthephonetheotherday.Duringtheparent-teacherinterviews…”
“Right,”hesaysdryly,thoughthere’sanundercurrentoftensiontoit.Frustration.“Fromthatprivateconversationyouweren’tlisteningto.”
There’snodignifiedwaytoreplytothis,soIjustgivehimasmall,sheepishsmileandprayhe’llletthisparticulardetaildrop.Ofcoursehedoesnot.
“Idon’trecallmentioninganythingaboutgettinghelp,though,”hesays,hischinjuttingforward,darkeyesflashing.“Thatdoesn’tsoundlikemeatall.”
“Not,like,explicitly.Butitseemedaprettypressingissueandalso—don’ttakethisthewrongwayoranything—butI’vereadyourusualessaysforEnglishwhenwe’vedonethosepeer-evaluationthings.AndI’mnotsayingyourworkisn’t,um,good,butifyou’rereallyhopingtoimpresstheadmissionsteam,somehelpdefinitelywouldn’thurt.”
Hisvoiceiscompletelyaloofwhenhesays,“Youknow,forsomeonewhoclaimstonotbemyfan,yousureknowalotaboutme.”
“Notbychoice,”Iretort.“You’rekindofeverywhere.”
ThiscomesoutwaymoreresentfulthanImeant,andIquicklybackpedal,awareofthemostbasicbusinessprinciple:Don’tinsultthepersonyou’retryingtoloopintoadeal.“Look,it’snotjusttheessaysyou’llbegetting.It’salsogoodpublicityforyou.Imean,ifyoulookatthecomments”—Inodtowardthelastslide—“peoplearealreadyinlovewithyou,justbasedonmyveryflatteringdescriptionsofmysupposedboyfriend.Andwhodoesn’tlovetheideaofafamous,swoon-worthyactordatinganon-celebritywriterfromhisownyearlevel?It’sperfectfairytale-slash-magazinematerial.Plus,afteryourawardsceremonyscandal—”
Somethingflickersoverhisfeatures.“How…didyouknowaboutthat?”
“Thisisathoroughlyresearchedproposal,”Iexplain,thoughIfeelanannoyingrushofheat.Nowhe’sprobablypicturingmegooglinghim,whichcan’tbegoodforhisalready-inflatedego.“Andthankstomyresearch,I’mconfidentthatthiscouldhelpclearupthebacklash.Everyonewillknowfrommyessaysthatyou’reexactlyassweetandconsiderateasthey’dfantasizedabout.So?”Istoptotakeabreath.“Whatdoyouthink?”
Hedoesn’tsayanythingatfirst,juststaresatme,hischinstillslightlyraisedasifinself-defense,thelinesofhisbodypulledtaut.
Pleasesayyes,Iprayinsidemyhead.MyheartisthuddingsohardagainstmyribsI’mscaredhecanhearit.Please,pleasesayyou’llgoalongwiththis.
“Hmm”isallhesays,pokerfaceperfectlyinplace.“Sothisfakerelationship—”
IglancepointedlyatthePowerPoint
“Sorry,”Cazsayswithalittlemockbow,andreadsoffthefirstslide,“ThisStrategic,MutuallyBeneficialandRomanticallyOrientedAlliancetoHelpFurtherOurRespectiveCareers—”
“S.M.B.R.O.A.H.F.O.R.C.forshort,”Ioffer.
“Yeah,uh,Idon’tthinkthat’sshorter,”Caztellsme.Clearshisthroat.“Imean,therearedefinitelylessletters,but.Youknow.Time-wise…”
“Fine.”Ibitemytongue.“Justcarryonwithwhatyouweresaying.”
“Well,whatwouldit…involve,exactly?”
Hopefluttersinmychest.He’sconsideringit,then.CazSongmightactuallyagreetothis.
“Nothingtoowild,”Ireassurehim,myheartbeatquickening.Maalwayssaysshefeelsthisphysicaltuginsideherwhenevershe’sabouttocloseadeal.Ineverunderstoodwhatshemeantuntilnow;everymuscleinmybodyistensed,onedge.Myhandsfeelshakywithadrenaline.
Iquicklypullupthenextandfinalslide.There,I’velaidoutabasictimeline:sixmonths,coveringtheperiodofmyinternshipwithCraneswift,andmadetocoincideperfectlywithwhenhisnextdramastartsairing,formaximumpublicity.Thenthereareallthegroundrules,suchasnomouth-to-mouthkissing,nophysicalcontactbeyondcasualshoulder-bumpingandoccasionalhugging(onlywhenabsolutelynecessary),andnoelaborateromanticgesturesunlessthere’sasubstantialcrowdwatching.Comingupwiththisveryspecificlistataroundthreeinthemorningwasprobablyoneofthelowestpointsofmyexistencesofar—whichisreallysayingsomething.
“Nomouth-to-mouthkissing?”Cazreads,andIcantellhe’smakingaconsciouseffortnottolaughagain.“Asopposedtowhat?”
Tomygreatannoyance,Icanfeelthebackofmyneckheating.“YouknowwhatImean.It’sjust—it’ssomethingpeoplesay.”
“I’veliterallyneverheardanyonesaythosespecificwordsinthatorderbefore,”heinformsme,lipscurving.Then,maybecatchingthemurderousexpressiononmyface,hemakesahalfheartedsurrenderingmotionandsays,“Okay,okay.Sure.”
“Sure?”
“I’lldoit.”
Iblink,mybrainlaggingalittle.“Wait,sorry.You’lldo…?”
“This.”Henodsatthelaptop.“S.M.B.R.O.A.H.F.O.R.C.ThoughIreallythinkwecouldcomeupwithabettername.”
“Really?”
Hepauses.Leanscloser,untilthereisnothingbetweenusbutthedark,thinair,thegreen-applescentofhisshampoo.Iinstinctivelytakeastepbackward.“Yes,Eliza,”hesays,hisvoicesomber.“Ireallydothinkweneedabettername.”
I’msorelieved—sostunnedbymyownvictory—thatIdon’tevenmindhisjoke.
“ThenIguess…Iguessit’sfinal,”Isayslowly.“We’redoingthis.”Iextendmyhandforaproperhandshaketoclosethedeal,thesametimeheraiseshisforahighfive.
Wait.Whothehellhigh-fivesthiskindofthing?
“Okay…”Isay,whenneitherofusmoves.“Um,Iguesswecan…”
Herollshiseyesatme,butnotbeforeamusementdancesoverhissharpfeatures.Thenhetakesmyhandinhisandshakesit.Hisskiniswarmandsurprisinglysmooth,softeven,saveforthefewcallusesonhispalm.Anddespitehiscasualstance,hisgripisfirm.Mawouldapprove—notthatitmatters.
Ipullawayfirst.
“So.Okay,”Irepeat,kindofdazed.Thisisallhappeningveryfast.“Goodtalk.I—I’llbeintouch.”
Imovetoopenthedoor,torunsomewherequietandcollectmythoughts,butCazholdsoutanarminfrontofme.Helookslikehe’sdebatingsomething,butafterabeat,hesays,“Youknowyoucould’vechosenadifferentmethod,right?”
Iblink,uncomprehending.
“Youoverheardmyconversationtheotherday,”hesaysslowly,likehe’ssurprisedhehastoevenspellthisout.“Privatedetailsaboutmylife.Andyou’reawriter.Agoodone,withwhat’snowasubstantialaudience.”
“And…?”
“Youcould’veblackmailedmeintoworkingwithyou.ThreatenedtowriteupahugepieceonmystruggleswithschoolormyfamilyrelationshipsorwhateverunlessIagreedtoyourconditions.Youdidn’thavetomakethisamutuallybeneficialarrangement.”There’sstillthatfaintteasingedgetothewayhesaysit,buthiseyesaredark,moreseriousthanIwould’veexpected.
“That…neveroccurredtome,”Isayintotalhonesty,surprisedbothbytheideaitselfandhowfasthismindworkedtoproduceit.Threatsandforceddealsmustbethenaturalwayoftheworldtohim.
“Itneveroccurredtoyou,”herepeats.Thenhisfacesmoothsout,andhedrawscloser.“Well,toolatetochangeyourmind.We’restartingnow,right?”
“Huh?”
“Thisisagoodopportunity,”hesays,gesturingtous,thentothedim,crampedclosetandthestreamofnoiserightoutsideit.BeforeIcanfullygraspwhathe’ssuggesting,hedragsahandthroughhisalready-messyhair,undoesoneshirtbutton,andbiteshislipsuntiltheylookslightlyswollenandred.Asif…
Asifwe’vejustbeenmakingoutinhere.
“Well?”Caziswatchingme,expectant.Completelyunfazed.Almostbored.
Iguessthiswouldn’tbeabigdealtohim.Actorslikehimmustgoaroundpretendingtokisspeopleallthetime.Infact,he’sprobablyfilmedsceneswaymoreintensethanmerekissing,withprofessionalcamerastrainedonhislipsandawholeroomofpeoplewatchinghimtoo.
ButtheclosestI’veevergottentokissingaboywasthattimeinseventhgrade,whenIturnedaroundduringafrogdissectionthesametimemylabpartnerdid,andourlipscameaboutaninchshortoftouching.He’dfreakedoutandboltedtothebathroom,spittingandrubbinghismouththewholewayasifhe’dbeenpoisoned,whileIshriveledupinmyseatandprayedforthefloortoswallowmewhole.
Iwasprettygladtoleavethatschoolbehindafewmonthsaftertheunfortunateincident.
Anyway,it’snotlikeIcansayanyofthistoCaz.He’llprobablylaughatme,orworse,feelsorryforme.SoItakeoutthetintedlipbalmIalwayskeepinmypocketandsmearitaroundmymouth,tryingnottothinkabouthowridiculousImustlook.Imean,thechancesarethatInowlookmorelikeaclownthansomeonewho’sjustcomeoutofahotmake-outsession.Dopeopleevencomeoutofmake-outsessions?Ordotheyemerge,maybe,exitgracefully,likesomekindofetherealmermaidfromthesea?No,thatdoesn’tsoundquiterighteither
Whatever.
“How’sthis?”IaskCaz.
Heinspectsmeforasecond,hisgazethoughtful,andsomethingshiftsoverhim.Withinhim.Likeacamera’sclickedon,andhe’sslidingintoanewrole,adifferentcharacter,thechangesoswiftitalarmsme.
Thenhereachesformyponytail.“CanI?”
Idon’treallyknowwhathemeans,butIsmile.Nod.Resisttheimpulsetorun.
AndthenCaz’slongfingersarerunningthroughmyhair,tuggingmyponytailloose,hismovementssolightandfastIbarelyregisteranythingexceptafaint,pleasanttinglingsensationovermyscalp.It’sasmall,casualgesture,butinthebriefmomentwhenhishandsarestillinmyhairandhiseyesareonme,Ifeel…something.Somethinglikeembarrassment,yetnotlikeitatall.
Thenthefeeling’sgone.Cazmovesawayandturnstowardthedoor,glancingbackatmeoverhisshoulder.“Areyouready?”
No.Notevenremotely.
IknowIcan’ttrusttheboystandingbeforeme—thisprettyactorwithhisperfecthairandpracticedcharmandhordesoffans,thepersoneveryoneeitherwantsorwantstobe.Butrightnow,Idon’thaveanybetteroptions.
“Ofcourse,”Itellhim,injectingasmuchenthusiasmintomyvoiceaspossible.
Heseemstobelieveme,though,becausehemotionsmeforwardandpushesthedoorwideopen.
Foroneshort,blissfulsecondafterweemergefromthejanitor’scloset,noonenoticesus.
Studentscontinuetopacktheschoolhalls,yellingouttotheirfriendsfromoppositeendsofthecorridors,shovingasidepeople’sbooksandbagstogettotheirnextclass.Nobodysparesourmessed-uphairandswollenlipsasecondglance,andIwonder—foolishly,naively—ifmaybethiswon’tbeasbigadealasI’dthought.
Then,inthenextsecond,everyonenotices.
Thesceneisn’tquiteasdramaticasitwouldbeinamovie.Peopledon’tfreezeinplaceorstumbledownthestairsordroptheirbagsinshock.Butthere’sanoticeabledipinthevolume,apause,likeavideobuffering.
Whispersstartflutteringaroundus.
Caz,tohiscredit,lookstotallyunperturbed.He’swearingthesmug,slightlysheepishexpressionofaguywho’sjustbeencaughtkissingagirlhelikesanddoesn’tmindthewholeworldfindingout.
I,ontheotherhand,don’tknowwhattodowithmyself.Myfacefeelsallhotanditchy,andafewwispsofmyhairhavestucktomylipbalm.Nowmorethanever,Iwishtherewassomesortofguideonwhattodowhenyou’rethrustfromanonymitytothecenterofattentionwithintwodays’time.It’senoughtogiveanyonewhiplash.
“Ohmygod,”someonestandingtomyleftsays,anditworkslikeatrigger,settingoffaroundofaudiblereactions:
“Ohmygod.”
“Areyouseeingthis?That’sCazSongand—”
“Ishetheonefromthatgirl’sessay?”
“TellBrenda.She’sgoingtofreak,holyshit—”
IcansensemorethanadozenpairsofeyespinnedonthebackofmyheadasIwalkwithCaztoEnglish,ourshoulderscloseenoughtotouch.
“Yougood?”Cazwhisperstomeatthedoorway,onehandrestingagainsttheframebehindmyshoulder.Athousandtimes,inmoviesandmusicvideosandreallife,I’veseencouplesstandtogetherlikethis.Butforme,thisiscompletelynew.
NotthatIcanletitshow.
“Yeah,”Isay,doingmybesttosoundflippant.“Ofcourse.Areyou?”
Helaughs,andonlythendoIrealizehowdumbmyquestionmustsound.Whywouldn’thebefine?He’sanactor,acelebrity.Attentionishisversionofnormal.
Thebellringsagain—afinalwarning.Everyoneseatedisstaringatus.
Iavertmyeyesandhurrytomyusualtableinthemiddle,whereIalwayssitalone.Tomysurprise,however,Cazdropsintotheemptyseatbesideme,asifhe’sdonethisamilliontimesbefore.
Thestaringofficiallyturnsintoopengawking.
“Whatareyoudoing?”Imutteroutofthecornerofmymouth.Thoughtherearen’tanyformalrulesaboutit,everyoneknowstheclassroomsarestrictlydividedintodifferentterritories:theoverachieving,academicallygiftedkidsatthefront,thepopularandsportykidsattheback,andeveryoneelseinthemiddle.CazmovingoverherefromthebackrowislikethehighschoolequivalentofsomeonecrossingtheNorthKoreanborder.
“It’seasierthisway”isallhesays,tippinghischairbackward.
Mr.Leestrollsintotheclassroom,doesasmallbutvisibledoubletakeatthesightofussittingtogether,andstartshandingoutworksheets.Cazimmediatelytearsoffacornerofthereadingactivityonburialrites,scribblessomethingdownonit,thenslidesthecrumplednoteovertome.
Hedoesallthiswhilekeepinghiseyesstraightahead,hisexpressionboredandblank.
Icanbethatgoodanactortoo.IpretendtobebusyjottingdownthedateonmyworksheetasIsmoothoutthenote,shieldingitfromviewwithonehand.
Hisphonenumberiswrittenacrossthecenter.
Right.Iwritedownmyownnumberinthespacebelow,tearitoff,andwaitfortheteachertoturnhisheadbeforeslidingthenoteback.
Myfirsttimeexchangingnumberswithaboy,anditfeelslikeI’morganizingabankrobberyorsomething.Thenagain,it’sprobablyforthebest.Theonlywaythisarrangementwillworkisifwekeepthingspurelyprofessional.
Backinmyroomlaterthatafternoon,IreplytoCraneswift’semail.
Ittakesmeawholehourjusttodraftthreesentences.HalfthattimeisspenttryingtofigureoutwheretoputmyexclamationmarksandhowmanyIshoulduse.Inmydefense,there’saverydelicatebalancetostrike.IfIusetwoexclamationmarksinarow,forexample,I’llriskcomingacrossasovereagerandneedy.ButifIusenoexclamationmarks,everythingIsaywillsoundstrangelyflatandcold.Intheend,Idecidetoplayitsafeandaddonlyoneexclamationmarkafterthethankyou
ThenIloseanotherhalfhourdebatingwhichsign-offismostappropriate(onearticleonlinerecommendsSincerely,whileanotherismorallyopposedtoit).
IfthisiswhatbeingaWorkingProfessionalislike,thenhonestly,nothanks.
Oncetheemail’ssent,Ichangeoutofmyuniformandplopdownonmybed,notexpectingtohearanotherwordfromCraneswiftuntilatleastthenextmorning.Butthenmyphonedingswithanewemail.
SarahDiazwantstocall.
Like,rightnow.
“Ohmygod,”Isay,shootingtomyfeet.Myheartisalreadyracinginamadstaccato.“Ohmygod,ohmygod,ohmygod.”
She’sattachedhernumberintheemail.Ienteritcarefullyintomyphone,double-checkingeverydigit,thenpressthecallbuttonwithtremblinghands.Whilethecalldialplays,Istareattheblankwhitenessofmybedroomwallandtrytofocusonmybreathing.
Sarahpicksuponthethirdring.
“Hello?”Myvoicesoundswaytoohighandshaky.Isoundlikeaseven-year-old.Iclearmythroat.“Canyouhearme?”No,nowit’stoolow.
BeforeIcanrememberhowtospeakproperly,SarahDiazsays,“Hi,Eliza,Icanhearyou,”inthissmooth,crisp,super-professionaltoneI’veheardMaadoptwhenevershe’sspeakingtoclients.
“Hello,”Irepeat,forliterallynoreason.Getagriponyourself.“Ms.Diaz.It’ssonicetomeetyou.”
“Oh,youcanjustcallmeSarah.”Then,maybebecauseshecansensemynervesandrawawethroughthephone,sheletsoutasmalllaugh.“Sorrytoscheduleacallsosoon.Ihopeyou’renottoobusy—”
“Oh,no,notatall,”Ihurrytorespond.“Ihadnoplanswhatsoever.I’m,like,superfree.I’malwaysfree.”
“Well,that’sgoodtohear,”shesays,andshesoundslikeshemeansit.There’sthelowhumofaprinterinthebackgroundandtheclackofkeyboards,andIimagineherseatedbehindasleekblackofficedeskwithaclearviewofthecitybelow,asteamingcappuccinoandglossymagazinesspreadoveracoffeetable.Whatmustitbelike,tolivealifelikethat?Tobesomeonelikeher?“IguessIwantedtofirsttellyouhowmuchIenjoyedyouressay,andhowgladIamthatyou’veagreedtoourinternshipoffer.Asyoumightalreadyknow,we’rereallyhopingtoexpandourreadershipandattracttheyoungerdemographic,andwethinkyou’dbetheperfectpersontohelpusachievethis.Yourwritinghasthisreallyauthentic,youthfulenergytoitthat’llbesuretoresonatewithteens,whilealsohavingthedepththatappealstoourolder,existingreaders…”
Okay,listentothis,Itellmyself,pressingthephoneasclosetomyearaspossible,thescreenwarmagainstmyskin.Reallylisten.Memorizeeveryword.You’renotgoingtohavethechancetobepraisedbysomeonelikeSarahDiazagain.
ButI’msofocusedonremindingmyselftolistentoSarahtalkandmarvelingoverhowstrangeitisthatI’monthephonewithherthatIdon’tactuallyprocessasinglethingshesays.
NextthingIknow,she’sasking,“Doesthatallsoundgoodwithyou,Eliza?”
“Um…”Itrynottopanicasmyownconfusedsilencefillsthelinewithstatic.EitherIjustsayyesandfindoutlaterwhatI’veagreedto,orIaskhertorepeateverythingshesaidinthepastfiveminutesandrisklookinglikeanidiot.Crap.WhatwouldMado?“Sorry,um,couldyoujustclarifythatlastpart?IwanttomakesureIfullyunderstandeverythingbeforedecidingtoproceed.”
“Oh,yes,certainly,”Sarahsays,stillmaintainingthatsamepleasant,professionaltone.“Sorightnowwe’relookingataweeklyblogpostonoursite,intheLoveandRelationshipscategory:Thinkofitasasortoffollow-uporupdateonyourrelationship,whatyou’vebeendoingtogether,whereyou’vebeengoingoutondates.Themoredetailsthebetter,really;wewantourreaderstofeellikethey’rereallyonthisjourneywithyou.Andit’dbegreattocross-postonsocialmediatoo—preferablyonTwitter,sincethat’swhereyourfollowingseemstobegrowingthefastest,butit’suptoyou.Altogether,itshouldn’ttakemorethanatimecommitmentoffifteenhoursperweek.Oh,andtowardtheendofthesix-monthperiod,we’dloveforyoutowritealongerarticleonanytopicofyourchoosing;we’llprintitinourspringedition.Whatdoyouthink,Eliza?”
“Okay,”Iagreeslowly,asifIcouldpossiblysaynotoher.“Thatsoundsgood.”
“Oh,wonderful!”Somehow,Icanalmosthearherbeaming.“Andyou’resureyourboyfriendwon’tmind?Iunderstandthatit’salotofpublicity,especiallygiventhatyou’rebothstillquiteyoung…”
Fromthesoundofit,shedoesn’tknowaboutCazyet.I’mtemptedtotellherrightnow—she’llprobablybeecstatic;afterall,what’smorenewsworthythandatingasemi-celebrity?—butImakemyselfwait.It’sbetterifshefindsoutthroughsomesecondarysource.It’llbemoreconvincingthatway.
“Idon’tthinkhe’llmindatall,”Ireassureher.“Publicityis,like,histhing.”
Shelaughsoutloud,probablythinkingI’mjoking.
AfterweconfirmtheinternshipcontractdetailsandIhangupinadaze,Icheckmyemail,stillhalf-convincedI’mhallucinatingaboutallthis.Butthereitis—thecontractshepromised,withmynamewrittenatthetop.It’sreal.Craneswift.Myfavoritepublicationwantsmetoworkforthem.
Istareandstareattheemailuntilmyeyesblurandmyheartthreatenstoburst.ThenIcollapsebackontomybedwithasoft,strangledlaugh.
“Whatevenislife,”Iwhisperoutloudtomyself.CHAPTERSIX
Forthesecondtimethisweek—andtwodaysinarow—Ifindmyselfstandinginsideajanitor’sclosetwithCazSong
“Wereallyneedtofindabettermeetingspot,”CazmuttersasIlockthedoorbehindus.It’sstillearlyinthemorning,beforeclassesofficiallystart.
“It’snotmyfaultyou’resopopular,”Itellhim,tryingandfailingtoconcealthefaintcreepofirritationinmyvoice.Afewminutesago,Ihadtoliterallygrabhimbytheelbowandsteerhimawayfromacrowdofexcitedstudentslikesomekindofbodyguard.“Andanyway,thisplaceisn’tthatbad.”Igesturetothefourdifferentbrandsofdisinfectantontheshelvesandtrayofyellow-greenspongesbesidemyfeet.“It’sactuallypretty,um,wellsupplied.Verypractical.Like,iftherewereanearthquakeorsomething,we’ddoreallywellinhere,youknow?”
Cazmakesaquietsoundthatcouldeitherbealaughorascoff.“Okay,stoptryingtosellmethisjanitor’sclosetorwhateveritisyou’redoingandtellmewhywe’rehere.Again.”
“Well,Ijustwantedtomakesurewe’rebothclearonwhatwe’llbedoingtoday.Dating-wise.”
Hegivesmethislooklike,That’sit?“Andyoucouldn’thavesimplytextedmeaboutthis?”
“Iwasbusyyesterday,”Ireason.Whichistrue—Ispentagesgoingoverthedetailsofthecontract,andanothertwohourstryingtowordaprofessional-soundingreplytoSarah—butnotthefulltruth.There’sjustsomethingaboutdirectlyreachingouttohimviaphone,outsideschool,that’smildlyterrifying.
Okay,reallyterrifying.
Cazshakeshishead.“Whatevenistheretodiscuss?”BeforeIcanreply,hesuddenlystillswithfakehorror.“Wait,don’ttellmeyouhaveanotherPowerPointready—”
“No,”Isay,rollingmyeyes,eventhoughIdidactuallyconsidertheideaforamomentlastnight.Buthedoesn’tneedtoknowthat.“Andthereissomuchtodiscuss;consistencyiskeytoabelievablelie.Like,Idon’tknow,arewegoingtobewalkingtoclasstogether?Areyouplanningonsittingnexttomeineveryclass?Willwebehavinglunchtogether?Ishavinglunchtogethergoingtobe,like,apermanentthingfromnowon?Doyouintroducemetoyourfriends?ShouldIknowwhoyourfriendsare,sincewe’resupposedtohavebeentogetherformonthsalready?Ifsomeoneasksaboutyourparentsorsomething,doIactasifI’vemetthem?Ifsomeoneasksmewhetherornotyouhaveabs,doIsaythatyoudo?”
“Fortherecord,yes.”
Istareathim.“Yes?”
“IfsomeoneaskswhetherIhaveasix-pack,tellthemyes.”Hemakesalong,leisurelystretchingmotionwithbothhands,likeacatinawarmpatchofsun.He’ssotallthathisfingersalmostscrapetheclosetceiling.“It’llbegoodformyimage.”
“Fine.ThenyoubettertelleveryoneI’magreatkisser.”
Hegrinsthen,slowandwideandteasing,andforthefirsttime,Inoticethathehasdimples.Auselessdiscovery.Andyet…“Yougotyourselfadeal.”
“Okay.Then…great.”
“Great.”
“Cool.”
“Cool,”heechoes,andIswearhe’sjusttryingtogetundermyskinnow.
“Wonderful,”Isnap,crossingmyarms.“Now,ontomoreimportantthings…Soifwearewalkingtoclasstogether—”
“CanIjustsaysomething?”hesays.
Thatsamefeelingofvagueannoyancefromyesterdayspikesinsideme.Seriously.CazSongwasalotmorecharmingwhenhewasonlyaprettyimageonmyTVscreen.“Aren’tyoualreadysayingsomething?”
“CanIsaysomethingelse,then?”Withoutwaitingformetoagree,Cazspreadshispalmsoutandsays,“Look,Iappreciatewhatyou’retryingtodoherewiththiswhole,uh,consistencything.Butmaybe…justmaybe…youdon’thavetocoordinateeverysingledetail?Wecouldjustgetintoourrolesandletthestorydevelopnaturally.It’llbemorebelievable.”
Developnaturally.Asifanythingaboutourcurrentarrangementisorcouldbenatural.
“Thatsoundslikeahorribleidea,”Itellhim.Mypalmsactuallyfeelalittleclammyatthethought.Planningthingsoutindetailmeansthereareboundaries,andboundariesmeanI’llatleasthavecontroloversomething.
“Why?”heasks,notbackingdown.“Whatareyousoafraidof?”
Ifeelmyselfbristle.“I’mnot—afraid”Then,hearingtheblatantlieinmyownvoice,Iswitchtotheoffensive.“Whatdoyouhaveagainstfollowinganice,well-thought-outschedule?”
Hebreathesoutthroughhisteeth.“Idon’t.It’sjust—I’malreadyfollowingalotofnice,well-thought-outschedules,youknow?That’skindofthenatureofmyjob.”
Thisisenoughtomakemefalter,ifonlybriefly.
“Humorme,”Cazinsists.“Justforaday.Ifitdoesn’twork,wecantryityourway.”
Nothanks.Thewordsarealreadypoisedonthetipofmytonguewhenthefirstbellrings.It’salwaysloudestinthemorning,anawful,drawn-outscreechthatcanbeheardatleastthreestreetsaway.Ithinkthepointistoencouragestudentstogettoclassfaster,butIknowforafactthatsomepeoplehaveturneduptoschooltenminuteslatejusttoavoidlisteningtothebellscream.
Iwinceasthesoundechoesdownthehall.There’snotimetonegotiate,soIshootCazmyfirmestno-bullshitlookandsay:
“Fine.Butonlyfortoday.”
???
Iregretmywordsalmostimmediately.
We’reheadingoutoftheoldseniorbuildingatthefarendofcampustofirst-periodmath,intothestickysummerheat,andsurprisingly,nothingtooembarrassinghashappenedyet.Aroundus,allourclassmatesarekeepingtheirdistance,watchingusonlywhentheythinkwe’relookingaway.Aboveus,theskyissoblueitlooksfake.
Cazkeepsquietaswewalksidebyside,whichIappreciate.Theonlythingworsethanawkwardsilenceisthekindofmeaninglesschatterdesignedsolelytofillsaidsilence.
Then,withoutawordofwarning,Cazreachesformyhand,hislong,slenderfingersbrushingagainstmyown,andIhonestlycan’texplainwhathappensnext.
It’slikemybodygoesintodefensemode.Withoutthinking—withoutevenregisteringwhatI’mdoing—Ijerkawayandslaphiswrist.
There’sanawful,horrifyinglyloudclappingsound.Thekindyouusuallyhearinmoviesduringadramaticshowdown.
Andthenaspeechlesspause.Followedby—
“Whatthehell,”Cazsays,lookingmoreconfusedthanangry.Hedrawshishandbackdowntohisside,butnotbeforeIseetheirritatedredofhisskin.“Whydidyoujusthitme?”
“S-sorry,”Ibabble.Icanfeelmywholefaceburning,myfingerstinglingfromwherehetouchedthem,howeverbriefly.“I—Idon’tknow.Iwasjustsurprised.”
“Thatyourboyfriendwouldholdyourhand?”heasks,confused.
“Yes.No.Imean…”Isigh.Avertmygaze,cursingmyselfforlandingusinthisridiculoussituation,andtheevenmoreridiculous,excruciatingconfessionInowhavetomake.Idon’tthinkanyonecanhearus,butIkeepmyvoicelowincase.“Ihaven’texactly,um,heldhandswithaguybefore.”
“Wait.”Caz’sfootstepsslow.“Never?”
Thisisalreadygettingwaytoopersonalformyliking,butsinceIstillfeelbadforbasicallyattackinghim,Inodonceandsay,“Well,yeah.I’veneverdatedanyonebefore,so…”
Mywordshanginthehotairbetweenus.We’reontheschoolovalnow,darkasphaltandbright,artificialgrasseverywhere.Thankfully,there’senoughfreespaceforustocontinueourconversationfarawayfromtherestofourclassmates,sonoonecanhearCazwhenherepeats,incredulously:
“You’veneverdatedanyonebefore.Atall.”
“Nope,”Imumble,walkingfaster,asifIcansomehowout-pacemyownembarrassment.Imean,it’snotlikethenotionofhavingminimalromanticexperienceatmyageisinherentlyembarrassingoranything.It’sjust…CazSongisthelastpersonIwanttobetalkingtoaboutthis.CazSong,who’sthedefinitionofdesirable,whohaseverythingapersoncouldeverwant,who’sneverhadtoworryaboutrejectionorlonelinessorbeingleftbehind.Who,accordingtothearticlesI’vereaduponhim,hasbeeninatleastthreerelationshipsbefore,allofthemwithmodelsorhisgorgeouscostars.
“Huh”isallhesays.Icanfeelhimstudyingme,asiftryingtopuzzlesomethingout.Myskinheats,andnotjustbecauseofthescorchingsun.“Then…howdidyoumanagetowriteallthataboutfallinginlove?”
Thisquestion’seasy,atleast.“Bullshit,”Itellhim,andI’mgladfortheconvictioninmyvoice.“It’salljustsentimentalbullshit.Ionlywroteitfortheassignment.”
Cazdoesn’taskanythingelseafterthat,orattempttospontaneouslyholdmyhandagainasweapproachourclass.Good.Itellmyselfthisisgood.Great.MuchbetterthanhimthinkingIsecretlylongforamovie-likeromanceorcareaboutanyofthatstuff.
It’snotasifIdon’tbelieveinloveitself,becauseI’vewitnessedit.Myparentsfirstmetinhighschool,whenMawasclasscaptainandBawasthequiet,mysteriouskidwhoalwayscametoschoolinwrinkledshirtsandturnedinhishomeworktwodayslate.Aftertheywereassignedtothesamedesk,theystartedpassinghandwrittennotesanddoodlestoeachunderthetable.Notesturnedintolunchestogether,whichturnedintoproperdates,whicheventuallythenescalatedintoaserious,long-termrelationship.Theyendedupgoingtodifferentuniversitiesonoppositeendsofthecountrytostudyverydifferentthings,buttheyhandledthedistancejustfine.
Andnow,decadeslater,attheagewheremostmarriagestendtostagnateandturnsour,theystillloveeachotherthatmuch.Theydon’talwaysremembertheiranniversaryorgoouttofancyrestaurantsfordates,butMaoncespentfourhoursliningupintherainjusttobuyBa’sfavoritebrandofroastedchestnuts,andBahasbeentoeverysingleoneofMa’sworkeventsandcocktailparties,eventhoughhehatesthosekindsofsocialfunctions
IguessmypointisthatIdobelieveinlove.Really.I’mjustnotconvincedthatkindoflovecouldeverhappentome.CHAPTERSEVEN
“Okay,tellmeeverything.”
I’mstretchedoutovermybedinanoldsweatshirtandplaidpajamapants,mylaptopbalancedprecariouslyontopofaminipillowmountain.Zoe’sfacetakesupmostofmyscreen,herskinanunnaturalshadeofwhiteinthelamplight.She’sinherbedroomtoo;Icanmakeoutthecrammedbookshelfbehindher,thePolaroidphotosstucktoherwall.Photosofusfromyearsago.
Justseeingthemmakesmemisshermore,makesnostalgiasneakundermyribsandtwistaroundmyheart,eventhoughshe’stechnicallyrightinfrontofme.
“Yougofirst,”Itellher,shiftingontooneside.“Howdidyoudoonyourhistoryexam?”
ForaslongasI’veknownher,ZoehasdreamedofstudyingcomputerscienceatStanfordthewayI’vedreamedofbecomingawriter,whichmeanseverysingletestshetakesmatters.Countstowardsomething.
“Oh,that.IguessitwentbetterthanIthought,”shesayscasually,butIknowfromhersmall,ill-concealedsmilethatshemust’vegottenfullmarks.Shewouldn’tbesatisfiedwithanythingless.
“Weloveanintellectual,”Isay,andshelaughs.Ilaughtoo,happythatshe’shappy.
“Okay,okay,butseriously.”Sheholdsupahand.Straightenssuddenly.“Mytestscoresaside—Ifeellikewereallyneedtorevisitthefactthatyou’vesomehowbecomefamoussincewelasttalked?Andyou’redoingthisprestigiousinternshipandshit—whichIonlyfoundoutthroughafreakingmagazinearticle?”
Icanguessexactlywhichoneshe’sreferringto.TherewasanarticlepublishedjustyesterdayfeaturingaphotoofCazandmewalkingtoclasstogether.WhoevertookthephotomanagedtocapturetheprecisemomentCazreachedformyhand—rightbeforeIslappedhim.Init,myeyesarewidewithvisiblesurpriseandmaybeatraceofembarrassment,mycheeksflushedpink.AndCazisdoingthatthingwithhismouth,onesideofitcurvedupinanalmostsmile,hisgazeintentonme.
“Yeah,Iknow,”Imanage.“It—it’sprettywild.”
“No,like,seriously.Listentothis.”Hernailsclackrapidlyonherkeyboard,thensheclearsherthroatandstartsreading.“Eliza’sboyfriendisnoneotherthangorgeousup-and-comingChineseAmericanactorCazSong.BestknownforhisrolesinTheLegendofFeiyan,EverythingStartswithYou,andFiveLivesFiveLoves,theyoungstarhasbeenmakingsomeseriouswavesinMainlandChina—”
“I’vealreadyreadit,”Icutinhastily,makingaface.
“AndIthinkyou’rebeingwaytoolow-keyaboutthis,”Zoesays.“Didyouknowthatyou’retrendingonWeibo,like,rightnow?”
“Yeah,Caz’smanagementalreadytoldhim.”Whichhethenproudlypassedontome,alongsidethestatisticthatinterestlevelsinhisnextdramahavealreadyshotup300percent.I’dbehappierforhimifheweren’tsoterriblysmugaboutit—orhisinsistencethatspontaneityisthebestwaytogo.
“Caz,”Zoerepeats,rollingthesyllableonhertonguelikeitmeanssomething.“Sowhatexactlyisthesituationwithhim?”
Byinstinct,Iopenmymouthtolie,butthenIrememberthatZoeknows.She’stheonlypersonintheworldwhoknowsmyessaywasfake,whichnow—ironically—meansshe’stheonlypersonintheworldIcantellthetruthto.“He’s…Let’sjustsayhe’sdamagecontrol.”
Herbrowsrise,unsurprised.Zoeisalwaysonestepaheadofeveryone.“Untilwhen?”
“UntilmyinternshipendsandIgetmyshinyletterofrecommendationfromSarahDiaz,andthenwecanpartwayshappyandsuccessfulandneverbothereachotheragain.”
“Hmm,”Zoesays.
“What?”
Sheblinksatme,allinnocent.“Nothing.”
“Comeon.”Ishootheralook.“Webothknowwhatyourhmmsmean.Outwithit.”
Shesnorts.Shakesherhead.“Ijustthinkit’sfunny,that’sall.”
“Funny?”
“Yeah.Imean,ifyou’djustgoneandwrittensomethingreal,youwouldn’thavetogothroughallthistrouble.”
“It’stoolatetosaythatnow,”Iprotest,fightingagainstthepinchofdreadinmystomach.Yetit’ssharpernowthanever.IstillrememberthefirsttimeZoereadoneofmyEnglishpiecesinclass,beforewewereevenbestfriends.She’dlookedupattheend,eyeswide,andsaid—andI’vememorizedeveryexactword:Haveyoueverthoughtaboutbeingawriter?You’resofreak-inggoodatthisShewasthefirstpersontoreallybelieveinme,andinsomeways,thisispreciselywhatshe’dwantedforme,formylife.Inotherways,thisisthetotaloppositeofthat.Iswallowthelumpinmythroatandpresson,“Theessay’salreadyout,andforbetterorworse,everyonebelievesit.”
“Butmaybe,ifyoutoldthetruth—”
Iforceoutasmallsnort.“Areyoukidding?HaveyouseenthosepeopleonTwittergettornapartjustbecausepeoplesuspectedtheymadeupafakefunnytextexchange?Ifthetruthgetsout,I’llprobablybefendingoffhatecommentsanddeaththreatsfortherestofmylife—”
BeforeIcancompletemylittlemonologueofdoom,anunfamiliarvoicecallsdownthehallonherend:
“Hey,canIgrabthesalt-and-vinegarchips?”
It’sagirl’svoice.Someoneourage.
“Helpyourself,”Zoecallsback,twistingaroundinherchair,andI’msuddenlystruckbyamemoryofusatourlastsleepover,meraidinghersnackcupboardwhilesheblow-driedherhairandworriedaloudabouttheusualthings:thatemailtheteacherhasn’trepliedtoyet,thegradesfortomorrow’squiz,thecommitteeshesignedupforbutwantstoquit.“Justdon’ttouchthebarbecueones.”
“Gotit,”thevoicerespondswithagiggle.
“Whoisthat?”IaskasZoeturnstomeagain.
“Oh,that’sjustDivya,”shesays.Likesheexpectsmetorecognizethename.ThensheseemstorememberI’mhalfwayacrosstheworldnow,anentireoceanaway.“Right,sorry,youwouldn’tknowher;she’snew.Herparentsareoutoftown,soshe’scrashingatmyhouseforafewdays.”
“Right,”Ihearmyselfsay.There’sadull,unreasonablestabbingsensationinthepitofmystomach,asickfeelingthattellsmenothingexcept:Ishouldgo.“Um,cool.”
“Doyouwanttosayhi?”Zoeoffers.
“No,no,it’sfine,”Isayquickly,sittingup.“I’lljust—Youtwohangout.Havefun.Ineedtowriteupsomethingformyinternshipanyway,so…”
“Okay.”She’salreadynodding,lookingelsewhere,distracted.Icanhearthepadoffootstepsmovingcloser,thecrinkleofthechippacket.“Okay,then.We’lltalksoon,yeah?Justtextwhenever.”
“Ofcourse.”Idomybesttosmile,eventhoughthemovementstrainsmylips.“Imissyou.”
Sheblowsmeaquick,perfunctorykiss.“Missyoutoo.”
Thenthescreengoesblack,andit’sjustme,staringatmyownreflectioninthefollowingsilence.Myeyeslookdarkandheavy.Sad.
Islammylaptopshut.
SinceCazhasupheldhisendofthedealsofar,it’sonlyfairthatIupholdmineaswell.
WhichiswhyIagreetomeetwithhimthefollowingSaturdayafternoonatChaoyangParktohelphimwritehisessays.Webothdecidedthatacasualpublicsettingwouldbebest,sincegoingovertoeachother’sapartmentswouldraisefartoomanyquestionsfromourfamilies.
Still,asIfinalizethetimeandlocationwithCaz,Ican’tshaketheodd,jitteryfeelingthatI’mpreparingtogoonadate.
It’sthekindofrare,blue-skieddaythatdrawsallthefamiliesoutoftheirapartments,eagerforachancetobreatheinsomefreshair.Onmywaythere,Ipassatleastadozensmilingcouplesandyoungparents,toddlerswaddlingbehindthemonstumpylegsandstony-facedtweenstextingastheywalkfeetahead,squintingdownattheirscreensinthebright,naturallight.
Thesuniseverywhere,ahotpalmonthebackofmybareneck.I’mwearingathincottondresswithcherryblossompatternsprintedoverthefront.It’snotuntilIreachtheparkandcatchsightofmyreflectioninatintedshopwindowthatIrealizehowridiculouslyshortmydressis;everytimeabreezeblowspastme,theskirtfluttershighupmythighs.
“You’vegottobekiddingme,”Imutter,slowingtoastop.Usingthewindowasamirror,Iattempttopullthedressdowntoamoreconservativelength,butthatonlymakesthetoppartwaytoorevealinginstead.
Desperate,IsnapaquickphotoofmyreflectionandtextittoZoe.
onascaleofVictorian-era-housewifetobusiness-magnate’s-fifth-wife,howsuggestivedoesthisdresslook?behonest.
businessmagnate’ssecondwifebeforethefirstwife’sdivorcepapersarefinalized.why??areuplanningonseducingthatactorboy?
Ialmostdropmyphone.ABSOLUTELYNOT,Istarttotype—justasInoticeCaz’sreflectionbehindme.
“Ohmygod,”Iblurtout.Spinaround,halfmythoughtsstilltangledupinmyunsentmessage.“I’mnotheretoseduceyou.”
Hisdarkbrowscrinkle.“What?”
“No—no,wait.Um,pleaseforgetIjustsaidthat—”Resistingtheurgetoburymyburningfaceinmyhands,Iclearmythroat.Tryforanormalgreeting.“Hi.”
Hismouthtwitches,buttomygreatrelief,hegoesalongwithit.“Hey.”
“Hi,”Irepeatawkwardly.
ThenIbringmygazedown.I’msousedtoseeingCazinschooluniformthatittakesmeasecondtoregisterhisfullappearance:aplainfittedshirtunderaleatherjacket,blackjeans,andthosewhiteNikekickssomanyguysareintoforreasonsthateludeme.Helooksdifferent.Good.
Butofcourse,healwayslooksgood.
Ittakesmeanothersecondtonoticethatsomething’smissing.
“You…youdidn’tbringyourlaptop?”Iask,incredulous,scanninghimupanddown.Heisn’tholdinganything.Infact,ifitweren’tfortheclothes,I’dthinkhe’drolledoutofbedandwanderedstraightoverhere.“Notevenanotebook?Asheetofpaper?A—apen?Nothing?”
Heshrugs.“No.”
Istareathim.“Youdoknowwhatwe’remeanttobedoingtoday,right?Like,Ididn’thallucinatethepartwhereyoubeggedmetowriteyourcollegeessaysforyou…”
“Okay,first,Ineverbegged,”hesays,rollinghiseyes.“Youoffered;Ineverbeganyoneforanything.Andsecond,Ifiguredyou’dcomewellprepared,sotherewasnopointbringinganyofthatstuffonmyown.”
“Wow.”Ishakemyhead.“That’sverypresumptuousofyou.”
“Well,youdidbringthestuffweneed,didn’tyou?”Hegesturestothebagslungovermyshoulders,asmileformingonhislips,likehe’salreadywontheargument.“SoIwasrighttopresume.”
“ButwhatifIdidn’t?”
“Butyoudid,”hepointsout.
“That’sreallynotthe…”Itrailoff,distractedbyasudden,strikinglyvividvisionofusstandingaroundandbickeringlikethisfortherestoftheafternoonuntiltheskygoesdark.Isigh.Givemydressonelast,futiletug.“Fine,whatever.Let’sjustgoandgetthisoverwith.”
Hegrinsatme,histeethwhiteenoughtoblind.“That’sthespirit.”
ThelasttimeIvisitedChaoyangPark,Iwasaboutfouryearsold.Youngenoughthatmostofmymemoriesfrombackthenareblurrednow,closertosomethingfromalong-burieddreamorafadedfamilyphotothananactualrecollectionofevents.AllIcanreallyremembernowisthetasteofcottoncandymeltingonmytongue,abrightstreakinthesky—aballoon,maybe,orapaintedkite—andMa’sloud,easylaughter,spillingovertheglitteringgreenlakes.
Still,asIwalkthroughthefrontentrancewithCazbesideme,I’mstruckbythisoverwhelmingsenseofdéjàvu,ofnostalgia,akintocomingbackhomeafteralongholidayaway.
Everythingherelookssofamiliar:therustedyellow-and-blueexerciseequipmentmostlyoccupiedbyoldyeyesandnainais;thepaddleboatsskimmingoverthemurkylotuspondwaters;thetabletennistablessetupintidyrowsoverthecourtyard.Eventhescentintheair—thatodd,distinctmixofmossandfresh-bloomingflowersandfriedsausages—makesmemisssomethingIcan’tname.
AllIknowisthatitmakesmychestache.
“Youbeenherebefore?”
IturntofindCazstudyingme.Histoneandexpressionarecasualenough,butthere’sthissharp,observantlookinhiseyesthatleavesmefeelingmoreexposedthanmydressdoes.
“Alongtimeago,”Isay,staringstraightahead.Alittleboyisdevouringastickoftanghulubythelawn,thecandyshellcrunchingloudlybetweenhisteeth.“Beforewemoved,Imean.Ihaven’tcomebacksince.”
“Well,Idoubtit’schangedmuch.”
“Yeah,”Isay,thoughthereissomethingdifferentabouttheplaceIcan’tquiteputmyfingeron.OrmaybeI’mtheonewho’schanged.
“Sowhereexactlyhaveyouvisited?”
Iblink.“Huh?”
“AroundBeijing.Forfun.”Hiseyebrowsshootupatmylostexpression.“Wait,don’ttellmeyouhaven’tbeenanywhereinallyourtimehere.You’vebeenbackforwhat,like,twomonthsalready?”
Fourmonths,actually.Butthatwouldn’thelpmycase,soIdon’tcorrecthim.
“It’snotlikeI’matourist,”Igrumble,hitchingmybaghigherupmyshoulder.“AmIsupposedtogovisittheGreatWallorsomething?”
“No,”hesays.“ButthereareplentyofplacesbesidestheGreatWall—andbetterthantheGreatWalltoo.NooffensetoQinShiHuang.Youknow,snackstalls,shoppingmalls,Wangfujing…”
“I’vebeenbusy,”Iprotest,myvoicetakingonadefensiveedge.“Andmyparentshavebeenworkingpracticallyeverydaysincewegothereand…”
“WhatifItookyou?”
CazsaysthissocasuallythatI’munsureifI’vemisheardhim.
Hemustcatchthelookofdisbeliefonmyface,becauseheslowshisstepsandexplains,“I’veactuallybeenthinkingaboutit.Andyouraisedaprettyfairpointtheotherday.”
Thistime,I’mcertainI’vemisheardhim.Islowdowntoo.“Areyou…areyouadmittingI’mright?”
“Notaboutthestrictscheduling,”hesayswithadecisivejerkofhishead.“ButaboutyouhittingmewhenIattemptedtoholdyourhand.”
Isuppresstheurgetocringe.“We,um,reallydon’tneedtorevisitthat—”
“No,butwedo.Nobody’sgoingtobelievewe’retogetherifyouactlikeI’mabouttokidnapyoueachtimeImakeamove.”
“Haveyouconsidered…notmakinganymoves?”ButassoonasIsayit,IcanhearhownaiveIsound.Howinexperienced.Mostofthecouplesatourschoolcanbarelykeeptheirhandsoffeachother.“Fine,”Imutterhastily,beforehecanjumpattheopportunitytoteaseme.“Sowhatareyousuggesting?”
“Chemistrytraining,”hesays,likethisisarealtermusedbyrealpeople.
“Chemistry—what?”
“I’vedoneitwithallmyco-actors.It’sbasicallyaseriesofactivitieswedotogethertogetcomfortablewitheachotherfast;ithelpsbuildchemistryandmakeourinteractionslookmorenaturalon-screen.Plus,we’llneedtolearneachother’sbackstoriessowedon’tgetcaughtfornotknowingsomethingobvious.”
Ipause.Ihavevaguelyheardofsomethinglikethatbefore.Still,myvoicecomesoutwary.“What…kindofactivities?”
“Depends.”Heshrugs.“Sometimeswe’llhangoutatthemall,ordoacouple’sphotoshoot,orgoonaprivatesparetreatforaweekend.Obviouslythetwoofuswon’thavethesameresourcesandflexibility,butIcouldshowyouaroundBeijing.Andyouneedmorematerialforyourblogthinganyway,right?”
“Right,”Isayslowly,comingtoacompletestandstillintheshadeofawideoak,asifthinkingandwalkingaremutuallyexclusiveactivities.“Right.Thatsounds…Imean,nooffense,butthatsoundslikewe’dbespendingalotoftimetogetheroutsideschool.Istherereallynoquickerwaytodothechemistry-buildingthing—”
Withoutlookingatme,hesays,“Sometimesthedirectorswillthrowusintoasmall,darkroomandgetustomakeoutfortenminutes.We’reusuallyprettyfamiliarwitheachotherafterthat.”
Despitetheshade,Ifeelthesun’sheatallovermycheeks.“Okay,tripsaroundBeijingitis,”Isayquickly,andIswearIseethetwitchofhislips.Becauseofcoursehe’sdelightinginmydiscomfort.
Iduckmyreddenedfacefromviewandfocusonmyphone.Secondslater,Caz’snotificationsdings.
“InvitationfromElizaLin:Newcalendarevent,”hereadsoutloudfromhisscreen,eyebrowsraised.“Chemistrytrainingatfivep.m.everySaturday.”Then,inthesamebreath,hesays,“Yeah,that’snotgoingtowork.”
“Excuseme?”
“Thisscheduleisn’tgoingtowork,”herepeatssimply,andstartswalkingagain,onehandinhispocket,weavingpastthepassingfamilybikesandcottoncandyvendorswithinfuriatinggrace.
Ihavetoruntocatchup.“What?Why?”
“Iknowyoudon’thavemuchexperiencewiththeentertainmentindustry,Eliza,”hesays,withenougharrogancethatIhavetophysicallygritmyteethtorestrainmyself,“butIam—astheysay—bookedandbusy.I’llprobablybeshootingorontheroadforhalfthesetimes.Unlessyouwanttowrestlemymanagerforcontrolovermyschedule.”
Ichewmytongueandwalkfaster.“Okay.Okay,that’sfair.Igetit.Thenhowaboutthis—we’llmakeitthistimefornow,butifsomethingcomesup,youjustgivemeaforty-eight-hournoticeandwe’llreschedule.”
“Forty-eighthours?”Heshakeshishead.“Toolong.Makeitanhour.”
“Twenty-fourhours,”Iinsist.“Andyouhavetotextmethelocationbeforehand.”
“Wow.”Cazletsoutahalflaughandrunsahandthroughhishairsothatitlooksperfectlywindswept:amoveI’veseencapturedinslowmotionandthirstedoveroneveryfanforumoutthere.“IfeellikeI’mdatingmymanager.”
Iscoffoutloudatthat,butmyguttightens.Well,hereitis,Ithinkgrimly,willingthehot,sharppangtodull.ProofthatI’dsuckinarealrelationship.Ican’tevenbeanappealingfakegirlfriend.
Yetasifhe’sheardmythoughts,Cazturnsaround,andhiseyesaredarker,hismouthsofteratthecorners,almostgentle.“I’mkidding,bytheway,”hesaysevenly.“You’restillwayhotterthanmymanager.”BeforeIcanevenreact,hetwistsbacktofacethepavedpathandadds,likeanafterthought,“Fine.I’llsendyouthelocation.ButI’minchargeoftransport.”
“Canyou—canyouevendrive?”
Hesnorts.“Don’tworry,Ihavealternatemeansoftransportation.”
“Oh,”Isay,immediatelypicturinghimshowingupoutsidemyapartmentinamassivehorse-drawnpumpkincarriageforsomereason.IgivemyselfamentalshakebeforeIcandosomethinghorriblyinappropriate,likelaugh.“Okay,fineButwe’llbesplittingallcostsfifty-fifty.Don’ttrytobeagentlemanandpayforme;moneywillonlycomplicatethings.”
“Fine,”heechoes.
“Great.”
“Great,”herepeatsagain,andit’skindofincrediblethathecanpissmeoffevenwhenhe’stechnicallyagreeingwithme.
“Wonderful,”Ibiteout,marchingrightpasthim.Still,Icanalmostsensehimsmilinghisinsufferablelook-at-me-I’m-a-superstarsmilebehindme.
Andhissmileturnsouttobescarilyeffective.We’veonlyjustroundedthecorner,wherethecrowdsaredenserandthepathsarelinedwithfoodstalls,whenthesetwoteenagegirlscomeintoview.Theybothstopwalkingwhentheyseeus.
Orrather,seehim.
“Ohmygod,”oneofthemmurmursinMandarin.She’swearingacutefloralbuckethatthatlooksclosetoslidingoverhereyesatanysecond.Shenudgesherfriendintheribs.“Ohmygod.”
Ohmygod,Ithinktoo,butwithpuredread.I’mreallynotheretowatchstrangersfangirloverCazSong’sveryexistence.Ijustwanttowritehisessaysandgohomeandcurluponthecouchwithsomedramas.Thoughhe’skindofalreadyruinedthatparticularexperienceforme;Ican’tevenwatchadramanowwithoutrealizingthatthisactoronceshotavarietyprogramwithCaz,orthatactressoncefilmedakissscenewithhim.
“Youdon’tthink…?”HatGirlissaying.
“It’shim,”herfriendanswers.“It’sdefinitelyhim.”
They’rebothtryingtosneaklooksatCaz’sfaceinthemostconspicuouswaypossible.IfIweren’tsearchingforaquickescaperoute(woulditlookweirdifIduckedbehindthatbush?),I’dprobablylaugh.
Thefirstgirlclearsherthroat,adjustsherhatwithvisiblytremblingfingers,andapproachesCaz.Shelookslikeshemightstartcrying.“Um,hello?CazSong?”
Itmustbeweirdtohaveacompletestrangercalloutyournameinaparklikeyou’reclassmatesorsomething.Butasweirdasitis,Cazmustalsobeusedtoit,becausehestraightens,hischarmdialedup,immediatelyrevertingtomyinitialboy-from-the-magazineimpressionofhim.Perfect.Tooperfect.
IcanonlyimaginehowImustlookincomparison.
“Hey,”hesays,smilingatthemboth.“Howareyou?”
“I’mjust—I’mahugefan,”HatGirlsays,hervoicetremblingtoo,herwordstumblingoutinagreatrush.“I’vewatchedeverydramayou’vestarredin.MyfavoritehastobeTheLegendofFeiyan…Itwas,like,theperfectadaptationofHero’snovel—you’reexactlyhowIpicturedthemaleleadwhenIfirstreadit…”
Theothergirlhaswhippedoutherphoneandstartedfilmingtheexchange,andpanicflashesthroughme.IdonotneedeveryChinesenetizentoseeavideoofmelookinglikethis.Mydressisstilltooshort,andI’msuddenlyveryconsciousofthepimpleonmyforehead.
ButCazhasstartedchattingwiththeminearnest:abouthisnextdrama,hiscastmates,hisdietandworkoutroutine,eachanswersosmoothIwonderifhe’sreadingoffaninvisiblescript.Ilingerbehindhim,feelingsomehowbothinvisibleandwaytooexposed,whenHatGirlturnsherattentiontomeandhereyeswiden.
“Oh,holycrap—areyouElizaLin?”
Iblink.“Yeah…”
Tomysurprise,herfacesplitsintoabroadbeam.“Iloveyouressay.Yourwriting’samazing.”
Mypulseskips,andheat,goodheat,rushestomyface.“Wow,”Isay,soundingasshyasIfeel.Thisrandomgirlactuallylikesmywriting.Imean,I’vegottenmorethanenoughcomplimentsfrompeopleonlinebynow,butthisisdifferent.Thisisactuallyhappeninginreallife,andit’shappeningtome.“Um,thankyou.Thatmeansalot.”
“No,forreal,”shesays.“Ithinkitmightbeoneofmyfavoritepiecesever.”
Theheatspreadsallthewaythroughmybodylikesunshine,andIdecidethatmaybeIdon’tmindtheattention.MaybeIevencraveitalittle.
“Youlookalotbetterinreallifethanyourschoolphoto,”sheaddswithcompletesincerity,andnudgesherfriend,who’sstillfilming.“Don’tyouthink?”
Herfriendlowersherphoneatlastandmeetsmyeyes,andallthewarmthseepsoutofme.Hergazeisice-cold,andhertonenofriendlier.“You’reCaz’sgirlfriend?”Thequestionsoundsalmostlikeathreat.
“Um…”Ilickmydrylips.“I—”
“Yeah,sheis,”Cazanswersforme,and—toeveryone’sshock—slidesacasualhandaroundmywaist.Distantly,throughthesensationofhisskinagainstmydress,IremembertheslidefrommyPowerPoint:Nophysicalcontactbeyondcasualshoulder-bumpingandoccasionalhugging.“We’reactuallyonadaterightnow.”
HatGirlclapsahandtohermouth.“Ohmygod,”shesaysagain.“That’ssoadorable.I’m,like,suchafanofyourrelationship.”
Meanwhile,herfriendlookslikeshe’sexperiencingsomethingofanextremefacialspasm.IfCazweren’tstillholdingme,I’dboltintheoppositedirection.
“Pleaseignoreher,”HatGirltellsme,followingmygaze.“She’sbeenasolostanofyouforages,Caz.Ithinkshejustneedsabitof—timetoadjusttothenews.It’sgreatnews,though.Really.”
Cazjustsmilesandnods,andItrytosmileandnodtoo,asifit’sperfectlynormalthatthisgirlI’veneverspokenawordtohatesmyguts.
Assoonasthetwoofthemleave—andonlyafterCazhassignedherbuckethatwithaSharpieheapparentlyjustcarriesaroundeverywherewithhim—heletshisarmdropandwemakeourwaydeeperintothepark.
We’resilentforafewminutes,boththinking,beforeheturnstome.“Hey,areyouokay?Iknowmyfanscanbeabit…protective—”
“No,it’sfine,”Ireassurehimquickly.
Hetiltshisheadafewdegrees,likehe’sstrugglingtofiguremeout.“Areyousure?”
“Yeah.”Whenhelooksdoubtful,Iadd,“Seriously.I’mnotthatsensitive.”
“Okay,well,inthatcase…”Hetakesadeep,somberbreath,andjustwhenIthinkhe’sabouttosaysomethingprofound,heblurtsout:“Didmyhairlookokayjustnow?”
Iblink.“What?”
“Myhair.”Heclearshisthroat.Rubsthebackofhisneck.“WhenIwastakingphotoswiththem.Diditlookgood?”
“Yourvanityisastounding,”Iinformhim,spinningaround.TothinkIwasactuallyfindingCazSongagreeable—thoughtful,even.Attheendoftheday,allhereallycaresaboutismaintaininghisperfect,plasticimage.
“Okay,sure,whatever,”hesays.“Butseriously,Ijustwantasecondopinion—”
“Itlookedgood,”Isayirritably.“Youalwayslookgood.Youknowthat.”Iholdupahandbeforehecangloat.“Butifyoueverusemywordsagainstme,Iwillpersonallycutallyourhairoffmyself.Gotit?”
Hissmug,infuriatingsmilefalters,butonlyforasecond.Inthesortofexaggerated,too-deepvoiceyouonlyeverhearinthetheaters,hereplies,“Whateveryousay,mylove.”CHAPTEREIGHT
It’sclosetonoonbeforewefindaspacequietenoughtowork:anemptypicnictablesurroundedbynothingbutwildgrass.Cazhopsontothewoodenseatandleansback,hisheadtiltedlazilytowardthesun,eyesclosed,hissharp,lovelyfeaturesawashinhazygold.
Foronedumbmoment,Ican’thelpbutthink,Nowonderwhyhe’ssovain.IfIwerethatbeautiful,Iwouldbevaintoo.
Iignorehimandliftmylaptopontomyknees,thenopenupablankWorddocument,privatelygratefulforareasontofocusonsomethingotherthanhim.
“SoI’mgoingtoassumethatyouhaven’twrittenanythingatallforyourapplicationsyet,”Isay,pullingupanewGooglewindowbesidethepage.“Wouldthatbecorrect?”
“Yeah,”Cazsays,withoutanounceofshame.“Absolutely.”
Well,atleasthe’shonest.“Thenwe’llstartfromtheverybeginning.Findthepromptsandstartbrainstorming.”Iflexmyfingersoverthekeyboard.“Whatschoolsareyouapplyingtoagain?”
“Justtheusual,”hesaystonelessly,thesamewayonemighttalkaboutbookingadentistappointmentorfilingtaxes.“MymomfoundacoupledecentuniversitiesinAmericathatacceptlateapplications.TheUniveristyofMichiganisone,I’mprettysure.”
Iraisemybrows.“Whoathere,noneedtosoundsoenthusiastic.”
Helaughs,buteventhatlackshisusualwryhumor.“Yeah,well…”Foronesecondhelookslikehe’sgoingtomakeaconfession,tellmeasecret,andanunbiddensparkofanticipationshootsupmyspine.Butthenhekindofshrugsandshakeshishead.“Itiswhatitis.”
“Again.Yourenthusiasmisoverwhelming.”
WebothlapseintosilenceasIsearcharoundfortherightcollegeapplicationtopics.Thepromptthisyearisprettytypical,ifnotdisappointinginitslackoforiginality:Tellusaboutaparticularexperiencewhereyoustruggled.Whatdidyoulearnfromit?
“Yeah,soundsgood,”CazsayswhenIshowhim,givingthepromptthemostcursoryofglances.
Istareathim.“That’sit?”
“Whatelsedoyouwantmetosay?Excellentidentificationofprompt?Exemplaryorganizationalskills?”
“No—”Ihuffoutasigh,tryingmybesttokeepmyfrustrationatbay.“That’snotwhatImean.IfI’mgoingtohelpyouwritethisessayaboutyourstruggles,youneedtoactuallygivemesomesourcematerial.Tellmeaboutatimewhereyou,youknow.Struggled.”
Cazmerelyliftsahandoverhisface,blockingoutthesun,hisknife-cutjawandcheekbonescastinsuddenshadow.“Whycan’tyoujustmakeitup?”Heturnsbacktome,agleaminhiseyes.Whichjustseemswrong,scientifically.Howcanhiseyesgleamlikethatifthere’snolight?“Isn’tthatkindofyourareaofexpertise?”
Ichoosetoignorethejibe.“It’snotthatsimple.”
“Whynot?”
“Because,”Isay,exasperated.“MyessayonlyworkedbecauseIstillincludedreal-lifedetails—likesearchingforapartmentsinmycompound,orthegrocerystorenearourschool.Istillhadmymainpersonalitytraits,myvoice,my—mydefiningcharacteristics.Soanyonewho’sreaditwouldbelieveitwaswrittenbyme.RightnowIdon’tknownearlyenoughaboutyoutocreateanentireessayoutofnothing,especiallyifitneedstobefactuallyaccurate.”
Writingissimplyaformoflying;I’vealwaysknownthistobetrue.Buttotellagoodlie,aconvincinglie,onethatisbothlogicallyconstructedandconsistentandemotionallyresonant—thattakestimeandeffort.Attentiontodetail.Andinthisparticularcase,italsotakescooperation.
“Look,Caz,”Isayasdiplomaticallyaspossible.“Ican’twritethisessayifyouwon’tgivemeonesolid,realisticexample—andpleasedon’ttellmeyouhaven’t,becauseliterallyeveryonestrugglesinsomewayatsomepoint—”
“Whataprofoundstatement,”hesaysdryly.“Didyougetthatfromamusical?”
“Don’tchangethesubject.”
Butheelectstostaysilentinstead,andwitheverysecondthatpasses,Icanfeelmyalready-threadbarepatiencewearingthinnerandthinner.
“Thisisyourcollegeessay,”Iremindhim.“Anditshouldn’tevenbethathardtowriteinthefirstplace.It’shardlyrocketscience.”
“Notforyou,maybe,”heshootsback.
“Well,maybeifyoutried—orcaredeventheslightest—”
“Iamtrying.”Hesighs.Rakeshisfingersthroughhishair,butit’slesshisfamous,calculated,heartthrobgestureandmoregenuineagitation.“See,thisiswhyIdon’tlike—”Hestopshimself
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No,tellme,”Iinsist.“Whyyoudon’tlike—what?Studying?Planningforthefuture?Doingthingsyou’rebadat?”
Hedoesn’tanswer,butamuscleworksinhisjawatmylastguess.
Ialmostlaugh,tornbetweensheerfrustrationandamusement.“Caz,”Isay.“Iknowtherearepeoplewho’llliterallyworshipyoufordrinkingwater,butyourealizeyoudon’tactuallyhavetobeperfectallthetime.Imean,I’dprobablylikeyoualotmoreifyouweren’tsoperfect.You’dbewaymore—Idon’tknow,human.Notjustsomeshinyproductoftheentertainmentindustry.”
Surpriseflashesoverhisface,thoughit’squicklycloudedbysomethinglikewariness.“Isthathowyouseemerightnow?Asa…shinyproduct?”
“No,”Isay,thenpause.“Well.Sortof,yeah.”
Hefallsquiet,hiseyestrainedonasplashofcolorinthecloudlesssky.Akite.It’sshapedlikeadragon,withgoldenbellsforeyesandpaintedPekingoperamasksmakinguptherestofitsbody,itslong,flaredtailundulatinginthebreeze.
“Iguess…that’sfair,”Cazsays,yankingmyattentionbacktohim.Hehuffsoutasmalllaugh.“It’sfunny,becauseafterIlandedmyfirstrole,IpromisedmyselfIwouldn’tbecomeoneofthoseblandcelebritieswhoonlygivecorporateanswersandsidestepanymeaningfulquestionsaboutthemselves.”
“But?”
“But,like,forinstance:Inanoldinterview,ImentionedthissingerIwasreallyloving.Andthenthenextmonth,hewasexposedfordoingdrugs—whichIhadnoideaabout,Ijustthoughthewasacreativelyricist.Butsomehowthestoryturnedintomeencouragingteenagerstododrugs,andIhadtoissueapublicapology,andittookweeksforallthattodiedown—mostlybecausethisotheractormadetheheadlinesformisquotingaclassicnovel.”
Ashespeaks,Igetastartlingglimpseoftheboybehindtheglossymagazinecover.Someonealittleafraid.ThatpartIcanrelateto,atleast.
Soit’swithfull,gentlesinceritythatIsay,“Well,you’resafewithme.I’llonlywritethestoryyouwanttotellforthisessay;Iwon’ttwistyourwordsoranythinglikethat.Promise.”
Alongpause.Asoftbreezebrushesthroughthegrass,pastmycheek.
WhenCazglancesupagain,helooksdifferent.Orhe’slookingatmedifferently,hiseyeslessblackthanbrown,therichshadeoffreshlyupturnedearth.
“Fine,”hesaysatlast.“I’lltalk.”
CazSongbrokehisarmwhenhewasthirteen.
Butbreakistoogentleaword.Whathereallydidwasfractureitanddislocateitatonce,splittingthebonedownthecenter.Incertainplacesthebonehadbeenshatteredsocompletelythattinywhiteshardshadpokedupagainsthisskin,threateningtopiercestraightthrough.Thepain,accordingtohim,wasmanageable.Nothingmorethanabriefflashofagony,acrushingsensation,firespreadingupfromhisfingers—followedbynumbness.
Thepain,Iimagine,wasunbearable.
HehadinjuredhimselfperformingastuntforahistoricalC-drama.Itwashisfirsttimeplayingafairlyimportantrole—thecrownprince’sspy—andhewantedtoprovehewasupforthejob.Ifhedidn’t,therewereatleastfourotheractorshisagewithmoreconnectionswhocouldreplacehimatamoment’snotice.
Thestuntrequiredthatheleapovertwoslopingpalaceroofs(withthehelpofwires,ofcourse)anddoadoubleflipintheairbeforelaunchingdirectlyintoafightscene.Hemanagedtomakethejumpoveroneroofbeforeoneofthewiresaccidentallywentslack.Hestumbled,landedhardatthewrongangle.Byinstinct,he’dliftedhisrightarmtoprotecthimself.Amistake.
“IknewprettymuchstraightawaythatI’dbrokenit,”hesays,rollingbackhissleevetoshowme.Theghostofajaggedwhitelinetrailsfromhiselbowdowntohiswrist,cuttingitswayintoleancordsofmuscle.Ihavetofightthisstrange,abrupturgetotracemyfingersoverthescar,justtoseeifitstillhurts.Toseeifhewouldletme.“Imean,Iheardit.”
Ajoltofimaginarypainlancesthroughmyownarmatthethought.
“Butyoukeptgoing,”Iguess,tearingmyeyesawayfromhisscarbeforeIcandosomethingfoolish.
“Thecameraswerestillrolling.”Heshrugs.“Everyonewaswaiting.IfiguredIcouldaffordtofinishthescene.”
Andsohedid.Hefinishedthatscene,andthenext,andtheoneafterthat.Fortwowholehourshesaidnothing,justkepthisheadupandstayedincharacterandpulledoffalltheremainingstuntshimself.Itwasn’tuntilhisscenesweredoneforthedayandthedirectorwascompletelysatisfiedwitheverythingthatCazasked,quitecalmly,whetherhecouldgoseeadoctor,ashecouldn’tfeelhisfingers.Thestaffmemberassignedtobringhimtherehadtakenonelookathisarm—nownolongerhiddenbythethick,layeredsleevesofhiscostume—andalmostscreamed.
Thedoctorhadbeenhorrifiedaswell.ShockedthatCazhadn’tpassedoutfromthepainatthatpoint.Cazhadsimplysmiledhisfamous,crookedwhitesmile—thesmilethatmadeallhiscostarsandviewersfallatleastalittlebitinlovewithhim—andsaid,Comeon,it’sbarelyascratch.
“Andwhatdidthedoctorsaytothat?”Iask.
Herunsahandthroughhisperpetuallymessyhair.“Honestly?Thedrugskindofkickedinatthatpoint,soIcan’tbesure.”
“Nice.”Isnort.
“ThoughIimagineheshookhisheadinadmirationandmurmuredtothenursebesidehim,Whatabraveyoungman.Maybeevenafewtearswereshed.”
“Andtheneveryoneintheoperatingroomburstintoloudapplause?”Isaysarcastically.
Hestaresatmeinfakeshock.“Howdidyouknow?”
Asmall,involuntarygigglerisesupmythroat,thoughIquicklysquashitdownagain.Still—agiggle.Itdoesn’tmakeanysenseformetofeelthatwaynow.
No.Ineedtoclearmyhead.Refocus.I’mnotheretomakefriends,togetmyhopesupaboutpeopleonlytobeletdownoverandoveragain.EspeciallynotwhenitcomestoCazSong,whomakesaliterallivingoffpretendingtofeelthingshedoesn’t.
Nothingelse.
“Goon,”ItellCaz,sittingback,asaferdistanceawayfromhim.“Whathappensnext?”
Hehesitates,asifsensingthechangeinmytone,howeversubtle.Butafteranotherbeat,henodsandpicksupwhereheleftoff.
Aftertheoperation,thedoctoradvisedCaztorestforatleastamonth.Thenextweek,hewentbackonsetagain.Heworkedwiththedirectortodeviseawaytohidehiscastunderhiscostumeandrefusedtorestricthismovementsinanyofhisscenes.Evenwhenhewentbacktothehospitalforfurthertreatmentorwasforcedbyhisparentstorest,hesecretlystudiedhisscriptunderthecoversofhisbed,repeatinglinestohimselfoverandoveragain.
Bythetimetheywrappedupshooting,hisarmstillwasn’tfullyhealedyet.Buthisperformance,accordingtothedirectorandhiscastmembers,wasphenomenal.Farbeyondtheirhighestexpectations.
Exceptthedramaneveractuallyendedupairing.Themainleadgotinvolvedinahugescandalconcerninganundergroundstripclub,andthehigher-upsdecideditwasbesttocancelthedramaaltogether.
“Itwasstillworthit,though,”Cazsays,pickingupalongbladeofgrassandwrappingitaroundonefingerlikearing.Cazcanneverseemtokeepstill.“Ilearnedalot.”
Andwhilethisdoessoundliketypicalcorporatebullshit,I’msurprisedtofindmyselfactuallybelievinghim.
EvenafterIhaveallmymaterialfortheessay,ittakesmelongerthanusualtogetintothewritingzone.I’dblamethegoodweatherorthesquealsandcheersofchildreninthedistance,butifI’mhonest,it’smostlybecauseofCaz.Evenwhenheisn’ttalkingorlookingmyway,Icansensehispresencekeenly,asifeverymoleculeintheairisorientedtowardhim.I’malmosttemptedtoaskhimtomovetoanothertable,thoughIknowthatisn’tfair.
ButonceIdomanagetotuneoutallunwanteddistractions,thewordscomeinaflood.Mymindsharpens.Myfingersfindanaturalrhythmoverthekeys.BecauseImightbecluelessaboutdatingandhandholdinganddancingforfuninacrowdedclassroom,butthis—thisrighthere,stringingwordstogethertomeansomething—ismyelement.This,Icoulddoalldayfortherestofmylife.
ItfeelsliketheclosestthingIknowtohome.
WhenIreachthefinalparagraph,Cazdisappearsforafewminutesandcomesbackwithtwotanghulus,thejewel-likefruitsglisteninginthelight.Oneofthemisthetraditionalflavor,thetypeIusedtohaveasakid:astringofbrightredhawthornspiercedthroughwithawoodenskewer.Theotheriscrowdedbygiant,ripestrawberriesandgreengrapesandfatslicesofkiwi,allsprinkledwithagenerouslayerofwhitesesame.
“Isawyoueyeingthatlittleboy’sfoodearlier,”hesaysbywayofexplanation.Heholdstheskewersupbeforemelikehe’sabouttoperformamagictrick.“Takeyourpick.”
Iblinkathimandpushmylaptopslowlyaside,surprisedthathenoticed.Ormaybehe’sonlyactingthiswayincasesomeoneelseiswatching,justtomakeitlookmorelikeadate.Andtomakehimselflookmoreconsiderate.“Um…”
“Iunderstandit’sanincrediblydifficultdecisiontomake,”CazteaseswhenIcontinueumingforasolidminute.“Alotatstakehere.Wouldyouliketotalkitoverwithyourlawyerfirst?Consultathirdparty?”
“Thatprobablywon’tbenecessary,”Isay,playingalong.“Thoughitmightbewiseformetoevaluatetheprosandconsofbothoptions.Reallythinkthisonethrough.”
“Yes,ofcourse.”
Isnortoutalaughandtakethetraditionalhawthorntanghulufromhim.“Thanks.”
Hewaveshisfreehand.“Anythingformyfakegirlfriend.”
Abrief,inexplicablepainfillsmychest,likemyhearthassnaggedonastraypieceofbarbedwire.Unsurewhatelsetodoorsay,Ibringthetanghulutomylips,lettingthethinpapercoverdissolveonmytonguefirst.ThenIbitedown.Theinsideissosouritmakesmyeyeswater,butthesmooth,sugaryexteriorhelpsbalanceitout.IttastesjustlikeIremembered.
Forawhileneitherofussaysanything,contenttosimplychewandenjoythesilencewhilethesummerbreezeblowsaroundus,pleasantlycoolagainstmyskin.ThenIlickthestickyskewerclean,tossitintoanearbybin,andgetbacktowork,savoringthesweetaftertasteofthefruit.
“Done,”Isayafewminuteslater,clappingmyhandstogether.
“Donealready?”Cazlooksupinsurprise,thendownatmylaptopscreen.He’sonlyjustfinishedeatinghistanghulu.“Damn.That’simpressive.”
Itrynottolethiswordsgotomyhead,thoughaflushofpleasurestillspreadsthroughme,warmingmedowntomytoes.“I’llemailittoyouwhenIgethome,”Ipromise,packingupmythings.ButasIpreparetoshutmylaptop,InoticethreenewmessagesfromZoe,andbesidethose,anemailnotificationfromSarahDiaz.
Iimmediatelyopenit,myheartthudding,half-convincedasIalwaysamthesedaysthatSarahwillmessagemeoutofthebluegoing,Hey,Ijustfoundoutthatyou’reacompletefraudandyouressayisalie!You’venowbeenblacklistedfromeverymagazineandpublisherintheworld,andeveryonehatesyou.Bye!
Tomyrelief,thenewemaildoesn’tsayanythingalongthoselines.Notyet,anyway.
Eliza!
Justwantedtocheckinandseehowyou’regoingwithyourblogpostfortonight.IwaslookingaroundatthecommentsonyourTwitter,andit’sprettycleareveryoneisdyingtoseeanother(ideallylessblurry)photoofyouandCaztogether.
Evenjustacoupleselfiewouldbeamazing—
“Eliza?Yougood?”
IslammylaptopshutandspinaroundtofaceCaz.“Yeah,”Isay,ascheerilyaspossible.
I’mcringingbeforethewordsareevenoutofmymouth.“Couldwe—woulditbeokayifwetookaselfietogether?Rightnow?Formyinternship?”Wow,Icouldnothavechosenamoreawkwardwaytoaskthat.
Aridiculous,self-satisfiedsmilespreadsslowoverhislipslikehoney.“Ofcourse.Anythingformynonfan.”
Myfaceheats.“Whenareyougoingtoletthatgo?”
“Whenyoujoinmyfanclub.”
“So:never,”Isayflatly.
“Don’tsoundsocertain”isallhesaysasheadjuststhescreen.
AndIdon’tknowwhatcompelsmetodoit,whatgivesmethenerve—whetherit’sbecauseI’mstillridingtheadrenalinehighofhavingjustwrittenanessaythatIknowisreallygood,orbecausethepersistentheathassubduedtheimpulse-controlsectionofmybrain,orbecauseIwanttostartlethatsmugsmileoffhisface—butjustwhenhe’sabouttotakethephoto,Istanduptallonmytiptoesandkisshischeek.
Click.
Thecameraflashesonce,capturingthekissforeternity,andIpullback.Suddenlyuncertainwhattodowithmymouth,myface,myhands.Theaftermathofmyonemomentofimpulsivity.
“Andyousayyoudon’thaveanyexperiencewiththisstuff,”Cazremarksafterapause,histonecasual.
“Well,you’renottheonlyonewhocanbespontaneous.”
Onecornerofhiscrookedmouthliftshigher.“Clearly.”
Itshouldallbeoverthen:theselfie,theessay-writingsession,thestrangeelectricityintheair.Butashehandsthephonebacktome,ourwristsbrush,bareskinagainstskin.Immediately,everynerveendinmybodyignitesasifstruckbyamatch,andIfreeze,stunnedbymyownresponse.
IexpectCaztomoveaway,butinsteadheslideshislongfingersaroundmywrist.Runsathumboverthefrayedstringbraceletthere.
“Youalwayswearthis,”hesays.
Inod.Swallow.“Yeah.Iknow.”
Hewaitsformetosaymore,butI’mtoobusytryingtoactnormal,likeI’mnothyperawareofhowcloseweare,howhishandisstillmovingslowlyovermyskin,histouchwarmerandlighterthanthesummerair.CHAPTERNINE
Ionceheardthistheorythatwhenyoudreadsomething,timemovesfaster,asiftheuniverseisdeterminedtoconspireagainstyou.
Icannowconfirmfirsthandthetheoryistrue.
It’sMondaynight,andmyfamilyisgatheredaroundthehighkitchencounter,bowlsofdicedvegetablesandlightbrownloavesofstore-boughtbreadspreadbetweenus.
Sincewehadhomemadedumplingsfordinneryesterday,we’remakingourspecialsandwichrecipetonight.MaandIfirstcameupwiththeideawhenwewerelivinginAmerica;it’slikeabasicbaguettesandwich,exceptwefrytheleftoverpork-and-chivedumplingfillingsintoagoldenpatty,thenaddpickledcarrotsandfreshcorianderandredoilchilisauce.ThecombinationtastessogoodthatsometimesMajokesweshouldselltheideatooneofthosemodernAsianfusionrestaurantsindowntownLA
Atleast,Ithinkshe’sjoking.Whenitcomestoherandpotentialbusinessopportunities,youneverreallyknow.
“Sohow’sschoolbeen?”Maasksassheslicesaloafofbreadintwoandpassesitdown.We’reseatedinakindoffactory-linearrangement,Mainchargeofhandlingthebread,Baassignedtothemeatpatties,andEmilyandmelefttodoeverythingelse.
Thissuddenpivotintheconversationcatchesmeoffguard.Upuntilafewsecondsago,MahadbeentalkinginelaboratedetailabouthowshepatchedupthatmajorKevin-shapedcrisiswithSYS;apparently,she’ddonesomestalking,pulledafewstrings,reachedoutinprivatetothesonofthecompanyhead(“averypoliteyoungman,andquiteeasilyflatteredtoo;Idohopeheendsuptakingoverthecompany”)andsmoothedthewholesituationover.
“Uneventful,”Emilysays,reactingmuchfasterthanIdo,thenshootsameaningfulglancemywayfromacrossthecounter.“Whataboutyou,Jie?Anything…interestinggoingoninyourlife?”
Ichewtheinsideofmycheek.
ThisisthepartI’vebeendreading:tellingmyparentsandsisterthatI’mdatingCazSong.EventhoughI’vealreadyboughtEmilytheexactamountofPockyspecifiedinourpreviousverbalagreement,Iknowthatnoamountofsnacksorbriberywillstopthewordaboutmynewrelationshipstatusfromspreadingandinevitablyreachingmyfamily.Imean,I’vealreadygainedafewthousandmorefollowersfrommyblogpostaboutourtriparoundChaoyangPark:“Let’sCancelAllOurPlansandKissattheParkInstead.”IhavetwomorepostsintheworksfortheLoveandRelationshipssectionnextweek,eachasironicasthenext:“WhenYouKnow,YouKnow:It’sLove”and“ALittleAnecdoteonHowtoSurviveThoseFirst-DateJitters.”
Sosincethemfindingoutisinevitable,I’dmuchratherMaandBahearthestoryfrommethanyetanotherimpassionedthinkpiecefloatingaroundontheinternet,oroneofourmanyauntswhobrowsethegossiparticlesonWeChat.
Allofwhichsoundsgreatintheory.
Inpractice,I’msonervousIkeepdroppingthepickledcarrots.
“Yes,howisschool,Eliza?”Maasks,turningtome.Shewipedoffhermakeuprightbeforewestartedcooking,andhereyesstillhavethatdark,smudgedqualityfromleftovereyeshadow,makingthemlookevensharperthanusual.“Haveyoumadeanyfriends?”
Mymom’sevidentconcernformysociallifeaside,thisseemsaseffectiveaconversationopeningasany.Imightevenbeabletoputapositivespinonmynews.Afterall,aboyfriendistechnicallyakindoffriend,right?Justwithmorepotentialphysicalcontact.
Iclearmythroat.Attempttowardoffallnon-family-friendlythoughtswithaquickwaveofmyhand.“I—um.Yeah.Ithinkso.”
“Youthinkyou’vemadeafriend?”Ma’sbrowsfurrow,perplexed.
“Ithinkhecountsasafriend,”Iclarify.Icanalreadyfeeltheheatrushingtomyskin.“Dependingon…onyourdefinitionoftheword.”
Somethinginmyvoicemustgivemeaway,becauseeveryonelooksup.ThelinebetweenMa’sbrowsdeepens.Bamerelyappearssurprisedandalittlelost,thoughthatmightbebecausehe’shalfwaythroughcomposinganewpoeminhishead.
Myonlysourceofcomfortrightnowisthatwe’veneverhadano-datingpolicyinourhousehold.
It’sstrange,really,thekindofthingsmyparentsarestrictabout.Like,they’llfreakoutifIwearatanktopoutsideandmybrastrapisshowing,orifIgotobedwithwethair,buttheyaren’topposedtotheideaofmedatinginmyfinalyearsofhighschool,andthey’llencouragemetoattendsocialgatheringsbecausetheyconsiderita“lifeskill.”
Iknowalotofpeoplecan’twraptheirheadsaroundmyparents’logic.MyfriendsatmyoldschoolscouldneverunderstandwhyIwasallowedtohavesleepoversatmyplace,butnottheirs,orwhyitwassuchabigdealthatIstayoffmyphoneduringfamilydinnertimes.Alotofthemwereshockedthatweevenhadproperfamilydinners,insteadofquickbitesbetweenschoolorwork
ButifI’mhonest,Idon’tmindit.Myparents’rulesmightnotmaketotalsensetoothers,buttheydotoEmilyandme.
Plus,theirhighlyspecificrulesmeanthatnomatterwhatIsaynext,Iatleastdon’thavetoworryaboutmyparentsdisowningme.
“Areyoutryingtotellussomethingaboutacertainboyinyourlife?”Maasksslowly,tentatively,asifphrasingthequestionwrongmightscaremeaway.ThoughIdoubtthereisarightwaytoaskaboutthiskindofthing.
Emily,asalways,ismuchmoredirect.“Soyoudohaveaboyfriend?”
“Well…”Ilickmydrylips.It’sevenharderthanI’dimagined,tellingthemaboutCazwhenthey’reallstudyingmesointently.Ipretendtorearrangetheslicesofcarrotonmyplate,thenanswerinMandarin.“Uh,yes.”
Abeat.
Panicking,Icontinue.“Thereis.Iam.Imean,I’mwithsomeone.In,like,aromanticsense—thoughofcourse,givenourageandthegeneraldatingtrendsinmodern-daysociety—”
“Whoisit?”Emilyasks,savingmefrommyrambling.
NeitherManorBasaysanything,butMaismakingthatpoker-faceexpressionshealwaysdoeswhenshe’stryingveryhardtoabsorbanew,significantpieceofinformation:hergazecarefullyguarded,hermouthpressedinathinline.
“Um,youknowthemaleleadfromthatdramawe’vebeenwatching?”Ibegin.
Emilyraisesherbrows.Manodsonce
Bastuffsanewpattybetweentheloavesofbread.
Thesilencetightensaroundme.Icanonlyhearthekitchenclocktickinglikeabomb,countingdownthesecondsuntilIforcemyselftosay,“Yeah,so,that’shim.”
Anotherbeat.
Iexpectshock.Confusion.Maybeevenawe.
WhatIdon’texpectisformyfamilytoburstoutlaughing.
“Tianya,”Mamanagesthroughhersuddenfitofhysteria.She’sactuallywipingathereyes.“Ididn’tthinkyouwereoneofthose—thoseidolchasers,Ai-Ai.Andyoulookedsoseriousaboutittoo!”
Emilyissnortingintoherhand.“Ifyou’redatingthatCazSongguy,thenI’mdatingGongJun.”
“AndI’mdatingLiuDehua,”Maadds,shakingherheadassheresumesherbreadslicingagain.
Bafrownsather.“You’remarried.”
“Oh,it’sjustajoke,Laogong.”Manudgeshimplayfullywithoneelbow,andBa’sexpressionsoftensatonce.“OfcourseIhaven’tforgottenaboutyou.”
Ifmyfacewasn’tonfirebefore,itdefinitelyisnow.“I’mnotjoking,”Iprotest,settingmyplateofcarrotsdown.“IamdatinghimHegoestoourschool.”Desperate,IturntoEmilyforhelp.“Youknowhegoestoourschool,right?Andhelivesclosetous?”
“Yeah,I’veheard,”sheallows,stillsmilingslightly.Atleastsheisn’toutrightlaughinganymore.
Progress.Kindof.
“I’msureyouwillfindsomeone,Ai-Ai,”Masays.God,nowshe’scomfortingme.Thisissonothowthisconversationwassupposedtogo.“You’reaverybrightgirl,andyou’refunny,andyoucan—youcaneatspicyfood,andyou…”Shetrailsoffwithavaguegesture,evidentlysearchinghardformorepositivequalitiesofmine.
“Youareverygoodwiththosecarrots,”Baoffers.
“Yeah,yeah,that’sreallyniceofyouguys.ButI’mliterallytryingtotellyouthatIhavefoundsomeone.Infact,youknowwhat?”Isnapmyfingerstogether,struckbyalightningboltofinspiration.“Ihaveproof.”
Asmyparentsexchangepuzzled,ifnotsomewhatalarmed,glances,Iwipemyhandsonmyshirt,takeoutmyphone,andopenuptheselfieItookwithCaz.Theoneofmekissinghischeek.
“ThisiswhereIwastheotherday,”Iexplain,spinningitaroundsotheycansee.“Withhim.”
Iresisttheurgetomeltintotheflooraseveryoneleansinandinspectsthephotocloselyfromeveryangle,asifit’ssomerare,endangeredspecimennevercapturedonfilmbefore.
“Well,”Masaysatlast,sittingback,herpokerfacefallingintoplaceagain.
Foramoment,Ican’tdecidewhat’sworse:myparentsrefusingtobelievethatIcouldbedatingCazSong,evenwithphotographicevidence…ormyparentsbelievinginmyliefully.Trustingme.Aneedleofguiltpricksmystomachatthethought.
ThenMaclaspsherhandstogetheronthecounter,allbusinesslike,thebreadnowtotallyforgottenbesideher.“IsupposeI’mjustcurioustoknow…Howexactlydidyour…this”—shepointsatthescreen—“begin?”
AndsoItellthem.ItellthemtheexactsamestoryIwroteaboutformyessay,becausethemoreconsistentyourlieis,andthefewerversionsofityoucomeupwith,thebetter.It’seasiertokeepallyourfactsstraightthatway.
WhenI’mfinallydone,andmostofthebreadhaslikelygonestale,Emilyclapsahandtohermouth.
“Ohmygod.Areyougoingtoinvitehimover?”sheasks,eyeswide.“Weshouldallmeethim.Andifweaskhimforsomeautographs,wecouldsellthem—”
“No!”Iyelp.BringingCazhomeisoneboundaryIdefinitelydonotwanttocross.
“Whatdoyouhaveagainstmoney?”Emilydemands.
“I’mnottalkingabouttheautographs.”Thoughthere’snowayI’mlettingthathappeneither.“Ijustwanttoholdoffonthemeeting-my-familything,okay?It—it’stoomuch,toosoon.Andbesides,you’llprobablyseehimaroundschoolanyway.”
“Yoursister’sright,”MatellsEmily,comingtomyrescue.“Wedon’twanttoscaretheboyoff.”Thensheturnstome.Smiles,thefaintlinesofherfacesoftening,herSuper-ProfessionalBusinesswomanmannerismsmeltingaway.She’sjustmymother,whoalwayslendsmehershoulderasapillowduringlongplaneridesandboilssweetenedmungbeansoupforuseverysummertohelpstaveofftheheat.“Youshouldn’twaittoolongeither.IrememberthatIfirstintroducedyourfathertomyparentsshortlyafterwegraduated.”Shewinks.“Obviously,itturnedoutquitewell.”
Thereitisagain.Theneedleinmystomach.
Butstill,Imakemyselfsayit:“Yeah.Okay.”
DespitewhatI’vetoldEmily,Idon’tactuallyexpecthertobumpintoCazatschool.Afterall,theprimaryandseniorschoolsrunondifferenttimetables;we’realwaysstuckinclassduringtheprimarystudents’lunchtimesorassemblies,andviceversa.It’swhyI’veonlyeverseenEmilyatthestartandendoftheschoolday,whenwe’rewaitingforthedrivertogether,orwhenIdeliberatelyseekheroutinherclassroom.
ButonFriday,inanunfortunatetwistoffate,ourEnglishclassisdismissedtwentyminutesearly—rightwhentheprimaryschoolkidsarehavingtheirbreak.
IspotEmilythesecondIstepoutintothesun-floodedcourtyard,Cazsomewhereclosebehindme.She’splayingthattraditionalChinesetijianzigamewithatleasteightornineothergirlsherage.It’sasimplegame,morespeedthanstrategy,requiringthattheplayerspassashuttlecockbetweenthemusingmainlytheirfeet.
Istoptowatchthemplay,mybookshuggedtomychest.
They’reallgigglingmadly,yellingatoneanotherwhenevertheshuttlecocklooksclosetofalling,dashingforwardandbackagaineverytimetheyseetheflashofcoloredfeathers.
Itdoesn’ttakelongtodissectthegroupdynamic;yearsofquietlyobservingmyclassmatesatnewschoolshavehonedmyskills.
EventhoughEmilyandherfriendsaretechnicallyallstandinginacircle,theprettiestone—theonewiththepolka-dothairbandandloudest,tinklinglaugh—isclearlytheleader.Shekeepsbarkingoutnamesandinstructionsattheothers,andit’sherwhotakestheshuttlecockfromwhoever’sretrieveditwithoutsomuchasathanks.
AndEmily,Irealizewithasmall,anxiousjolt,ishoveringsomewheretowardthebottomofthesocialladder.Noneofthemseemtobotherpassingtheshuttlecocktoher,andwhenshedoesmanagetokickit,noneofthemcheerveryloud
Ifeelmyselffrown.Thisisn’tsupposedtohappen.Emilyhasalwaysbeenthesocialbutterflyofthefamily,likableandadaptableinallthewaysI’mnot.
Butthenagain,maybeallthemovingaroundhasn’tbeenquiteaseasyforEmilyasIbelieved.Ormaybethere’ssomethingaboutthisschoolinparticularthathasmadeitharderthanusual.
“Isthatyoursister?”Cazasks,breakingthroughmythoughts.He’spointingstraightatEmily.
Iturntohim,surprised.“Yeah.Howdidyouknow?”
Heshrugs.“Youtwolookalike.”
ThisissoinaccurateIalmostburstoutlaughing.UnlikeEmily,I’veinheritednoneofMa’sdelicate,sculpted-icefeatures,herglossyhairanddewyskin.Instead,Itakeafterbothmyfatherandnoone,myfacedrawnfromarandomarrangementofbroad,cuttingstrokesandroundlines,likesomekindofafterthought.“You’reprobablythefirstpersoninthehistoryoftheworldtosaythat.”
“It’sthesmile,”hesays,eyesflickeringtome.“Youtwohavethesamesmile.”
BeforeIcaneventhinkofanadequateresponsetothis,Emilycatchessightofme.
“Jie!Jie!”sheyells,breakingofffromthecircleandsprintingacrosstheshortlengthofthecourtyard.Herpigtailswhipforwardassheskidstoastopbeforeme,secondsawayfromcrashingintomystomach,andlooksup,breathlessandbeaming.
ThensheseesCaz.Andshegoesperfectlystill.
“Hey,”Cazoffers.
Emily’seyesaresowideshelookslikeacartooncharacter.“You’re…CazSong,”shesays,voicehushed.“Mysister’sboyfriend.”
“Yeah.”Cazbendsdownslightlyuntilthey’rethesameheight.Smiles.It’sadifferentsmilefromtheonehewearsonTV,oraroundpeopleinouryearlevel;it’sgentle,kind.“Iam.”
“Holyshit,”mynine-year-oldsisterwhispers.
Ielbowher,hard.“Language.”
“Sorry,”shesays,soundingnotevenremotelysorry.“Imeantholycrap.Happy?”
“Notreally,”Imutter.
Caz’ssmilewidensuntilhisdimplesarevisible,andEmilypositivelymelts.Which,underordinarycircumstances,shouldbeagoodthing;everyonewantstheirfamilytoliketheirboyfriend.ButallIfeelisafaintpangofunease.ThemoreattachedEmilygetstoCaz,themoreit’llhurtwhenoursix-monthrelationshipreachesitsend.
Thankfully,thisconversationfromhellisinterruptedbynoneotherthanEmily’sentirefriendgroup—
“Emily!Comeon!”
“Dude,what’stakingsolong?”
“Areyouplayingornot?Becausewecanplaywithoutyou,youknow.”This,fromtheirleader.She’scrossedherarmsoverherchest,tappingherfootimpatientlyontheasphalt.Ifeelanimmediatesurgeofdisliketowardher.
“I—I’llbethereinaminute!”Emilycallsback,thenturnsbacktouswithlargepuppy-dogeyes.“Canyouguysjoinin?”
IexpectCaztomakesomepoliteexcuseaboutschoolworkandleave,butinstead,henodsandgrinswidely.“Ofcourse.”
Emilysquealsandthrowsherskinnyarmshighupoverherhead,lookinglikeaperfectstock-imageresultforwhenpeoplegoogle“happy”or“celebration.”“Forreal?”
“Yeah,forreal.”
IstareatCazoverEmily’sshoulder,mymindspinning.Allhedoesissmilebackatme.Whatthehellisheupto?Weagreedtokeepourfamiliesoutofthis,andIcan’timaginehimbenefitingfromthissituationinanyway.Ishesocommittedtohisroleastheperfectfakeboyfriend?Orisitjustahabitforhimbynow,toconstantlyentertain,perform,impress?
“Well,youguysgoahead,”Isay,backingupagainstthebuildingwall,booksstillclutchedtighttomybodylikeashield.“I’llwatchfromhere.”
Emilypouts.“You’renotcoming?”
“I…don’tthinkthat’snecessary.”
“Ofcourseit’snecessary.”Caz’ssmileisevilnow,wicked.Heextendsahandininvitation,andathirdpossibilitypopsintomyhead:Maybehejustwantstoseememakeafoolofmyself.“Comeon.Whodoesn’tenjoykickingpiecesofgluedfeathersaround?”
Itakeanotherstepbackward;myheelhitscoldbrick.“No,no.No,I’mbasicallyallergictoit—”
“What,fun?”Cazsays,andEmilygiggles.
“Intensiveexercise,”Icorrect.Aswellasembarrassingmyselfinfrontofagroupofstrangers.Nomatterhowtinytheyare.
“Youcalltijianziintensiveexercise?”CazshakeshisheadlikeI’vejusttoldabadjoke.“Eliza,I’veseeneighty-year-oldskickshuttlecockswithminimaldifficulty.Ithinkyou’llbefine.”
Emilynodsvigorouslyandturnsherdark,pleadingeyesonme.I’vealwayshatedthosepuppy-dogeyes.Hatedthem,becausethey’resoeffective.BecausetheyalwaysmakemesayanddothingsIknowI’llregret—
Likesayingyestohergameoftijianzi.
Abrief,stunnedsilencefallsoverthegirlsasCazandImakeourwaytowardtheircircle,thoughIsuspectthesilenceisdirectedmoreathim.Iimagineseeinghimfromtheirperspective,thisfamousactorwhohasappearedwithoutwarninglikesomeonefromadream:tallandeasymanneredandeffortlesslyhandsomeAndheissmilingatonlyEmily,barelyacknowledgingtheothers,saying,“Thanksforinvitingmeover,Em,”withawinklikethey’rebestfriends.
Whateverhisreasons,anunexpectedgustofwarmthfillsmychestseeingthemtogetherlikethis,blowsallthelockeddoorsandwindowsinsidemewideopen.
Butapprehensionsooncomescreepinginonitsheels.Interactingwithsiblingsismurkyterritory.NomatterhowhardItrytocontrolourarrangement,tokeepitstrictlyscheduledandorganizedandprofessional,thingslikethispopupandthreatentotangleeverythingirrevocably.
“Yougofirst,”thegirlwiththepolka-dotheadbandinstructsCaz,hereyeshard,handsfirmonherhips.Shehasthehigh,ringingvoiceofsomeonewhoisusedtohavingherway,butwhenCazraisesacooleyebrowather,shewilts.Mumbles,“Or—orwhateverworksbest.”
“Icango,Meredith,”Emilysayscheerily.Theleader,Meredith,frowns,butshedoesn’tprotest.NotwithCazandmestandinghere,disruptingthepowerdynamics.
Emilypicksuptheshuttlecockandkicksithighintotheair,withasoundlikerattlingcoins.Thegirlbesidehercatchestheobjectonitswaydownusingthetoeofhersneaker,thenbouncesitovertoMeredith,whopassesitquickly,roughly,toCaz—whoretrievesitwithease.
Hebouncestheshuttlecockbackandforthbetweentwofeet,evenhitsitwiththetopofhishead,whichdrawsinburstsofloud,enthusiasticapplause.
Andhelooks…Well,helooksridiculous.Thisisn’texactlyagraceful,dignifiedgame,andevenCazcan’tquitemanagetomaketijianzilookthewayhorseridingorarcheryorboxingdoes.Buthe’sgoodatit,insanelycoordinated,confidentdespitetheinherentridiculousnessofthisgame,andthat’smorethanenoughtoimpress.
He’ssogood,infact,thatsoonhe’sdrawnasubstantialcrowd.
Itrytokeepmyattentionontheshuttlecock,butmyskintingleswiththenew,uncomfortableawareness.Therearefartoomanypairsofeyestrainedonus.Onme.Sweatbeadsabovemybrow.
“Go,Caz!”someonecheersfromthesidelines,joinedbysomeunnecessarilyloudwhoopsandwhistles,asifthisisthefinalroundoftheOlympics.
Cazjustsmileshissuperstarsmileandcontinuespassingtheshuttlecockaroundwithoutanyhintofself-consciousness,ateaseinalltheattention.
Butwhentheshuttlecockcomesflyingtowardme,Ifumbleanddropit.AndthenIhearit:alowbutaudiblesnortfromoneofthewatchers.Therearetoomanypeoplearoundtotellwhereitcamefrom,butitdoesn’tmatter.Mywholefaceburnsasifstruckbyamatch.
Shakily,Ipicktheshuttlecockupagainandattempttokick,butitflopspatheticallytotheside,andEmilyhastoretrieveitinstead.Thistime,thesnortisn’tevenmuffled.Northeirvoice,drippingwithobviousdisbelief:
“That’sthegirlwho’sdatingCazSong?”
Itfeelslikesomeone’sreachedintomystomachandsqueezedmyinsidesintoaball.Thissortoffirst-degreehumiliationisexactlywhatIwantedtoavoid.Andeventhoughit’sirrationalandpetty,IfeelanabruptstabofangertowardCaz.Caz,who’sstillsmiling,playingtotheaudience,thesun’smolten-goldlightfallingaroundhimlikeahalo.
Ofcourseheenjoysdoingthingsonawhim.Nothingiseverembarrassingforhim
“I—I’mgoingtorestforabit,”Icallout,steppingbackintotheshade,mybloodpoundinghotandthick.Everyoneisstaring.“Youguyskeepplayingwithoutme.”
Cazshootsmeaquicklooklike,Areyousure?Emilyandherfriendsdon’tevenglanceup.
“Really.It’sfine,”Isay.
Butthey’vealreadystartedupagainanyway.
“Ilikehim.”
It’slaterthatafternoon,andEmilyandIarebalancedonthelowmetalrailingsoutsidetheschoollibrary,feetdanglinginchesofftheground,whilewewaitforLiShushutopickusup.Ourbagshavebeendroppedonthelawn,bloatedandbrimmingwithtextbooks,dirtyTupperware,laptopchargers,andmoreuselessyetmandatorythings.
Myshouldershurt.
Imassagethemwithonehand,slidebackonthepoles,lookahead.Carshavealreadystartedpullingintotheoutsideparkinglot,tintedglassandpolishedmetalgleaming,fumesrisingoffthepavementinwaves,likeheat.
“Who?”Ifinallyask,thoughIcanguess.
“Yourboyfriend,”Emilysays,tearingtheheadoffagummywormwithherteeth.Oneofherfriendsgaveheranentirepacketafterlunch.“Caz.Myfriendsreallylikehimtoo.”
“I’mnotsurprised.Everyoneloveshim.”Anembarrassing,residualnoteofbitternessfromthetijianzigametingesmyvoice.It’snotlikeit’sCaz’sfaultthathe’ssouniversallyadored.ThatwhateveritisI’mdeficientin—charm,looks,theabilitytodrawpeoplein,tomakethemstay—hehasinexcess.
Nothisfaultatall.
Andyetthebitternesslingers,liketheherbalmedicinesMaalwaysbrewsforuswhenwehaveacold.
“Doyouthinkhe’llplaywithusagaintomorrow?Orthedayafter?”
Emily’sfaceisopen,hopeful,eager.Ihavetolookaway,ignoringthesharpstoneinmystomach.ThelastthingIneedisforhertogetattachedtoCaz.EspeciallywhenIdon’tknowhowhereallyfeels—ifhewassonicebecausehereallylikesher,orjustlikeskidsingeneral,orifitwasaonetimething.Eitherway,Ishouldreallytalktohimaboutleavingmysisteroutofthis.
Morecarscrawlpastus,spittingoutsmoke.
“Idon’tknow,”Isayslowly.“Butjustdon’tgetyourhopesup,okay?Cazisreallybusywithhisshootingscheduleandendorsementsandthingsand…andtherearealotofpeoplewhowanttospendtimewithhim.”
Andwhenmyinternshipendsandhisdramapremieres,hewon’thaveanyreasontospendtimewitheitherofus.
“Oh.Okay,then.”Emilynods,disappointedbutalreadyacceptingit.
Thenshegrinsandlickstherestofthepurplegummyuntilit’sashiny,transparentcolor,thesugarytailstickingtoherfingers.
Iwrinklemynose.“That’slow-keyverygross.”
Shesticksherpurple-stainedtongueoutatme.Ipretendtopushherofftherailing,andsheshrieks,laughing.
Theparkinglotisstartingtoemptyinsteadoffillnow,studentstossingtheirbagsintobackseatsandtrunks,doorsclickingshut,tearingopenpacketsofchipsandWangWangricecrackerstosavorontheridehome.Andstill,nofamiliarcarshowsup.
It’snotthefirsttimeLiShushuhasbeenlate;hisscheduleisdividedbetweenus,Ma,andBa,andofcourseMaishisfirstpriority.Thechancesarethatshehadtorunofftoanemergencymeetingwithaclient,oroneofherconferencesgotpushedback.
ButastheminutesdragbyandEmily’ssupplyofgummywormsrunslow,Icanfeelherpatiencewaning.
“So.Tellmeaboutyourfriends,”Isay—todistracther,butalsobecauseI’mcurious.BecauseIcan’thelpwonderinghowthingswould’veturnedoutifCazandIhadn’tintervened,ifshe’dstillbeleftontheperimeterofherfriendshipcircle.It’safeelingI’mquiteusedtobutthatIdon’twantEmilytoeverexperience.
Emilysnorts.“YousoundlikeMa.”
“Yeah,butI’mpartofyourgeneration.Icanunderstandthesethings.Giveyouadvice.”
“That’swhatalloldpeoplesay.”
Ireallydoshoveherthistime—lightly,ofcourse—andsheteetersforamoment,armsflailingeverywhere,beforehookingafootaroundtherailsandregainingherbalance.
“Fine,”shehuffsout.“Whatdoyouwanttoknow?”
“Idon’tknow.Youjusthaven’ttalkedaboutthemalot.Andthisismyfirsttimeseeingyouatlunch.”
Shekicksalegout,swingingitintotheblueair,toestouchingtheclouds.“Well,Ionlystartedhangingoutwiththemrecently.”
“Whyonlyrecently?”
“Theydidn’tknowwhattothinkofme.”Thewayshesaysit,Irealizeshe’srepeatingsomethingoneofherfriendstoldher.ProbablythatMeredithgirl.AndIknowIprobablyshouldn’tbehatingonanine-year-old,butitstillmakesmeangry.
“Howcome?”Iask,myvoiceneutral.
“They…weren’tsurewhereIwasfrom.”Emily’svoiceisneutraltoo,butitgrowsquieterthemoreshetalks.“Like,therearethesegirlsinmyclasswhoonlyspeakCantonesetooneanother,andalltheirfamilieshavebeenfriendssincekindergarten.Andthenthere’sthisothergroupthat’spredominantlyAmericanandCanadian,andthey’renotreallyclosetoanyofthelocalChinesekids.They’refriendly,butnotclose.AndI’mnot…”Shescratchesatsomeinvisibleitchonherelbow.“IguessI’mnotlikeanyofthem.”
Wefallintosilence.Theparkinglotisalmostemptynow,onelong,blankstretchofgray.Stillnodriver,nofamiliarface.
“That’sahardword,”Isayafterawhile.“Predominantly.”
“We’remeanttolearntennewvocabularywordseveryweek.ForEnglish.Ialsolearnedtheworddichotomy.”
“Nice,nice.”
“Yeah.I’mnotsurewhatitactuallymeans,though.”
“You’llgetitwhenyou’reolder,”Ireassureher.“Or…oratleastyou’llgetbetteratpretendingyoudo.”
Sheblowsastraywispofhairoutofherface.“Ihopeso.MaybeI’llfindmyZoe.”
Ipause.“What?”
“Youknow,likeabestfriendwho’llalwaysbethereforme,andstickbymenomatterwhathappens.LikeyouandZoe.”
“Oh.Um,yeah.Right.”Butasliverofdoubtcreepsthroughmyvoice,andit’sthis—thedoubtitself,theimmediatesqueezeinmychest—thatworriesmealmostasmuchastheunusuallybrieftextswe’veexchangedrecently,orhowallherlatestInstagrampostsfeatureherandthatnewDivyagirlhangingouttogether,orhowshe’sstartedtaggingotherclassmatesinthoseFacebookmemesinsteadofme.I’vebeenthroughthisenoughtimeswitholdfriendsfromoldschoolstoknowhowthistendstogo.Howthosedailytextsturnintoweeklyupdatesturnintosporadiconce-a-monthcatch-upsturnintonothing.
ButthisisZoe.Theonewho’sstuckaroundlongest.Theonewhoknowsmebetterthananybody.SincewhendidIstartquestioningthestrengthofourfriendship?
Beforemythoughtscanspiralfurther,Igetbacktothepoint.“Hey,youwill…tellme,won’tyou?Ifanyoneinyourclassexcludesyou,orsayssomethingmeantoyou.”
“IfIdid,whatcouldyoudoaboutit?”
Shedoesn’tsaythisinameanway,asachallenge;moreinthisveryoffhand,matter-of-factmannerthattwistsmyheartintoknots.
“I’dpunchthem,”Idecidefirmly
“Really?”Emilyeyesmewithfaintdisbelief.“Nooffense,Jie,butyoucan’tevenhitacockroachwithoutscreaming.”
“Well,Imean,firstofall—cockroachesaredisgusting,andtheyhavenorighttomakethosecrunchingsoundswhentheydie.Andsecond,yes,really.Icoulddoit.”AndIwould.Forher
Sheconsidersthis,thenhopsontotheground,dustingsugaroffherpalms.“Okay,then.Iguess.”
Ourconversationiscutshortbytherumbleofanenginedrawingcloser,theschoolgatescreakingopentoletourdriver’scarin.Heslowsthevehiclewhenhereachesus—theonlytwostudentsleftoncampus—hisfrontwindowsrolleddown,theblastofcoldairandasnippetfromsomeChineseradiotalkshowescapingthroughthegaps.
“Sorry,”LiShushucalls,stickinghisbaldheadout.“Ihadtopickupyourmotherfromaconvention.Gotstuckintraffic.”
“It’sfine,”Icallback.AsEmilyrunsovertoheaveourschoolbagsoffthegrass,thecanvasbottomsnowstainedwithdampgreenpatchesandmudspots,Iholdthecardooropen.Holdoutmyotherhand.
“Comeon.”Inodather.“Let’sgohome.”CHAPTERTEN
Eventhoughit’sthelastthingIwanttodoafterthetijianzigame,Ishowupontimeforourfirstofficialchemistrytrainingsessionthenextday.Andasitturnsout,Cazwasn’tkiddingabouthisalternatemeansoftransportation.
“Youridethiseverywhere?”Idemand,staringatthehorse-sizedmotorcycleproppedupbythecompoundgates.ItlookslikesomethingsomeoneintheMafiawouldride,orsomethingaforty-seven-year-oldbillionairemightbuytokeepupwiththetimes.Mostofthevehicleiscoatedapure,glossyblack,fromthewheelstotheleatherseats,butwithfire-redstreaksrunningdownthesides.HardlythekindoftransportationIexpectedtoseefirstthingonaSaturdaymorning,orthatIhadinmindwhenCaztextedmeaboutvisitinghisfavoritejianbingstall.
“Beautiful,don’tyouthink?”Cazasks—arhetoricalquestion,clearly.Imean,he’sstrokingtheseatswithmoreaffectionthanI’veseenhimshowanybody,includinghiscostarsinsuper-intimatescenes.
Istareathim,hiswinningsmile,hiscasualstance.Unlikeme,hedoesn’tseemtorememberthehumiliatinggameatall.Whichisjusttypicalofhim,really—ofus.Him,goingabouthisdaywithoutacareintheworld,whileIgettositaroundandoverthinkmyeveryexchangewithhimandwonderwhythingsdon’tevercomesoeasilytome.
“Wow,”IsayflatlyasItakeatentativestepclosertotheleathery,monstrousthing.It’ssomehoweventallerthanIoriginallythought.
“What?”
“You’re…notthekindofguywhonameshismotorcycles,right?Andreferstoitasshe?”WhenCazdoesn’treplyrightaway,justlaughsandrollshiseyes,Ifoldmyarmsacrossmychest.Myhorrorisexaggerated,butnotfake.“Youare,aren’tyou?”
Heclimbsswiftly,easilyontotheseat,browsraisedatme.“Wouldthatbeahugedealbreakerforyou?”
“Yes,I’mafraidthatalonewouldbesolidgroundsformetobreakupwithyou.EspeciallyifthenameissomethinglikeBlackBeauty.OrRebecca.”
“Youwouldn’t,”heteases,chuckingmeoneofthetwomotorcyclehelmetsdanglingfromthehandlebars.“Youlikemetoomuch.”
Idon’tknowwhatannoysmemore:thearrogantassumptionofit,orthewaymyfaceburstsintoflames,tokeepmyfeelingsincheck.Strictlybusiness,remember?Isqueezeonthehelmetasfastasmyfumblingfingerswillallow,ifonlytoavoidhisgaze.
ImovebehindCazandhoistmyselfontotheseatinwhatmustbetheleastgracefulwaypossible,allbutkneeinghiminthebackasIforcemylegsdownonbothsides.“Thanksforthetipaboutwearingpants,”Itellhim,myvoicecomingoutslightlymuffledthroughthefaceshield.“Ithoughtyouwerejusttraumatizedbythelengthofmydresslasttime.”
Hisheadturnsafractiontowardme.“Eliza.Ifitweren’tforthematterofpracticality,youcouldliterallycomedressedinatrashbagandIwouldn’tcare.”
“Areyousureyourreputationcouldwithstandthat?”Itrytoplayitoffasajoke,butanoldnoteofbitternessedgesmyvoice.Already,fanshavestartedsharingphotosofustogetherandanalyzingbothhisdressstyleandmine.Theniceroneshavelabeledmyoutfits“down-to-earth”and“comfortable”and“youthcasual.”Thenot-so-niceoneshaveurgedmetoconsultCazSong’sstylist.
MaybeCazsawthosecommentstoo,ormaybehehearstheiceinmyvoice,becauseinsteadofanswering,he’squietforamoment.
Thenhestartstheengine,andathousandloud,violenttremorsrollthroughthesteelframe,almostbouncingmeoff.
“Holdtight,”hewarns.
Idoatonce,wrappingmyarmsinaviselikegriparoundhisstomachandpressingmyfacebetweenthesharpbladesofhisshoulders.Thisclose,IcanfeeltheheatofhisskinthroughhisT-shirt,thewayhismusclescontractbeneathmyfingertips.
Hemakesachokingsound.“Holysh—notthattight—”
“Idon’twanttofalloff,”Iprotest,butIloosenmyholdjustalittle,enoughtolethimbreathe.
“Youwon’tfall,”hesays,likethenotionitselfisridiculous.“Iwon’tletyou.”
Amazingly,hekeepshisword.
Westartoffataslow,steadycrawlacrossthestreet,myhandsstillclaspedtightoverCaz’sfront,ourshadowstrailingbehindus,growinglarger,sharperasweleavetheshadeofthecompoundgates.Twice,Cazturnsaround,checkingwhetherornotI’mokay.
WhenInod,heshiftsgears,andwestartspeedingup,thelandscaperisingtogreetus—
Andit’sbeautiful.
Allofit.
SinceCazhastoshootthisafternoon,thehourisstillfairlyearly,theskythepaleblueofaroughwatercolorpainting.Beijinglooksdifferentatthistime.Morepeaceful,somehow.Theclean-pavedstreetsandlanesareemptysaveforacoupleofrustedoldrickshawsandafewelderlymenswingingbirdsinbamboocages,hummingintothehazyair.
Weflypastthemdowntheroad,thegreenoftreesandgleamofcarsbleedingallaroundus,shapesandbacklitsilhouettesmeltingtogether.
Sothisiswhatitfeelslike,ImarvelasItiltmyfacetowardthesun,lettingthegold-honeylightwashsoftoverme,andcatchsightofmyownreflectionintheside-viewmirror.Myfaceisbrightwithopen-mouthedlaughter,myeyescreased,shirtripplinginthewind.Ilookyoung.Deliriouslyhappy.Ialmostdon’trecognizemyself.
Thisishowitfeelstobeanordinaryteenager.
Tobeunafraid.
Suddenly,myangerfrombeforefeelslikeasmallanddistantthing.
We’resomewheredeepinthecitywhenCazslowsthevehicletoastopandletsitrestonthesideofanarrowstreet.Hejumpsdownfirst,freeinghiswindswept,movie-starhairfromhishelmet,thenhelpsmetotheground.
Iwobbleforamoment,stillshakyfromleftoveradrenaline,kneesweakfromgrippingontotheseattootightly,beforesteadyingmyselfagainstanearbystreetlight.It’sarelieftotakethecrushingweightofthehelmetoff,tofeelthefreshairfanningmycheeks—
Caztakesonelookatmeandburstsoutlaughing.
Ifreeze,self-consciousandalittlestunned,becauseIcan’trecallseeingCazlaughlikethisbefore:headthrownbackanddimplessodeeptheylookcarved-in.
Thenhesays,“Eliza.Yourhair.”
“What?”
Myhandsreachinstinctivelyforthetopofmyhead,andI’mhorrifiedtofindmyhairsticking…up.Allthewayup,asifI’vebeenshockedwithelectricity.
Perfect.Justperfect.
Iscowltohidemyembarrassmentandquicklysmoothmyhairbackdowninafewvigorouspats,thenglareathim.“Don’tsayanotherword.”
“Comeon,itdidn’tlookthatbad.It’sactuallyquitestylish—”
“Don’t.”
Hebitesdownonanotherlaughandmimeszippinghislips,throwingawaythekey,thefullcharade,andstartsleadingmedownthestreet.
“So,”Isayafteramoment,alltheaweandadrenalinefromthemotorcycleridegone,andthewordsthathavebeenbrewinginsidemethepasttwenty-fourhoursfinallybubblinguptomytongue.“Weshouldprobablytalkaboutyesterday.”
“Whataboutyesterday?”
Hesoundsgenuinelyconfused,whichonlyprovesmyworstsuspicionscorrect.Hedoesn’tcareaboutthesethingsthewayIdo.Hedoesn’thavetoworryaboutgettinghurt,abouttheconsequencesofhisactions,howonecarelesssmileandafewfakenicewordsfromhimcouldbringsomeoneelsetototalemotionalruin.
“Mysister,”Igritout.“Youplayingwithherandherfriends.Whatwasthat?”
Heskidstoahalt.“Whoa,holdup.Isthatwhyyou’vebeengrumpyallmorning?BecauseIwasbeingnicetoyourlittlesister?”
Thewayhephrasesit—thejudgmentinhistone,asifI’mbeingdifficultonpurpose—makesmybloodboil.“I’mnotgrumpy,”Isnap,walkingrightpasthim.
Hecatchesuptomeinaheartbeat.“Yeah,no,ofcourse.Becauserightnowyourtoneandexpressionaresogentle.Verypeaceful.Notatalllikeyou’refantasizingaboutstranglingme.”
Notstrangling,I’mtemptedtocorrecthim.Justthrowingmyfistintoyourface.
“Ijust—”Ireleasealoudpuffofairthroughmyteeth.“Weshouldn’tgetourfamiliesinvolved,okay?It’stoomessy.Idon’twantmyownsistertobecomecollateraldamagewhenwebreakup.”
Iwaitforsomesnarkyremark,butwhenhelooksatme,hisexpressionisuncharacteristicallyserious.Evenalittlesheepish.“Sorry,”hesays,surprisingme.“IguessIwasn’tthinkingaboutitlikethat.”
“Ofcourseyouweren’t,”Imutter
“Hey,listen.Ifitmattersthatmuchtoyou—Iwon’tdoitagain,okay?”
Myangerweakensslightly,thoughmydistrusttowardhimholds.“Youbetternot,”Iwarn,jabbingafingerathim.
Hestaresdownatmyoutstretchedfinger,thenbackupatme,andamuchmorefamiliar—andkickable—lookofamusementsprawlsitselfacrosshisfeatures.“Hasanyoneevertoldyouthatyoucanbeprettyscarysometimes?”
Imakeapointofwalkingstraightaheadwithoutreplying.
Thejianbingplaceisnestledbetweenalocalkindergarten,ahalf-emptyparkinglot,andwhatlookslikeanout-of-businesstextbookstore.Twoscrawny,sunburntmenintheirlatetwentiesaremanningthestall,theirforeheadsshinywithsweatfromsomecombinationofthesummerheat,theburninggrill,andtheiruniforms:Bothhaveonapronsandplasticsleevesovertheirloosewhitetanktops.
They’rejustfinishingupwithayoungmother’sorderwhenweapproachfromthesidewalk.
“Twojianbings,please,”Cazordersinperfect,localChinese,thenglancesoveratmeandswitchestoEnglish.“Doyouwantadrink?Soybeanmilk?Water?Icedtea?”
I’mstillbusytryingtogetmyhairtostayflat.Ipauseatthequestion,alittleflustered,andreply,“Uh,soybeanmilkwouldbegood.Thanks.”
“Sure.”CazturnsaroundandeasessmoothlyintoChineseagain.“Thenwe’lljusthaveonemediumcupofsoybeanmilk,sweetened.”
Thetwomenshootuscuriouslooks,buttheydon’tsayanything.Theyjustnodandgettowork.
Mostoftheingredientshavealreadybeenlaidoutoverthestand,readyforuseatanymoment:acartonhalffilledwitheggs;giantjarsofblackbeansauceandredbeancurdandchilioil;aplasticbowlofdoughandcontainersbrimmingwithfreshvegetables.
Iwatchasoneofthechefsspreadsthestickydoughoverthecirculargrillinonesmooth,rollingmotion,untilit’sbeenstretchedoutpaper-thinallthewaytotheedges.Herepeatstheprocesswithtwocrackedeggs,thewhitessizzlinginstantlyuponcontactwiththehotmetal,thetwoyolksslidingtothecenterliketwinsuns.
Withinseconds,thedoughturnsabaked,crispgold.Scallionsandcutcorianderarescatteredontothesurfacenext,followedbyporkflossandathickbeancurdpasteandfat,frieddoughsticks.Thesavoryscentwaftsintotheair,mingleswiththesmokefromthegrill.
Theothermantakesoverwiththepackaging,cuttingthecookedjianbingintotwoandslidingthemintoasmalldisposablebag,thesteamquicklyfogginguptheclearplastic.Then,withoutaword,heextendsthebagtowardus.
Caznodsatme.“Youfirst.”
IfMaorBawerehere,they’dprobablyinsistthatIdotheback-and-forthyou-first-no-you-firstthinguntiloneofusrunsoutofbreathordiesfromover-politeness.Butsincethechef’sstillholdingoutthebag,andthejianbingreallydoessmellinsanelygood,Ijustsay,“Yousure?”
Cazsomehowmanagestosmileandrollhiseyesatthesametime.“Eliza.Justtakeit.”
SoIdo.Thebagissohotithurtsmyfingers,andIendupdoingthatlaughablelittledancewhereIpassitbetweenbothhandsreallyfasttoavoidgettingburned.
“Um,xiexie,”Itellthechef,who’sstilllookingatmefunny.
Heexchangesaglancewiththeotherchef,andbothofthemshaketheirheadsandlaugh.Thenhesayssomethingback,buthisregionalaccentissostrong—or,moreaccuratelyspeaking,myChineseskillsaresolimited—thatIcan’tmakeoutasinglewordbeyondcan.Whichsoundstheexactsameasmeeting,bribery,clever,andaboutfiftyotherwordsinChinese.
Sobasicallyhecouldbesayinganything.
IturntoCazforhelp.
Hisexpressionisunreadable,buthetranslatesrightaway.“Hesayshe’ssurprisedyouknowhowtosaythankyou.”
“Oh.”Iglancebackatthechefs,unsurewhattomakeofthecomment.It’shardlyacompliment,butmaybeI’mjustbeingoversensitive.Maybetheydidn’tmeanitinabadway…
Thentheotherchefcrosseshisarmsandasks,“Nihaishizhongguorenma?”
Thistime,Iunderstandthefullsentence:AreyouevenChinese?
Myfaceburns.SuddenlyI’mnotsohungryanymore.
Cazclearshisthroatbesideme.“Hesaid—”
“Yeah,I—Iknowwhathesaid.”There’sanembarrassingcrackinmyvoice,theedgeofsomethingraw,andIhavetolookawayfromeveryone.Staredownatapieceofoldchewinggumstucktotheroadinstead.Itdoesn’tevenmakesenseformetogetsoworkedupaboutthisoneoffhandquestion…
ExceptI’vehearditbefore,somanytimes.Everypossibleversionofit:AreyouAmerican?British?Areyoufromaroundhere?AreyouactuallyChinese?
Idon’tknow.Sometimesitjustgetsreallyexhaustinghavingtoexplainyouridentitytoeveryone.
Afterwe’vepickedupbothourorders,CazandIwalkinsilenceforawhile,headingtonowhere.Iknowwe’resupposedtobespendingthistimelearningabouteachother,butneitherofusseemstoknowwhattosay.Willowtreesreachoutfromonesideofthestreetandabreezesingsitssoftsongthroughthedrippingleaves.Thesunhasedgedhigheruptheskynow,andit’sallblue,everywhere,starkblueandthequietbetweenus.
Cazbreaksitfirst.“Idoubthemeantitthatway—”
“It’sfine,Caz,”Isay,withasadattemptatalaugh.“Wereallydon’thavetotalkaboutthis.Imean,there’snotevenanythingtotalkabout.”
“Well,you’reclearlyupset.”
“I’mnot—”
“Youare.You’remakingthatfaceagain.”Andheactuallystopshalfwaydownthestreet,jutshischinoutandbiteshislowerlipinanimpressionofmethat’sasaggravatingasitisfreakishlyaccurate.
Iholdupahandtoblockhimfromview.“Idon’tlooklikethatatall,”Ilie.Then,whenitbecomesapparentheisn’tbuyingit:“Whatever.Youwouldn’tunderstandanyway.”
“Whynot?”hechallenges.
Istopinmytrackstoo.“Whynot?Areyouserious?”
“Ofcourse,”hesaysevenly,hisdarkeyessteadyonme.
“Caz.Thisisn’t—Youdon’thavethesetypesofproblems,okay?”Thewordscomeouttooquick,toohonest,abitter,breathlessrush.“Youbelongeverywhere.You’rewelcomeanywhere.Whetherit’sontheredcarpetorinasillychildren’sgameorintheschoolcafeteria.Youalwaysfitinperfectly,withouttrying,and—it’sjustnotlikethatwithme.”
Isensehissurprise,andIimmediatelywishIhadn’tsaidanythingatall.WhatisitaboutCazSongthatmakesmebothwanttoopenupanddrawaten-foot-thickbarrieraroundme?
“Maybethat’strueatschool,”hesaysfinally,jawtight.“Butsometimes,inmyownhome…”Andhestops.It’slikethatmomentintheparkagain:Heseemstobebattlinghimselfonsomething,likeaboyteeteringontheedgeofavastpool,unsureifit’ssafeenoughtodivein.Allthistime,andhestillrevealssolittleofhimselfwillingly.“SometimesIfeelthatwaytoo”iswhathesettlesonintheend.Ahalfanswer;acompromise;onefootsuspendedinmidair,theothersetfirmontheground.AsuggestionthattheremightbemoretohimthanI’vegivenhimcreditfor.
Theprecarioustrucestretchesbetweenus.
ItakeabiteofmyjianbingandIdon’ttasteanythingatfirst,justscalding,tongue-numbingheat,butthenthesavorybeancurdflavorfillsmymouthandthescentoffriedoilbringsbacksomeofmyappetite.Somethinginmesoftens.
“It’sgood,”Itellhimreluctantly.
“Good,”hesays.
Webothsitdownonthecurbandeatourbreakfastandwatchthecitycometolife.Itisgood,Iguess,despiteeverything.Livinghere.BeingherewithCaz.EvenifBeijingdoesn’tfullyfeellikemineyet,momentslikethisstillgivemehopethatoneday,itcouldbe.
I’mpulledfrommythoughtsasCazdissolvesintoaloudcoughingfit.
Andthemelodramaticpartofmybrainprogrammedtoassumetheworstofeverythinginstantlythinks:Ohgod.Thisisit.He’sgoingtotellmehe’ssufferingfromsomekindofchronicconditionandhe’sbeenkeepingitasecretthiswholetimebecausehedoesn’twantanyonetoworrybutheonlyhastwomonthslefttolive.We’regoingtoendupinadepressingmoviemontageofhislastdayswithmeandthere’sgoingtobeabunchofblood-coloredsunsetsandslowwalksbythebeachandonedayhe’lljustcollapsebeforemyeyesand—
“Sorry,”Cazsays,wincingslightly.Heholdsuphisjianbing.“It’s—theydon’tusuallyputchiliinthis—”
Myheartslowsdown,andmypanicfades.
“Wait.Youcan’teatanythingspicy?”
“OfcourseIcan,”hegrumbles,buthischeeksareafewshadestoored,andhedoesn’tmakeanymovetotouchhisfoodagain.
“Ohmygod.”It’ssounexpectedthatthelastofmyangerfromearlierdissipates,andIlaugh.OnceIstart,Ican’tstop.Mywholebodyshakeswithill-suppressedgigglesuntilI’mnearlydoubledoveronthecurb.“Ohmygod.Thisisamazing.”
“How?”hesaysflatly.“Whatcouldpossiblybeamazingaboutthis?”
“Just—outofallthings,”Ichokeoutthroughmyhysteria.“Imean,youwereabletocompleteabunchofstuntswithabrokenarmandbearthepainbutyoucan’thandleabitofspice?”
Hescowlsatme,thoughIcantellhedoesn’treallymeanit.“Therewasalotinthere,okay?Atleasttwowholechilies—”
“Ohmygod,stop—”Iclutchatmystomach,laughingharder.“Stop—sorry.Ican’t.Iseriouslycan’t.”
“I’mgladyoufindmysensitivetastebudssohilarious.”
“Okay,okay,I’ll—Letmejustgetagrip…”ItakeadeepbreathlikeI’mabouttomeditatewhileCazwatchesme,unimpressed,butthatonlysetsmeoffagain.Idon’tevenknowwhat’ssofunnyaboutthis.Ormaybeit’snotthatfunny—maybeI’mjusthappy,eventhoughthatmakesnosense.WhenI’vefinallycalmeddownenoughtoformfullsentences,Iholdoutmyownjianbinginoffering.“Wecanswap,ifyouwant.Ipromisethere’szerochiliinmine.”
TheweepingwillowaboveourheadsswaysasItalk,itsleavesscratchingmycheek.
Cazbatsthebranchesawayfrommeandtiltshishead,assessing.“Yousurethisisn’tsomekindofsetup?Youhaven’tpoisoneditoranything?”
“Iswear.Though,Imean,I’vealreadytakenafewbitesoutofit,ifyoudon’tmind…”Andsuddenlyit’sawkward;Icanfeelitintheair.I’vemadethingsawkward.LikeIalwaysdo.
ButCazrecoversquickly.Hegrabsmyjianbingfrommelikeit’snobigdealandsmilesalittleandtellsme,“We’llgosomewherethatservesmilderfoodnexttime.”
“Nexttime,”Irepeat,surprisedtofindthattheideaofthesechemistrytrainingsessionsdoesn’tfillmewithquiteasmuchdreadasitdidbefore.CHAPTERELEVEN
Schoolisdifferentnow.
Better,inaway.Idon’tfindmyselfdreadingthecarridestoschoolsomuchIfeelphysicallysickanymore,don’thavetohoverawkwardlyatthedoorwayofclassroomsasmuchasbefore.It’snotlikeI’msuperpopularallofasudden—Istilleatallmylunchesaloneontherooftop—butpeopleseemtohavefinallyacceptedmypresence.
I’mnotnaiveenoughtoimaginethisisn’tpartlybecauseI’mwithCazSong.ButanotherpartofitalsohastodowithmyCraneswiftblogposts.
Myfollowershavebeengrowingrapidly,climbingbyanextrafewthousandalmosteveryday,thenumberoflikesandsharesrisingwiththem.It’sasexhilaratingasitisterrifying.
ThekindofloveI’mprayingfor,girlshavecommentedunderoneofmyrecentposts,“WeDancebeneaththeStreetlights,KissbeneaththeMoonlight,”wherethefictional-boyfriendversionofCazSongandIstayouttogetherinourcompoundatmidnight.
Thisisproofthatloveexists,othershavegushedoveranotherpostaboutusridingthroughthecitytogether,aboutseeingBeijingfromthebackofCazSong’smotorcycle,titledsimply“HeSwearsHeWon’tLetMeFall.”
AndwhenI’mnotdescribingourdates,ourfakecuteinteractions,orslylymakingreferencestoCazSong’supcomingdramatohelpdrumupinterest,Ifindmyselfintheveryundeservedpositionofdishingoutloveadvice.It’simportanttobeemotionallyhonest,Iwriteinonearticle,tastingthesharpironyofmyownwords.Don’tbeafraidofvulnerability.Or,inanotherarticlefortheLoveandRelationshipscolumn:Iknowthere’sthispopularmindsetof“I’mstrongandindependentandIdon’tneedanyone,”butthetruthis:Wedoneedpeople.Peoplewho’lllaughwithusandcrywithusandmakethebaddaysbearableandthegooddaysbetter;peoplewho’llrememberwhatweforgetandlistenevenwhentheydon’tcompletelyunderstand;peoplewho’llneedusback.Ithasnothingtodowithstrengthatall,andevery-thingtodowithbeinghuman.
Ofcourse,SarahDiaziscompletelyecstaticabouthowthingsaregoing.
“Peopleloveit,”shegushesoverourfortnightlycatch-upcall.“Peopleareinvested.That’sabigdeal,youknow?YourlastblogpostaboutthosesnackstallsyouandCazvisited—socute,bytheway,andthephotoshadmedrooling—justhitfortythousandviews.”
“Iknow,”Isay,thenflush,becauseitsoundsridiculouslycocky,whichisn’twhatImeantatall.“Imean,um.Thankyou.”
Shedismissesmyawkwardnesswithaneasylaugh.“Oh,thatremindsme,Eliza—howdoyoufeelaboutdoinganinterview?”
“An…interview?”
“Yes.Aninterview.”SarahisfarmorepatientwithmethanIdeserve.“Iknowyou’veprobablyreceivedafewinvitationsalready,butthisonewassentstraighttousatCraneswift.It’swiththisprettybigBeijing-basedmediacompanyaimedatWesternaudiences,sothelocationandlanguageshouldn’tbeaproblem.Andtheywereverycomplimentaryintheiremail.Icantellthey’rehighlyinterestedinyourbackground,andthey’dloveforyouandCaztomakeanappearancetogether.”
“Really,”Isayvaguely,mymindstillcatchinguptoeverythingshejustsaid.
“Sowhatdoyouthink?”sheprompts.BeforeIcanrespond,shehurrieson.“Iknowit’sabitofalot.Butthinkoftheexposure.Thiswilldowondersforyourcareer,Eliza,Icanjustfeelit.”
That’sanunderstatement.It’salotofalot.Andsometimes,attimeslikethis,whenIbecomepainfullyawareofthesheermagnitudeofmylie,thespeedatwhicheverythingishappening,hurtlingforwardwithoutbrakes,mylungsseemtoshrinkandIhaveavivid,half-hystericalimageofbeingthrownintojailandgettingkickedoutofschoolandputonsomepermanentliteraryblacklistformakingmyessayup—
Butno—breathe.Breathe.Itrytobreathe.
NoonehassuspectedanythingaboutmylovestorywithCazyet.Imean,we’vehadahandfulofchemistrytrainingsessionssofarandtheyseemtobeworkingprettywell,andIhaven’taccidentallyslappedhimagainoranything.
Still…
“Thatsounds…interesting,”Isay,fumblingaroundforasaferouteoutofthisconversation.“Ican—yeah,no,Icanprobablydothat.”
SomethingcrashesinthebackgroundonSarah’send.
“Sorry.”Sarah’svoicesoundssmaller,muffled,likeshe’sholdingthephonebetweenherearandshoulder.IthinkIheartheclatterofwoodandaveryquietlyutteredexpletive.“A—apaintingofJesusjustfelltothegroundforsomereason.Weird.”
IfIwereevenkindofreligious,I’ddefinitelyseethisasabadomen.
“Anyway,whatwereyousayingabouttheinterview?”Hervoicegrowslouderagain,revertingtoitsnormalcheerytone.
“No,it’sjustthat…I—I’llhavetoaskCaz,”Itellher,knowingthatIwon’t.“Andreally…thinkaboutitmore.Woulditbeokaytogiveyouananswersometimelater?”
“Sure,Eliza.”ButIcanhearherdisappointment,howeverwelldisguised.“Idon’twantyoutocommittoanythingyou’renotcomfortablewith.”
AlittletoolateforthatisallIcanthinkasIhangup,mystomachheavyasstone.
Prettysoonitbecomesclearthattheinterviewistheleastpressingofmyconcerns.
BecausethreedaysbeforeCazSong’seighteenthbirthday,IrealizeIstillhavenoideawhattogethim.Imean,I’msurethere’splentyofadviceoutthereonappropriategiftstobuyatdifferentstagesinarelationship,butnoonlinemagazinescomewithaguideforwhattogiveyourboyfriendwhenyou’reonlyfake-dating.
Itdoesn’thelpthatthisistheCazSongwe’retalkingabout.Whatareyousupposedtogiveaboywhoalreadyhasthewholeworld?
I’msodesperateforanswersthatIendupconsultingEmilylaterthatnight—thenregretitalmostinstantly.
“Youhavecometotherightplace,”Emilyreassuresme,butitsoundsmorelikeThesewillbethemostpainfulminutesofyourlife.
We’rebothsittingaroundthediningtable,agiantbowlofbrightyellowdicedmangoesandslicedstrawberriessetbetweenus,twofruitforkslaidtotheside.Ma’soffintheotherroomcallingKevinfrommarketingagain(everynowandthen,youcanhearhersighandsaysomethinglikeNo,apoolpartywouldmostdefinitelynotbeappropriate—yes,evenifweweretoprintthecompanylogoonallthebeachballs,Kevin!)andBa’sbusypreparinghisnotesforapoetryreadingatsomeprestigiousuniversitytomorrow.
“Iwillmakesureyoucreatethegreatestgiftofalltime,”Emilycontinuesdramatically,slammingonetinyfistdownonthetable.“Anyonewhohaseverhadaboyfriendbeforewillweepinshame.Theywillhavenochoicebuttobowbeforeyouand—”
“Yeah,uh,thatwon’tbenecessary.”Iclearmythroat.“Ijustneed,like,apassableidea.Itdoesn’thavetobethatgood.”
“Wow.”Emily’sbeenusingsarcasmalotthesedays.Ithinkshe’sstartingtoenterherteenagephase.“Cazissoluckytobedatingyou.”
Irollmyeyesandstabmyforkintoacubeofmango.“Yeah,whatever.Justgivemesomeideas.”
Inresponse,shestealsthemangofrommewiththeotherfork.
“Hey—”
“I’mthinking,”shetellsmebetweenloudchews.It’snotoftenthatIaskforheradviceonanything,andshe’sobviouslyenjoyingthisalittletoomuch.
“Canyouthinkfaster?Ionlyhavethreedaystosortthisout.”
“Well,that’sonyou,”shesays,whichisannoyingbutunfortunatelytrue.
I’veneverbeenthetypetoprocrastinateonschoolworkorwhatever,butIdohaveabadtendencytoavoidanythingIfinduncomfortable.WhenwehadtoleavemyoldschoolinLondon,ImeanttopersonallytellmyEnglishteacherthatweweremoving.ButIknewthatshereallylikedme,andthatshe’dcryatthenewsrightinfrontofmeanddeliveradramaticfarewellspeech,andthewholeimaginaryscenariomademefeelsoawkwardIendedupputtingitoffuntilwe’dboardedtheplane,bywhichpointitwasofcoursetoolatetosayanything.SheprobablythinksI’mdeadnow,havingjuststoppedgoingtoschooloneday.Ormaybeinacoma.
Ifawkwardnesscouldbeafatalflaw,itwouldmostdefinitelybemine.
“Hey,whataboutaloveletter?”Emilysuggests,hereyeslightingup.“It’dbesosweet,justlikeintheoldendays—youknow,liketheearly2000s!Andyoucouldwriteabout—”
“No.”Ishakemyheadbeforeshecanevenfinishthesentence.“Nope.Noway.”ThemerememoryofCazreadingmyessayoutloudinthejanitor’sclosetstillmakesmecringesohardmybackmusclesspasm.Aletteraddressedtohimwouldbeevenmoreintimate,andathousandtimesmoreembarrassing.Besides,whatwouldIevenwrite?DearestCaz,rosesarered,violetsareblue,we’renotactuallydating,buthappybirthdaytoyou…
“Well,howaboutascrapbook,then?Ofallyourcutestmomentstogether?”Emilysays,undeterred,poppingtwomorepiecesofmangointohermouth.“Oraphotocollage,withromanticquotes?”
Igrimace.“Doyouhaveanygiftideasthataren’tso,um…personal?”
“Butthat’sthewholepointofbirthdaygifts,”sheprotests.
It’shardtoarguewiththat,soIgoforahalflieinstead.“Ijustfeellikewe’renotatthatstageintherelationshipyet.”
“No,you’reright,”sheagreesseriously.“Youshouldsavethoseideasforyourone-yearanniversary.Oryourwedding.”
Ialmostchoke.EventhoughIknow—atleastIhope—she’shalfkidding,it’sstillalittleworryingthatshe’devenentertainthepossibilityofusstayingtogetherthatlong.Cazshouldholdnoplaceinmyfuture,andmostcertainlynotmyfamily’s.
Yetanotherreasonwhythiswholefakelovestorythingisamess.
“Wait,I’vegotit!”Emilyjabsherforkhighintotheair,thenatme,whichfeelsvaguelythreatening.“Youshouldgivehimpapercranes.”
“Like,origami?”
“Mhm.”Shenodsfast,herpigtailsbouncingallovertheplace.“IsawaYouTubevideoaboutagirlwhomadethemforherboyfriend.Shefoldedacraneforeverydaythey’dbeentogether,andsheincludedacomplimentinsideeachoneforhimtoread.”
“Isee…”Itdoesn’tactuallysoundlikeabadidea.Exceptforonething.“I’mnotwritingdowncomplimentsforCaz,though.Hisconfidencedoesn’tneedanymoreboosting.”ButmaybeIcanwritehimsomethingelse.
Emilyshrugs.“Well,justrememberyou’dneedtofoldalotofcranes.”
“Yeah.”Idoaroughcalculationinmyheadofallthedayswe’vebeentogether.“Aroundeighty.”
Shepauses.Frownsatme.“Hangon.Haven’tyouguysbeengoingoutsince,like,June?”
Crap.
“Oh,Imean…”Thinkfast.Iforcemyfeaturestoremainneutral,freeofthepanicbuzzinginmyveins.“It’sbeeneightydayssincewe,like,officiallygottogether.Inpublic.”
Isearchoutofthecornerofmyeyeforanysignthatshedoesn’tbuythisexplanation,butshenods,trustingme.Ofcourseshetrustsme,andsomehowthatmakesmefeelworse.
Still.Nopointdwellingonthatnow
IspendtherestoftheeveningwatchingpapercranetutorialsonYouTubeandtryingtofollowthemstep-by-step.Ittakesafewdozentries,andIhavetostealsomecoloredpaperfromEmily’sdesk,butbymidnight,Igetthehangofit.
There’ssomethingalmosttherapeuticaboutthesimple,repetitivemotions,workingaloneinthepeaceofmyroomatnight,smoothingoutthethinsquaresofpaperagainandagainundermypalms,mySpotifyplaylistonloopinthebackground,theplaylistZoeandImadetogetherbeforeIleft,withallourfavoriteartists:TaylorSwiftandJayChouandBTS.
AsIdo,IthinkaboutCaz.Smug,vain,infuriatingCaz,whosomehowkeepsmanagingtosurpriseme.Whoagreedtomybizarreproposal,andistheonlyreasonI’vemadeitthisfarwithoutgettingcaughtinmylie.Who’sfunnierthanmostpeoplerealize,andsweeterthanIcould’veevergivenhimcreditfor.Anddespitemybestintentionstoholdhimatarm’slength,despiteknowingallthiswillendinamatterofmonths,Ican’thelpfeeling…lucky.Afterall,howmanypeopleinthisworldcansaythey’veseenwhatCazSongisreallylikebehindthescenes?
SowhenI’vefinishedfolding,Iwriteasmall,quietwishoneachdelicatepapercrane:
Ihopeyoualwayscatchyourtrainintime.
Ihopeyourbirthdayalwaysfallsonaweekendorholiday.
Ihopeyoulandeveryroleyouauditionfor.
Ihopeyouhaveanumbrellawithyouwheneveritrains.
Ihopeyoualwayssnatchupthelastbagofyourfavoritesnack.
Ihopeyoualwaysgetthewindowseat.
BythetimeIgettothelastcrane,myalarmclockisflashing.Sixa.m.I’mexhaustedandnearlyoutofideas,andmaybeit’sbecauseofthisthatIletthetruthslipoutontothepage.
Ihopeyouremembertomissmewhenallthisisover.
???
OnthemorningofCaz’sbirthday,Igetupafewhoursearlytobakehimacake.
ThisturnsouttobemuchharderthanIexpected.Somehow,eventhoughI’vefollowedeverysingleinstructionwrittenonthisrandommother’sbakingblog—whichIfindonlyafterathree-paragraph-longintroductionabouthersonbeingapickyeater—thecakecomesoutallweirdandmushyanddistinctlyorange.Iwaitawhileinthedim,quietkitchen,hopingitmightlookbetteronceit’scooled,butitonlystartsshrinkingandwrinklingattheedgeslikeasadpieceofdriedfruit.
Zoeisn’tmuchhelpeither.
“Isit…meanttobethatcolor?”sheasks,squintingthroughthescreen.I’veproppedmyphoneuponthecounterbesidethedirtywhisksandleftoverbowlsofbattertogiveheraclearviewofthefinishedproduct.ShewasoriginallygoingtocallbeforeshehadlunchandofferadvicewhileIbaked,butshegotheldupbyalast-minuteassignmentdueatmidday.
“Maybeit’sbecauseofthelighting,”Isayhopefully.
“Maybe,”sheplaysalong.
Webothstudythewitheringcakeforabeat.ThenIsigh,wipemyflour-coveredhandsagainstmyapron,andyankopenthefridgedooragain.“Nevermind.I’lljust—I’lltryagain.Wouldn’twanttogivehimfoodpoisoningforhisbirthday.”
“Right,right.Chineseingredientsandallthat.”
Myfingersfreezeovertheeggcarton.Myheadjerksup.“Wait.What?”
“What?”shesaysback,equallyconfused.
ButIunderstandfasterthanshedoes.“Iwastalkingaboutmybakingskills,notthelocalingredients,”Isay,andthesharp,defensiveedgeinmyownvoicecatchesmeoffguard.
“Oh.”Zoeclearsherthroat,lookinguncomfortable.“Well,Ionlymeant…Imean,IwasreadingthisarticletheotherdayabouthowtheyusegutteroiltocookfoodinBeijing,whichlow-keyseemshorrifyingandkindofunhygienic,and…”
“Andyouimmediatelyassumedthere’sgutteroilineverythingweeathere?”Iask.
“No,I—Idon’t—”Zoeshakesherhead.Staresatme.“I’mconfused.Whyareyougettingsoupset?”
Iopenmymouth,thencloseit.BecauseIdon’tknowhowtoexplaintoherwhatI’mmadabout,whyIfeelso…territorial.Onlytheotherweek,IhadaskedMaifthefrieddoughsticksweboughtoffthesideofthestreetweresafetoeat,andImyselfhavedefinitelyheardrumorsofplacesusingalready-usedoiltocook,evenbeenwarnedaboutitbylocals.Maybethatmakesmeahypocrite.
Butmaybeit’sthesameirrationallogicthatapplieswhensomeoneinsultsyourfamily;IcancomplainaboutEmilystealingmyfoodorhoggingthebathroomallIlike,forinstance,butI’dfightanyonewhosaysasinglebadwordabouther.MaybelisteningtoZoetalkaboutBeijinglikethatfeelspainfullypersonalbecauseitis.Becausethecityisn’therstoinsult.
Which,ofcourse,begsthequestion:WhendidBeijingbecomeminetodefend?
“Eliza?”Zoeprompts,theuncertaintyinherfeaturesenlargedonmyphonescreen.“Areyouokay?”
Someofmyinitialangerloosens.Enoughformetothinkclearly.It’spossibleI’mbeingtooharshonher,andeitherway,there’snoreasontogetintoamassivefightoverthisonething,especiallywhenwehaven’thadachancetotalkinsolong.Right?
Ireleasealongbreath.Refocus.Touchthefrayedfriendshipbraceletonmywrist.“I’mfine,”Itellher,andmyvoicecooperates,steadiesitselfbeforethingscanescalate.
“Well,ifyou’resure…”
“Iam.”
“Ireally—Ididn’tmeantoassume,”shesays,hervoicesmallerasshedrawsthephoneclosertoherface.“I’mreallysorry.Ijustrealizedhowshittythatsounded—Igenuinelydidn’tmeanforittocomeoutlikethat.”
Icrackopenanotheregg,butIapplytoomuchpressure;theshellcollapsesbetweenmyfingerswithasoftcrunch,littleshardsofitfallingintothebowl.Crap.“Um,don’tworryaboutit,”Isay,distracted,frustrationrisinginsideme.“Ineedtojust…justdothisthing…”Withaspoon,Itrytoscoopalltheshellbitsbackout,buttheprocesstakesforever,andrequiresfartoomuchconcentrationformetocontinuetheconversation.
“CanIcallyoulater?”Isayatlast,bitingbackagrimace.
“Whattime?”
Afterschool,Istarttotellher,butthenIrememberthetimedifferenceissue.“Like,thistimetomorrow?”
“Can’t.IhaveameetingwithDivyaandtheotherstudentcouncilkids.”
“Thursday?”
Someshufflingonherend,likeshe’slookingthroughaplanner.“No.No,sorry.There’sthisreallyimportantchemtest…Um,whataboutFridaymorningmytime?”
“IhaveacallsetupwithSarah—youknow,fromCraneswift.”
“Right.”
“Okay,then…”Ipauseandsetthespoondown.Suddenly,Ican’trememberwhatweusedtodo,howwe’dgoaboutplanningthesecalls.YetI’malmostcertainthatitneverusedtobethishard“Then…byefornow?”
“Mhm.Bye.”
Andthenshe’sgone,leavingmewithablankphonescreenandmyeggshellbatterandthefaint,naggingfeelingthatsomething’sgonewrong—andnotjustmybaking.ButIdon’thavetimetopsychoanalyzeit.
Asthesuncreepsslowlyoverthekitchenwindow,ImixandstirandpourasifmylifedependsonituntilI’vemadeahideousbutdistinctlylessorangecake.IpackitintooneofthoseplasticrestauranttakeoutcontainersMaalwaysinsistsonsaving.
Iguessit’sthethoughtthatcounts.
IdecidetogiveCazhispresentsbeforelunch.
He’srecentlystartedshootingsomebig-budgetxianxiadramabasedonasuper-popularwebnovel,sohedoesn’tshowupatschoolinthemorningsanymore—makingthistheearliestpossibletimeIcangetitalloverwith.I’llhandhimthegiftsandforgetaboutitfortherestoftheday.
ButasIdrawclosertoCaz’slocker,thejarofpapercranesinmyhands,thecandlesandbirthdaycaketuckeddeepinmyschoolbag,Ifeeltwothingssnakepastthesharpofmyribs.
Hope.
Dumb,dangeroushope.
Anddread.
Itshouldbephysicallyimpossibleforthemtocoexistinsideme—thissillylightnessinmychest,buoyingmeup,andthisheavysinkingsensationinmygut.Butnow,inbroaddaylight,withCazstandingrightthere,asunfortunatelybeautifulasever,I’mforcedtoadmitthatwhatIwroteonthosepapercraneswasn’tjustmyexhaustiontalking.
ImightactuallybecrushingonCazSong.Likeatotalsucker.
Eventhoughourarrangementisalreadymessyenough.Eventhoughthismakesyetanotherstarry-eyed,rosy-cheekedfangirlwithherheartonhersleeve.
Asiftoprovemypoint,inthatverymoment,Caz’susualgangoffriendscomespillingthroughthelockerareaandswarmaroundhim.
“Happybirthday,myman,”Daikicalls,slappingCaz’sshoulderwhiletheothersechothesentimentwithloudwhoops,andSavannah,grinningwidely,pullsoutoneofthemostbeautifulcakesI’veeverseen.
Myheartsinks.
It’sthekindofcreamywhite,multitiered,elaboratelydecoratedcakethatwouldn’tlookoutofplaceatafancywedding,withdelicateblueflowersfrostedoverthesidesandglisteningbubbleteapearlsplacedattheverytop.Afewrandomonlookersgasp,someinchingcloserinhopesofgettingaslice.
Suddenly,myowncakefeelsridiculous.
Itwasanabsurdideatomakeitinthefirstplace.Absurdtohope.
I’malreadywalkingaway,debatingwhetherornottojustgivemycaketoEmilyforlunch,whenIhearsomeonecallmyname.
“Eliza!Eliza—waitup.”
Iturnaround,surprised.Cazispushinghiswaythroughthecrowd,pasthisadoringfans.Movingstraighttowardme.AndIrealizeabruptlythattheonlythingworsethanhavingacrushonastarisbeingmadeawareofit.Mypulsespeedsup,andifthiswereoneofCaz’scampusdramas,there’ddefinitelybeslow,romanticmusicplayinginthebackgroundrightnow.
Ohgod.
ThisiseverythingIwasafraidof.
“Damn,youwalkfast.”Heshakeshishead.Behindhim,allhisfriendsarenudgingoneanotherandwatchingusthewayyou’dwatchaparticularlyfascinatingepisodeofadrama,eyeswideandmouthshalf-open.Savannahisstillholdingthegiantcake.
“Yeah,well,Ihave,um,plansalreadyso…”Iforcemyselftosmile,butallofasuddenIcan’trememberifIusedtosmileathimbefore.Orsmilethiswide.I’mterrifiedthere’saneonsignprojectingmyfeelingsfrommyforehead.UndernocircumstancescanCazSongfindoutthatIlikehim;theconsequencesarealmosttoomortifyingtoimagine.
Hegivesmeafunnylook.“Areyouokay?”
“Yeah.”Inodhard.Please,Eliza,getyourshittogetherandactnormal.“Yeah,perfect.Wh-why?”
“Noreason,”hesaysslowly.Thenhisgazecutstotheglassjaroffoldedcranesinmyhands.“What’sthat?”
“Nothing.”Iquicklyhidethejarbehindme—butI’mstillabeattooslow.
“Itlookslikeapresent,”hesays,steppingforward.
“Well,it’snot.”
Hearchesabrow.“Areyousure?”
“Absolutely.Onehundredpercent.”
Forthebriefestmoment,somethinglikeuncertaintyflashesoverhisface.Likehemightactuallybedisappointed—likeImighthavethepowertodisappointhim.
It’saridiculousidea,delusionalreally,butIfeelmyselfwaver.“Imean,okay,itis,but…Just.Don’tmakeabigdealoutofit,okay?”
AndthenIkindofthrowthejarathim.
Hecatchesiteasilywithonehandandturnsitover,studiesit.Hedoesn’tseemtounderstandwhatitisatfirstuntilheseesthewordswrittenonthecranes.I’mtoonervoustolookathisfaceashegoesthroughsomeofthewishes,afraidtoseethepossiblescorninhisexpression,orboredom,orworse:nothingatall.Heprobablygetsgiftslikethisallthetimeatfanmeetings.Itprobablydoesn’tevenmattertohim.
Butthenhecallsmynameonce,soft,andIliftmyheadinsurprise.Helookssoobviously,genuinelymoved,allhisgratitudejustlyingwideopeninhisgaze,thatIcan’tstandit.Thisintimacy.Thewayitmakesmychestheat.
Actnormal,remember?
“There’sacaketoo,”Igrumble,reachingbackintomybag.
Thelookvanishes;laughterburstsfromhislips.“Whydoyousoundsoangryaboutit?”
“Because.It’sreallyugly.”
“I’msureyou’reexaggerating…”hestartstosay—thenIholdoutthehalf-burnt,half-crumblingyellowmessofacake.Webothstareatitforafewseconds.Somewhereinthedistance,IswearIcanhearahundredpastrychefscollectivelyweeping.“Okay,”Cazadmits.“Itisalittleugly.”
Isnort.“Thanksforbeinghonest.”
“Anytime.”Thenhepauses.“So.Didyouwanttosharethecake?”Icantellhedoesn’treallyexpectmetosayyes.I’veturneddownallhisinvitationsbefore,preferringtoeataloneinsteadofforcingawkwardsmalltalkwithhismany,muchmorepopularfriends.Luckily,ifpeoplethinkit’ssuspiciousthatwedon’teatlunchtogether,they’venevermentionedit.
ButwhileIhesitate,Daikiandtheothers—whohaveblatantlyandunashamedlybeenlisteningtooureveryword—maketheirwayover.
“Wecanallshare,”Savannahsays,voicebright,andNadiaandStephanienodinfastagreement.
Then,tomysurprise,Nadiahooksherslenderarmaroundmineasifwe’veknowneachotherallourlives.“Comeon.We’realldyingtogettoknowyoubetter.Imean,Cazhasbeensosecretiveaboutyou.”
“Oh.Thanks,”Isay,thenrealizehowunintelligentthatmustsound.Flustered,Icontinue.“But,um,youalreadyhaveacakeandI’dhatetointrude…”
“Onecanneverhavetoomuchcake,”Stephaniesays,adoptingthedeep,dramaticvoiceofsomeancientsage.
“Wisewords,”Nadiaagrees.“Plus,they’redifferentflavors.Like,oursisabrown-sugarbubbleteacake,andyoursis…”
There’sahumiliatingmomentofsilenceasCaz’sfriendsallleaninandattempttoclassifythelumpypastryinmyhands.
“Yoursis…ofthehomemadevariety,”Savannahputsinpolitely.
Cazreleasesanaudiblepuffoflaughter.Iturntoglareathim,butwhenourgazesmeet,heonlylaughsharder.
ThenDaikistepsbetweenus.“Okay,lovebirds,stopflirtingforasecond—”
“Weweren’tflirting,”Iprotest,wonderingifoneofushasafundamentalmisconceptionoftheterm.“Idon’t—Wedidn’tevensayanything.”
“Yeah,butwecanseeitinyoureyes,”hesays.“Andthatshit’sevenmoreobviousthandirectpickuplines.”
Asifmyfaceisn’talreadyonfire,theothersallnodalong.
“Onsecondthought,arewesurewewanttospendawholelunchtimearoundthesetwo?”Savannahjokes.
“Well,it’sCaz’sbirthday,”Nadiareasons,drawingmyarmclosertohers,ourelbowsbumping.“He’sgoingtowanthisgirlfriendthere.”Theyallturntome,expectant,Cazincluded,andthoughtheideaofhavingtoactlikewe’redatingbeforehisgroupofintimidatinglygorgeous,charismaticfriends—andleavingagoodimpression,noless—makesmewanttobreakoutintostresshivesandfleethecountryunderanewidentity,Nadia’sright:Itishisbirthday.
Andmaybesomesmall,foolishpartofmedoeswanttospendmoretimewithhim.
BeforeIcanchickenout,Iforcemyselftonod.“Yeah,okay.Let’sgo.”
ButasweapproachCaz’sregularcornertableinthecafeteria,Irealizethere’sasmallproblem:We’reachairshort.JustwhenI’mscanningtheareaforaseat,Caznudgeshisnormalchairoverinmydirectionandmakesanelaborategestureformetosit.
Ishakemyheadquickly,awarethatsomestudentshavealreadystartedstaring.
“Um,youdon’thavetodothat.Icanfindsomething…”
“No,I’vegotit,”hereassuresme.Nosoonerthanthewordshavelefthislips,ablushinggirlfromyeareightorninehurriesforwardandshylypushesasparechairtowardhim.
“H-happybirthday,”shesqueaksout.
Hesmilesatherpolitely.“Thankyou.”
It’sasimpleresponse,butthegirl’sfaceturnsbrightred,andshestumblestwiceonhershorttripbacktohergiggling,whisperingfriends.
“Youknow,”Daikiremarksfromtheotherendofthetable,whereSavannahisalreadysnuggledupagainsthisbroadchest,“onedaysomeone’sgoingtocrashtheircarjustbecauseyouglancedintheirdirection,andyou’regoingtohavetotakefulllegalresponsibility.”
Cazjustrollshiseyesandsitsdown,tippinghischairbackafewdegrees
IfeellikeIshouldsaysomething—somethingcoolandconfidentandwitty—butmymind’sblank.AndSavannah’scurrentproximitytoDaikiisn’thelping.Isthishowallcouplesaremeanttobehavewheneatingtogether?AmIexpectedtocurluplikethatagainstCaztoo?Orwoulditlooktoodeliberate,likeI’mcopyingthem?
ThenI’mimagininghowit’dfeeltobethatclosetohim,torestmycheekovertheplacehisheartbeats,lethimwraponestrongarmaroundme—
“Hey.”Caznudgesmykneeunderthetable,andIjump,myfaceflushing.
“Hmm?”
Heraisesaneyebrowwhiletheothersstareoveratuswithobviouscuriosity.“Whatwereyouthinkingabout?”
“N-nothing.Just…”Ipanicandblurtoutthefirstthingthatcomestomind.“Just—globalwarming.”
I’mmetwithaseriesofblankstares.Great,Ithinkwithrisingdespairasthesilencestretcheson.Thisisexactlywhyyoudon’thangoutwithCaz’sfriends.Nowthey’regoingtowonderwhyhe’sdatingsomeonewiththesocialskillsofapottedplantorapotentialkinkforasevereclimatecrisis—
ThenDaikinodssolemnly.“It’sapressingissue,forsure.”
Andsomehow,theconversationturnstothelatestenvironmentaldocumentarySavannahwatchedandtheneweco-friendlygarbage-sortingsystemthey’veintroducedinChinaandthefundraiserCaztookpartinlastspring,whichthensendsthemonatangentaboutCaz’sbestpartnerships(“I’msogladyou’reworkingwiththatbigcosmeticsbrandagain—theygiveoutthebestfreelipstick”).They’reallsocharming,soniceandfun,thatit’shardnottogetalittlesweptup,likeapeasantataball.Towonderifmaybethingscouldbedifferentatthisschool,withthesepeople.IfCaz’sfriendsmightsomedaybecomemyfriendstoo.
Don’tbenaive.Ikillthatthoughtbeforeitcantakeroot.I’vehopedforsimilarthingsinthepast,andit’sneverworkedout.Myproblemisn’tmakingfriends,it’skeepingthem.There’snoreasonforthattochangethistimearound.
“Eliza!”Savannahwhipsaroundtowardme,hersharpeyelinercreasingasshesmiles.“ShouldwegetaphotoofyouandCaztogether?”
Iblink.“For…forwhat?”
Butthismustbeoneofthosethingsallrealcouplesjustknowtodo,becauseshesays,liketheanswerisobviousinthestatementitself,“Well,forhisbirthday.”
“Oh!Weshouldgetthatcakeyoumadehimintheretoo,”Nadiachimesin,draggingmyverysad-lookingbirthdaycaketothetable’scenter.
“That’s—Youreallydon’thaveto…”
Butmyawkwardprotestsarelostintheirloud,persistententhusiasm,andnextthingIknowSavannah’sstandinguponherchairinhertallplatformboots(“Anythingfortheangle”)withherphoneoutandwavingfranticallyformeandCaztositclosertogether.
Iscootmychairclumsilyover,andafteramoment’sdeliberation,propmyelbowuponCaz’sshoulder.
Savannahlowersthephoneafractionandstares.
Nadiacacklesintoherpalm.“Haven’tyoutwobeengoingoutformonthsalready?Whyareyouactinglikeit’syourfirstdate?”
They’reonlyteasingnow,butwithacreepingsenseofforeboding,IrealizethatitcouldverywellturnintosuspicionifIdon’tdosomethingsoon.Desperate,IclimboutofmyseatandperchmyselfonCaz’skneeinstead,pullinghisarmsaroundmywaist.
EventhoughImakeanactiveeffortnottofeelorthinkanythingduringthiswholemortifying,far-too-intimateprocess,thetautmusclesofhisstomachseemtotenseforasecondbeforehecooperates,drawsmeincloser,hischinrestinggentlyagainstmyshoulder.
“That’sbetter,”Savannahapproves,holdingupherphoneagain.
ButIbarelyregisterthemomentwhenourphotoistaken;allIcanfocusonismyownthuddingheartbeatandprayCazSongcan’ttellithasnothingtodowiththeperformanceitself,andeverythingtodowithhim.
Thiswasneverpartoftheplan.
No.Ihaven’tspenthalfmylifecarefullybuildingupten-foot-tallbarricadesaroundmyselfonlyforthisvain,untrustworthypretty-boyactortocomeinandtearthemalldown.Ineedtogetridofthisdumbcrush—andfast.CHAPTERTWELVE
Backhome,hiddenawayinmybedroom,Icreateabrand-newPowerPointtitledAStep-by-StepGuideonGettingOveranUnwantedCrush
I’vespenttheremainingschooldaycompilingarticlesandadvicecolumnsandeveryresourceoutthereonhowtodothis,scrappingallthebullshittipslike“justgiveittime”or“acceptyourfeelings”andtailoringtheinformationtomyownsituation.AllIreallyneednowistofollowthroughwithit.
So,StepOne:LookforThingstoHateaboutHim.
Thisshouldbeeasyenough.Icrackmyknucklesandspreadmyfingersovermykeyboard.Thingstohate…Thereareanumberofanti-fanforumsupandrunning,populatedbypeoplewhoabsolutelyloatheCazSong:aperfectplacetofindinspiration.Still,Ifeelweirdlyguiltygoingonthem,asifI’msomehowengaginginanactoftreason.
ThenIreadafewofthehatecomments:
@fionaxia:CazSongissofakeitcreepsmeout.Youjustknowthatit’sallapersonacreatedbyhiscompanytowinoverbrainlessteenagegirls.Doesheevenhaveanactualpersonality?
@phoebe_bear:let’sbereal:ifCazSongweren’tbornwithaprettyface,he’dbeanobody.Hisactingisjustokay.Somanypeopleare1000xmoredeservingofwhathehas.
@stanxiaozhaninstead:Aformerfanhere(don’tjudge).Usedtolovehimuntilhechangedhishair.Wishhe’ddyeitagain;nowhelookstoofeminine.
@cazno1hater:IhavethistheorythatCazhashookedupwithatleasttwomajorplayersintheentertainmentindustry.There’sliterallynootherexplanationwhyhe’dkeepgettingthesebigdramaopportunities.
NextthingIknow,I’mclenchingmyteethsohardtheyhurtandcreatinganaccountunderafakenameandreplying:CazSongisFARmoretalentedthanyou’lleverbe.Youhavenoideahowhardhe’sworked,youpatheticlittle—
Okay,somaybethefirststepwasn’taseffectiveasI’dhoped.Whatever.IturnmyattentiontoStepTwoinstead:DevelopaCrushonSomeoneElse.
Overthenextcoupleweeks,Iforcemyselftoadmirephotosofothercelebritieseverymorning.GongJun.DengLun.YiYangQianXi.Jungkook.They’reallveryattractive.Iknowthisobjectively.YetmypulsestaysthesamenomatterhowlongIstareatthem,willingmyselftojustfeelsomething.ButIfeelnothing,notuntilIgettoschoolandcatchsightofCazlaughingwithhisfriends,wheremypulsepromptlyskyrocketsandmystomachsomersaultstentimesover.
Desperatebythispoint,ImoveontoStepThree:ObserveHimMoreClosely.Theapparentlogicbehindthisisthatcrushesarelikemirages;theydon’tholdwellunderintensescrutiny.SoIobserveCazSong,searchingforflaws,acrackinthefantasy.Atschool,andduringourchemistrytrainingsessionswhileweexplorethecityandmemorizeasmuchofeachother’sbackgroundsaspossible.InlateNovemberandearlyDecember,whenCaztakesmeouttoeatlambkebabs,sweetpotatoesinfoil,sugar-roastedchestnutsfragrantenoughtomakeyourmouthwaterfromyardsaway.Onthefirstdayofwinter,whenCazbringsmetothisplacethatsellsthicksesame-coatedbingsthesizeofmyface.
Thewholetime,Iwatchhim—
AndInoticeallthewrongthings.
Likehowhe’salwaysthefirsttocleanupandthrowourtrashawaywithoutsayingaword.Howhegetscoldeasily,hischeeksflushinginthefaintestbreeze,butrefusestowearextralayersifhedoesn’tthinkitlooksgood,whichsomehowisn’tnearlyasirritatingasitshouldbe.HowheneverloseshispatiencewhenIcan’tdecideonmyorder,andneverlaughsatmewhenIasksillyquestionsabouthowthefoodiscooked.
Today,heintroducesmetoahandmadenoodlestallnearHouhaiLake,andthefeelingisstillthere,curledupsnuglyagainstmyribs.Thecursed,stubborncrushIcan’tgetridof.
It’ssupposedtosnowlater.ThisiswhatI’mthinkingaboutonourrideback.Howit’llsnow,andhowsecretlyexcitedIamtoseeit,tofeelitonmyskin.I’veforgottenwhatBeijinginthesnowlookslike.Ihopeit’sbeautiful.
We’vealmostreachedourcompoundwhenInoticethatmyrightwristisbare.Ittakesmeanotherfewsecondstorealizewhy,exactly,thesightissoodd—
Thebracelet.
Thebraceletisgone.
“No,”Iwhisper,myvoiceburiedbeneaththerumbleoftheengine.
Themotorcycleismovingtoofastformetostopandsearchforashortpieceofstring,butItryanyway,scanningmyjeanpockets,mysleeves,hopingagainstthreadbarehopethatitmight’veonlygottentangledinthefabric,inthewind,inmyhair.
Butthere’snothing.
Whichmeansitmust’vefallenoffsomewherealongtheride,anywherebetweenthenoodlestallandhere.Maybeevenearlierthanthat,whenwewereeatingbythefrozenlakebanks,blowingwarmairintoourhands—
“Issomethingwrong?”Cazcallsbacktome,catchingmyeyeintheside-viewmirror.
“I—”Thethoughtofbrushingitaside,ofsimplyactinglikeeverythingisfineandgoinghomeandgrievingthislossalone,flitsthroughmymind.It’sonlyanoldbraceletanyway.AndthoughI’vekeptmineeversinceZoegaveittome,ifIreallythinkaboutit,Ihaven’tseenherwearhersinawhile.Months,even.ButwhatIsayis“Canyouletmedown?There—there’ssomethingIneedtofind.”
Cazdoesn’tquestionme;hepressesdownonthebrakesatonce,easingusintoasmoothstopbythesidewalk.Assoonasthemotorcyclestartstotiltdangerously,nolongersuspendedbyitsformermomentum,heleapsoffandstraightensthevehicleandhelpsmetomyfeet.
WhenI’msafeontheground,heasks,“Whatdoyouneedtofind?”
“Mybracelet.It’sblueandkindofthinand—”Ifumblearoundforamorespecificdescription.Mymindfeelsbothnumbandtoofull,crowdedwithathousanddifferentcompetingthoughts,noneofthemhelpful.Deepdown,I’malreadystartingtosuspectthatImightneverseemybraceletagain.“I—Iwearitalot—”
“Iknowwhichoneitis.”Cazislookingpastmenow,inthedirectionofthecitywejustrodebackfrom.Thenhisgazelocksonmine,andIexpecttoseesomehintofimpatience,oratleastconfusionoverwhyI’mmakingsuchabigdealoverasmallthing.Buthesimplyasks,“Howlonghasitbeenmissing?”
Mythroattightens.“Ionlynoticedafewmomentsago,but…itcouldbehourssinceIlostit.Itcouldbeanywhere.”
“Idoubtit.”Hisexpressionisthoughtfulnow.“Isawyouwearingitwhenwewereorderingthenoodles,soyouprobablyjustdroppeditonthewayhome.Itcan’tbetoofar.”
Ashespeaks,he’salreadyslidingonelegbackoverthemotorcycleseatandgesturingformetoclimbonafterhim.
Ihesitate.
“Whatareyoudoing?”
“Wecanretraceourroutebacktothestall,”hesays,raisinghisvoicetobeheardasherestartstheengine,thenow-familiarhumsendingsmalltremorsthroughthepavement.“I’llgoslow,sojustkeepyoureyesoutforit,okay?”
Ifeelafrissonofpanic,andnotjustoverthebracelet.He’sbeingtookind,toothoughtful.Toolikable.IfIlethimhelpme,trusthimwiththis,thenmycrushwillsurelygrowmalignant.Noamountofwell-researchedPowerPointsandprettyphotosofGongJun’sfacewilleverletmegetridofit.
Butit’sgettingcolder,andhe’swaitingformestill,andevenI’mnotsounrealisticastoimagineIcouldtrackdownthebraceletbymyselfonfoot.
“Okay,”Isayslowly,climbingonandwrappingmyarmsaroundhiswaist.ThesecondIdo,somethinginsidemesnapsintoplace,asifthisonesmallactionhasalreadysealedmyfate.
“Holdontighter,”hewarns.“It’sdangerous,ridingaroundinthesnow.”
Tentatively,Ileancloser,untilIcanfeeltheheatofhisskindespitethecold.
“Tighter.”
“What?”Myfaceflushes.“I’malready—”
Hemakesasmallsoundlikeasighandgrabsmywrists,pullingthemhighersothey’relockedjustoverhistautstomach,myentireupperbodypressedsnuglyagainsthis.“Idon’twanttobelegallyresponsibleforanyaccidents,”hesaysoverthehumoftheengine.
Thesearchbegins.Iscantheroadsupanddown,squintthroughthewind,staringateverygutterandcrackinthepavementandupturnedleafwepassuntilmyvisionstartstoblur.
Stillnothing.
Aboveus,theskyisapure,hushedwhite,ablankcanvas,stretchingonandonforeveryinchofgroundwecover,untilthefirstsnowflakebreaksfreefromthenothingnessandtumblesdowntoearth.Morefollow.Soft,fatflakesofcold.IthoughtI’dforgottenthis,butthesensationoftheicecatchinginmylashesandmeltingontheplasticofmyblackpufferjacketisoddlyfamiliar,likeanoldfriend.
Nobracelet,though.
Thesnowaddsatickingclock;it’llbeimpossibletofindanythingoncethegroundislostinwhite.Andwe’rerunningoutoftime.
ButjustwhenI’mabouttogiveupandaskforCaztoturnbackaround—Iseeit.
Aglimpseofblueinmyperipheralvision,lyingjustoffthesideoftheroad.
Mybreathcatches,hopeinflatingmylungs.
“Stop!”Icall.“It’sthere—Ithinkit’sthere.”
AssoonasCazcutstheengine,I’mrunning.Thestreetismoreicethanconcretebynow,andtwicemyfeetslip,myweighttippingprecariouslyforwardbeforeIsteadymyself,runfaster.Myfingerscloseoverthethinstringjustasit’spulledupwardbyafaintbreeze.
Relieffloodsthroughmyveinslikemorphine,dullingtheedgesofmypanicuntilmyheartbeatreturnstonormalagain.Ibreatheout,griptheslightlydampbracelettomychest.It’sthere.Stillthere.
“Youfoundit?”
Cazwalksovertome,andInodonce,embarrassednowthattheimmediacyofthesituationhasmeltedaway.Imean,whatkindofpersonmakessuchafussoverapieceofstring?
He’sprobablythinkingthatexactquestion,becausehestaresatthebracelet,thenupatme,andsays,“Youwearthatalot.”
Inodagain,knowinghe’ssearchingforanexplanationandunsurewhetherIshouldgiveittohim.HowmuchofmyheartIcanaffordtoreveal.Butwhathe’sdone—withouthesitation,seeminglywithoutexpectationofanythinginreturn—Ifeelmyselfsway.Maybeit’sokay.MaybeIcantrusthim,justalittle.“It’safriendshipbracelet.FromZoe.”MybestfriendiswhatImeantoadd,butsomethinggluesmyjawshut,freezesthefamiliarwordsinmythroat.
Justtheothernight,whenIwasdraftingablogpost,I’dgonetolistentoourSpotifyplaylist,onlytofindthatthenamehadbeenchangedfrom“zoe+elizag8hits”to“recsfordivya.”Which,rationallyspeaking,isasmallthing.Insignificant.Butaren’tsmallthingsexactlywhatfriendshipsaremadeupof?Frayedstringbraceletsandlate-nighttextsandcompilationsofyourfavoritesongs?
Whenyoutakethosethingsaway,whatdoyouhaveleft?
Idon’tsayanyofthis,ofcourse,butCazmustseethehurtallovermyface,becauseheasksquietly,“Doyoumissher?”
Iwrapmyarmsaroundmybody.Exhaleintothefrigidair.“Imissalotofpeople.”
Andthis,Ithink,ismyultimatefatalflaw.Missingpeoplewhodon’tmissmeback.Clingingontostrandsofstringthatshouldn’tmeanhalfasmuchastheydo.Ittakessolittleformetolovesomeone,yetsolongformetomoveon.
ThesnowhasthickenedbythetimeCazparkshismotorcycleoutsidethecompoundgates.
“Jie!Caz!”
Itwistaround,helmetstillon,wobblingalittleasmyfeethittheice-slickedpavement,andspotEmilymovingtowardusthroughthewhitehaze.Herroundcheeksareflushedpinkfromthecold,hermessybraidstuckedinsideapolka-dotwoolbeanie,oneumbrellaraisedoverherheadwhileanotherhangsfromherswingingelbow.
“Hey,kid,”Cazcallsasshedrawscloser.“Whatareyoudoinghere?”
IexpectEmilytotellhimoffforcallingherkid,thewayshealwaysdoeswithme,butinsteadherfacebreaksintoawidegrin.Then,evenmoresurprisingly,shereachesoutanddoesthiscomplexhandshake-slash-high-fivethingwithhimincompletesync.
“What…whatwasthat?”Imanage,rubbingastrayflakeofsnowfrommyeyes.
“Oursecrethandshake,”Emilysays,thenpointsbehindhertoourapartmentinthebackground.“Also,wesawyouguysridingbackjustnow,soMatoldmetobringyouanumbrella.You’reverywelcome.”
ButIdon’treachfortheumbrella.“Sincewhendoyoutwohaveasecrethandshake?”
“Iwasinvitedovertoherdramaclassafewtimestheotherweektogivethemactingtips,”Cazexplainswhilemylittlesisternodsalongfastandgazesupathimwithclearadoration.“Wecameupwithitduringthebreaks.”
“What?”Irepeat,muchsharperthanIintended.Didn’tItellhimtoleavemysisteroutofthis?
Emilyblinksatme,startled.“Why?What’swrong?”
“Ijust—You’renotsupposedto…”ButbeforeIcanfigureouthowtotellheroffwithouttellinghereverything,Caz’svoicecutsthroughmythoughts.
“Eliza.”He’sholdinghishandouttome,waiting,andforanembarrassingsecond,Ithinkhe’sabouttoshowmeasecrethandshaketoo,orevenpullmeintoahug.Butthenhegesturestothehelmetonmyhead.
“Oh.Sorry.”Ifumblewiththeclasps,butmyfingersaresonumbfromthecoldthatevenafterthreetries,Istillcan’tgetthehelmetoff.
EmilyshootsCazapointedlook.“Well?Aren’tyougoingtohelpher?Like,isn’tthatwhatboyfriendsarefor?”
Myskinheats.“Oh,no,that’sreallynot—”
“No,she’sright,”Cazoffers,steppingforward,amusementtuggingatonecornerofhislips.Alreadyslippingintohismodel-boyfriendrole.Istayverystillashebendsdownsothatwe’reateyelevel,hiscool,slenderfingersfindingthestrapsbeneathmychin,ourbreathsplumingthefrozengrayairbetweenus,flecksofsnowcaughtinhisoil-blacklashes.
Butittakeshimtoolong,ormaybeit’ssimplytooquiethere,withthecompound’spathsemptysaveforthesecurityguards,becausemyheartstartsracingasthoughweranallthewaybackhome.
Andsuddenlyit’stoorealforme.Hisnearness,hisgaze,hissecrethandshakewithmylittlesisterwhentheyaren’tevenmeanttoknoweachother.ImighthaveacceptedthatIcan’thelphowIfeelabouthim,thatitmightevenbefine,solongasIneveractonmyfeelings.Butit’snolongerjustmyheartatstake.It’sEmily’stoo.
Ireelbacksofastmyhaircatchesontheclasp.Iyankitoffmyself,ignoringthefreshstingofpainandCaz’ssurprise.
“Thanksfortheride,”Ibabble,eagertoescape.“Andfor—youknow,allyourhelpfindingthebracelet.Weshouldprobablygohomenow—”
“Home?”Emilyrepeats.“WhataboutCaz?Canhecomewithus?”
Panicjoltsthroughme.“That’s—”
“Please?Prettyplease?”sheasks,turningherpuppy-dogeyesonme.Damnit.Thekidreallyknowswhatshe’sdoing.“WecouldintroducehimtoMa;Ibetshe’sgoingtolovehimtoo.Andwecouldevenwatchhisdramastogether.Ohmygod—howcoolwouldthatbe?”
No.Absolutelynot.Butthewordsarestuckinmythroat,andtomyhorror,asceneunfurlsinmymindofeverythingEmilyisdescribing,tintedasoftgoldattheedgeslikeadreamsequence.Cazgreetingmymotherinthekitchenandsittingdownonourcouch,hisarmdrapedaroundmewhileweturnontheTV—
Tomysurprise,Cazspeaksup.“I’dreallylovethat,kid,but…Iactuallyhavetoheadbacktosetthisafternoon.”Eventhoughhe’stalkingtoEmily,hisgazeisonme,ameaningfullookinhiseyes.Heremembers,Irealize.Heremembersourconversationafterthetijianzigame:myworries,mywarnings.“Maybeanothertime,okay?”
“Oh,”Emilysays,wilting.AndeventhoughIshouldn’t,Ifeelanechoofdisappointmenttoo.
“Well,thanksagain,”ItellCaz,takingEmily’ssmall,coldhandinmineandgivinghimanawkwardwavewiththeotherone.“And,uh,goodluckwithyourshooting.”Then,insteadoflingeringlikeIwantto,ItakeEmilybackhome,realizingasIdothatit’sgettingharderandhardertoturnmybackonCazSong.CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
ThedaysstartspeedingupthecloserwegettotheLunarNewYearholidays,astheytendto.Moretediousclassespass.Moretests,pointlesshomeworkassignments,lunchesontheroof.Morecommentstowakeupto,somanythatIdon’thavetimetoreplytothemall.
ThingswithCraneswifthaveonlygottenbusiertoo.NowthatIhaveasubstantialfollowing,Sarah’sprettyinsistentongivingthemasseswhattheywant—which,inthiscase,happensoverwhelminglytobemoreblogpostsaboutCaz’sjob.
isthatok??ItextCazthenexttimehe’sawayshooting,feelingasalwaysthatoddlurch,halfanticipationandhalfguilt,thatcomeswhenevermyinternshipdemandssomethingfromthetwoofus.canIvisityouonset?
There’sapausebeforethreesmalldotsappearoverthechatscreen.TypingThentheyvanish.Appearagain.
Atlast,Cazsendsbackamessage:
Ok.Butpromiseyouwon’tlaugh.
“Ohmygod,”IsayasIstepoutofthecaranhourlater.
I’veneverbeentoaproperdramasetbefore,butit’salmostexactlythewayIpicturedit:giantgreenscreensproppedupoverthegrass,blockingoutpatchesofsky;cameracrewandmakeupartistsdashinginandoutofmakeshifttents;andpropslikeswordsandguzhengslyingabouteverywhere,alllefttofreezeintheoutdoorchill.Itakeaquickmentalsnapshotofthescene,alreadybrainstormingwaystointroducethesetinmypost.
They’reinthemiddleofshootingafightsequence,andmyjawpracticallyunhingeswhenIspotCazafewyardsaway.
Ialmostdon’trecognizehim.
Forone,he’swearingarobe.Notlikeabathrobekindofrobe,butanactual,semi-historically-accuratesetofrobeswithdragonsembroidereddownthesidesandbroad,flowingsleeves.Itlookslikeit’smadeoutofrealsilktoo;everytimeheshiftsposition,theblackfabricripplesandgleamsunderthesunlight.Ican’tstopstaring.Theoutfitsomehowhastheeffectofmakinghimlooktaller,older,moreintimidating,eventhoughit’scoveringupmostofhisbody.
Thenthere’sthehair—or,well,thewig.Halfofithasbeentiedupandpinnedintoplacewithanelaboratecrown,buttherestofitspillsdownhisbackinariverofshiningink.
“Again!”astocky,middle-agedwomanwhoIassumeisthedirectorcallsfrombehindthecameramonitors.Shemakesanimpatientmotionwithonehand.“Caz—makesureyouturnyourheadthiswaywhen…”Therestofherdirectionsarelostonmeinablurofaccented,rapid-fireChinese.
ButCazseemstogetitrightaway.Hegivesherathumbs-upmotionandadjustshispositionimmediately,liftingtheveryreal-lookingswordinhishandwithalookofunwaveringfocus.Hisjawistensed,hisgazesharp,hisusualcasualdemeanorgone.
Fivemendressedasassassinsrushtowardhim,andhespins.Strikes.Ducks
Hismovementsarelightningquick,strong.Hisbladeslicesthroughtheairinperfectsyncwiththeotheractors,likesomesortofviolentdance,elegantandepicallatonce.Whenheswingstheswordagain,twomenfall.
Atriumphantgrinflashesacrosshisface.
“Ohmygod,”Irepeattomyself,myvoicekindofhoarse.
BecauseeventhoughI’vefoundCazSongattractiveonaphysicallevelforawhilenow,mybiggestturn-onhasalwaysbeencompetence.
Andasitappears,Cazisunbelievablycompetentathisjob.
Hecarriesouttherestofhisfightsequencewiththesameenviabledegreeofcontrolandprecision,hishandsbecomingblursashemovesseamlesslybetweenstances,andonlywhenthedirectoryells“Cut!”doeshefinallyslowdown.Lowerhissword.
Hisbrowisdampwithsweatandhe’sbreathingalittlefast,strandsofdarkhairfallloosefromtheirknot,buthiswholefaceisaglow.Euphoric,even.Helookslikehewouldgladlyrunthroughthatlastscenetwentymoretimes.
Thenheseesme.
BeforeIhavetimetocomposemyexpression,thecornerofhismouthtugsupinthatcrookedsmileIsecretlylovesomuch,dimplesandstraightwhiteteethflashing.It’salmosttoomuch—Iwanttobelievethesmileisreal,thatit’smeantonlyforme.ButIjustwitnessedsecondsagohowgoodheisatacting.
“You’rereallynotlaughing,”hesaysashedrawscloser,hisrobesswishingbehindhim.“I’msurprised.”
“Yes,well.There’snothingtolaughabout,”Isay,aimingforcasualandmissingitbyabouttenthousandmiles.
I’veforgottenhowtotalklikeanormalperson,itseems.
“Mhm.”Suddenlyheleansin,aglintinhiseyes.“Wait—don’ttellme.This.”Hegesturestohimself,hiscostume,andIwanttodie.“Thisworksforyou?”
“No.”ButIcanfeelmycheeksflushing.“Don’tberidiculous—”
“I’mlearningsomuchaboutyou,Eliza—”
“Ohmygod—”
“Thisisasignificantmomentinourrelationship,”hecontinues,barelymanagingtokeepastraightface.“Really.IfIhadknownearlierthatyouwereintothis—”
“Ibegyoutonotfinishthatsentence.”
Thankfully,justasI’mcontemplatingmovingtotheGobiDesertorsomeplacefarther,someoneshoutsCaz’snameinthedistance.
“Comeon,”Cazsays,holdinghishandout.“I’llshowyouaround.”
Itakeit,knowingthatit’sallforshowyetfeelingmypulseraceallthesame,andheleadsmeacrossset.Aswewalk,Iwatchhimstraighten,hissmilewiden,easingintoadifferentversionofhimself.Hegreetsallthemakeupartistsandextrasbyname,laughingatjokesIswearhewouldn’tusuallyfindfunny,andstopsandposeswithsomeofthesupportingactors,hischintippedupattheperfectangle,hishaircarefullybrushed.Fartherahead,hepointsouttheequipmenttome,explainingindetailhowthepropsworkandhowcertainscenesareshotandhowthewireshereareoldandshould’vebeenreplacedmonthsagobutstillholdupwellenoughforflyingstunts.
It’susefulmaterial,allthingsIcanworkintomyblogpostlater,butI’macutelyawarethatI’mnottheonlyonewatchinghim.Whereverwego,countlesspairsofeyesfollow,theweightandintensityofitalllikeablazingspotlight.Directors,cameracrew,theothermembersofthecast.I’vealwaysknownintheorythatCazwasunderalotofpressure,butit’sanotherstorytobeherewithhim,towitnesshowhardhehastoworkjusttomakesurehedoesn’tslipupinfrontofallthesepeople.
Ican’truinthatforhim,asmallvoicewhispersinmyhead.Ican’tcomplicatehisalready-complicatedcareerbyrevealingthatIhaveacrushonhim,knowinghecan’tpossiblylikemeback.ThebestthingIcandotohelphimistocontinueourarrangementwithoutcausinganyunnecessarydrama.
Wecometoastopatasetdesignedtolookliketheexteriorofapalace—halfbluescreenandhalfcompletelyrealistic-looking,ornatestonepillars—wherethey’rejustwrappingupanotherscene.
“That’sMingri,”Cazmurmurstome,pointingatoneofthetwoactorsstandingbeforeus.“He’splayingtheyoung,orphanedgeneral.Unfortunately,heswearsanoathofbrotherhoodwithKaigeoverthere”—hemotionstotheotheractor—“whoturnsouttobethecrownprinceoftheenemyrealm,andhisfather’smurderer.”
“Tragic,”Icomment,whichearnsmeafaint,familiartwitchofhislips.
Mingrilookstwentyyearsoldatmost,buthehasthekindoffacethatseemsyoungnomatterhisage,withnaturallycrescent-shapedeyesanddimplesthatshowevenwhenhe’snotsmiling.
Nexttohim,Kaigeseemstobehiscompleteoppositeineveryway.He’saroundnineteenortwentyyearsoldtoo,butthesomberexpressioncarvedintohisfeaturesandthehard,rigidlinesofhisfacelookmoresuitedforsomeonewho’sbeenalivefordecades.Healsolooksstrangelyfamiliar,thoughI’mcertainI’venevermethimbefore.
Assoonasthedirectorcallscut,thetwoguyswalkovertous.Well,Mingriwalks;Kaigekindofjustfollows,eyesdownandpoker-faced,dragginghisheelsthewholeway.
“Well,well,thestarhimselfhascometovisitus,”MingrisingsinChinese,doingthatweirdone-arm-hugthingguysallknowhowtodo.Thenhebeamsatme.“Andhe’sbroughtthefamouswriterwithhim!”
Kaigemerelynodsinmydirection.
“Comeon,Kaige.”Mingriturnstotheotheractor,nudginghimonceintheribs.“ThefirstevertimeCazbringshisgirlfriendonset,andyou’renotevengoingtosayhi?”
Kaige’seyeswidenbriefly,flickeringtothespotwhereMingri’selbowbumpedhisshirt,andhisearsredden.Thenhescowls.
Interesting.
“Hi,”Kaigegreetsme,thoughthere’sahard,warynoteinhisvoice.OramIonlyimaginingit?BeforeIcanfigurehimout,heglancespastmeatCaz,andtheyexchangesomesortoflookIcan’tquiteparse.AreferencetoanoldconversationIneverwitnessed.
Cazshakeshisheadonce,andKaigeclearshisthroat.“Well,ifyou’llexcuseme,”hemumbles,andstalksoffaloneintheoppositedirection.
Alongsilencefollows.
It’sdefinitelynotmyimagination,then.“Um,”Iventure.“DidI…dosomethingtooffendhim,or—”
“No,”Mingrisaysquickly,flashingmeasheepishgrin.“Don’tworryabouthim.He’sjustnaturallyabitskepticalofanyrelationshipbetweenactorslikeusandpeoplefromoutsidetheindustry.”
Ifrown.“What?Why?”
“Well,it’sjustalottohandle,isn’tit?”Mingrisays,lookingsurprisedI’devenhavetoask.Besideme,Cazhasgoneveryquiet,hisjawtensed.“We’realwaysoutshooting,andourschedule’sintense,andwe’reeithergettingtoomuchortoolittleattention,andthefanscanbelovelyinsomecases,andpretty…extremeinothers.Andthethingaboutcelebrities,youknow,isthatyou’reonlyevergettingapieceofthem—oftennoteventhebiggestpiece.Mostpeoplearen’tsatisfiedwiththat.”
“Oh.”NowIrememberwhereI’dlastseenKaige’sface—thoughitwasn’treallyhisface,buthissister’s.Kailin,awell-knownC-dramaactress.There’dbeenahugenewsstorylastyearaboutherdatinganaccountant.Thedetailsareblurrynow,buttheirbreakuphadbeenverymessy,andverypublic.
“Butdon’tworry,”Mingrirepeats,hisgrinbroadening.“Therearealwaysexceptionstotherule,andwhateveritisyouguysaredoing,it’sclearlyworking.”
Iforceoutaweaklaugh,andafewbeatstoolate,Cazjoinsin.
OnceCazisfinishedshootingfortheday,IfindmyselfinacornerboothatabubbleteashopwithhimandMingri.Everythingherehasbeenpaintedinshadesoftealandpink,andthechicinteriordecorationsappeartohavebeenchosensolelyforthepurposeofluringinwanghongstotakeprettypictures.Itmustbeworking:Allthecustomershereareatwell-above-standardlevelsofattractiveness,andatableofgirlsdressedinfulldesignerclotheshavebeenunabashedlyoglingCazeversincewewalkedinhere.Itrytoignorethemandfocusonmentallyoutliningmyblogpostfortheday.MaybeI’llstartbydescribingthecostumes,theirtextureupclose,howitfeelstoseeyourboyfriendmovingaroundinhistoricalrobes—
Mingriheavesaloudsigh.
Ilookup.Thisismaybethetenthtimehe’ssighedsincehismangomilkteacame,whichwasonlyfiveminutesandtwogigglinggroupsofwanghongsago.
Cazraisesabrow.“Somethingwrong?”
“No.”
“Okay,then.”Cazshrugsandreturnstostaringathisdrinkmenu.
Mingri’smouthfallsopen,thensnapsshutintoapout.Halfaminutepassesbeforeheburstsout:“Fine,fine.Ifyoureallymustknow,IsupposeI’lldoyouafavorandjustcomeoutwithit—andifyouevertellanyoneaboutthis,I’llvehementlydenyit—but…Imightneedsomerelationshiptipsfromyouguys.”
“Well.Thisisrare,”Cazremarks,recliningcomfortablyinhisseat.“Historic,even.”
Mingriglaresathim.“Justhearmeout,okay?It’sabout—there’sthis…thispersonI’vebeeninterestedinforsometimeandIseethemaroundalot—”
“Kaige?”CazandIsayatthesametime.
Mingri’sfacefreezesinanexpressionofsuchgenuineshockIalmostfeelbadforstatingtheobvious.HiseyesdartfromCaztometotheotherbooths,whichareallempty.“H-how—howdidyouknow—”
“Everyoneknows,”Cazsayswithsomeexasperation.“Literallyeveryone.Themakeupartists,thatdeliveryguywhocamelastTuesday,ourhorse-ridinginstructor…”Hepausesandjerkshisheadintheshopowner’sdirection,whomustbetwentyyearsolderandhasalsobeenunabashedlyoglinghim.“I’dbetmysavingsevensheknows.It’sprobablythemostpublicsecretever.”
“Shit.AmIthatobvious?”
“Kaigeisalotworse,”Ireassurehim.“YouactuallyseemedprettychillwhenIsawyouguystogether.”
“Wait.Youmean…”Ididn’tthinkitwasphysicallypossibleforMingri’seyestogrowanywider,butIguessIwaswrong.“Youmeanthere’sachanceit’snotone-sidedor…”
“You’resooblivious,”Cazsays,thoughnotunkindly.
“Whatdidyouwantourhelpfor,anyway?”Iaskbeforewecangetsidetracked.
Mingrimanagestogetagriponhimselfenoughtoanswer,“Iwantedtotellhimdirectly.Writeanoteorsomething.ButallIhaveisthis…”
Hefumblesaroundinhispocketforafewsecondsbeforetossingacrumpledpieceofpaperonthetablebetweenus.Aletter.Iholdituptothewindowlight.It’swritteninChinese,thepenstrokespressedinsodeepthey’realmostvisibleontheotherside,butIcanstillreaditbecausetheonlywordsthereare:
Kaige.Hi.I
“Well,that’s.”Ifalter,searchingfortherightdescriptionasIsettheletterbackdown.“That’sdefinitelysomething.”
“It’sshit,iswhatitis,”Mingrigrumbles.“Ihavenoideawhattowrite.”
“Eliza’sgoodatthat,”Cazsays,andatfirstIdon’tevenrealizehe’scomplimentedme.OrmaybeI’mgivinghimtoomuchcredit,andhe’ssimplytossedallresponsibilityovertome.WhenIturntohim,hejustsmiles.
Thenthechairsqueaks.Mingriactuallystandsupfromhisseat.
“Please.”Hegazesdownatmewithlarge,beseechingeyes,handspressedtogetherasifinprayer.“Pleasehelpme.Like,Iwillactuallypayyoujustforafewlines.AndI’vereadthatessayofyours—allIneedissomethingaquarterasgoodasthat,andI’m—I’llbeset.”
“IguessIcouldofferafewsuggestions,”Isayslowly.“Itmightnotbepersonalized,sinceIdon’tknowhimthatwell,sojust—changethedetailsaccordingly,okay?”
Henodsfast.“Anything.”
“Okay.Somaybe…”Ipause.AvoidCaz’scuriousgaze,twistingmyfingerstogetherinmylap,wherenoonecanseethem.“Maybeyoucantalkabouthow…Idon’tknow,howhislaughtersounds.Ifit’srougherinthemornings,orloweronthephone,orhowhealwaystipshisheadbackwhenhefindssomethingfunny.How—howyoucanonlyseehisdimpleswhenhesmilesatsomethingreal.Howyou’rejealousofeveryonewholoveshim,whoknewhimbeforeyoudid.
“Andyouprobablydidn’tmeantofallforhim.Atall.Youprobablyhadaplan,precautionsinplace.Maybeyouwereatpeacewithyourloneliness,butthenhesortofbargedintoyourlife,uninvited,andyou’vebeenreelingeversince,angryatyourself.Athim.Nowallyoucandoissitaroundandthink,likeafool,aboutthepale,moonlitcurveofhisneckandmeasureoutpotentiallossesandtheweightofhiswordsandprepareremediesinadvanceforwhatyou’recertainwillbethemostdevastatingsortofheartbreak.Butyoucontinuetolikehimanyway.Stubbornly.Deliberately.Andyou…”ItrailoffwhenIrealizehowlongI’vebeentalking,howmuchI’vebeensaying.God,whatamIsaying?
Heatrushestomycheeks.
Icanbarelybringmyselftolookup,butit’dbehardtoignorethewayMingriisstaringatme—jawhangingandeyeswide.
AndCaz.
IfMingri’sgazeisstunned,Caz’sgazeisscorching.Searching.He’sleanedforwardinhisseat,andthetenderlookonhisfaceisn’tsomethingI’veeverseenbefore.Thenhislipspartslightly,asiftospeak—
Ohgod,I’vescrewedup.There’snowayhedoesn’tknowaboutmycrushnow.Thekindnessinhiseyesisalmostcertainlypity.I’mabouttogetmyheartbrokenbymyfakeboyfriend,righthereinfrontoffivegirlswhosomehowalllooksimilartoAngelababy,andI’mgoingtocarrymyhumiliationtothegrave
No,Ihavetoundothis.Withgreateffort,Iletoutafake,falsettolaugh.“Sorry,um.Idon’tknowwhatI’mramblingabout—it’smostlyjustdramatic,flowerybullshit.Youknowhowwriterscanbe.”ImakeapointoflookingdirectlyatCazwhenIsaythis,hopinghe’llbelieveme.Tomyrelief,thelookisgone,replacedbysomethingmoreguarded.“Didanyofithelp,atleast,or…?”
“Oh,yeah,forsure,”Mingrisaysatonce,noddingfast,scribblingsomethingdownonthepaper.“Imean,thatwasalotofmaterial.Thankyou.”
Ismileweakly.“GladIcouldhelp.”
“Justonething,though.”
“Yeah?”
Mingrisighs,loudandheavy,andasks,“Doyouthinkit’dbetoocrassifIalsomentionedhowmuchIlikehisass?”
Iblink.“Um…”Thistime,IhavenowheretolookbutatCaz.Buthe’slookingelsewhere,seeminglylostinthought.“Um…no.That—ifthat’showyoutrulyfeel—”
“Ido,”hereassuresme.
“Thenyeah,goforit.”Iclearmythroat.“Writefromtheheart.”CHAPTERFOURTEEN
I’dplannedtostartwritingoutmyblogposttheinstantIgothome,butinsteadIendupcollapsingontomybed,mypillowhuggedtomychest,relivingeveryembarrassingsecondofmylittlespeechatthebubbleteashop.
WhathadIbeenthinking?ThisiswhyIshouldneverbelefttoimproviseanything,ever.I’dbasicallyconfessedmyfeelingstoCazstraighttohisface.Andthewayhe’dlookedatmeafter,likehewastryingtofigureoutthegentlestwaytoletmedown…Sure,he’dstillinsistedongivingmearideback,butwe’dbarelyeventalkedonthewayhome.Atthetime,I’dattributedittomyownweirdfeelings,butnowthatIreallythinkaboutit,he’dbeenquieterthanusualtoo.Distant.Withdrawn.Hedidn’tevensmileatmewhenIgotoff—
Igroanandkickoutsohardmyblanketstumbletothefloor.
JustasI’mdebatingwhethertoruinthedramaticmomentbypickingthembackup,orriskalecturefromMabyleavingthemthere,myphonebuzzes.OnenewmessagefromCaz.Iswallow,myheartgallopinginmychest.Ohmygod,whatifhewantstotalkaboutthatMomenttoday?WhatifheasksmestraightuphowIreallyfeelabouthim?Whatifhe’stextingtorejectme?
ButwhenIunlockmyphone,there’sonlythesentence:
Myparentswanttomeetyou.
Wait,legit?Itype,thendeleteit.Itsoundstooeager.LikeIactuallywanttomeetthemtoo.Ipause,thinkinghard,andtryout:Isthisajoke?Thendeletethataswell.ButbynowasignificantamountoftimehaslapsedsinceI’vereadhismessage,andhe’sprobablywatchingmetypeanddeleteoverandoveragain,whichisworsethananythingIcouldwrite.Panicking,Igowith:AndwhatdidIdotodeservethisgreathonor?Andhitsend.Theninstantlyregretit.Ishould’vejustgonewiththefirstoption.Thatwasshorter,atleast,andshortiscasual.Casualisgood.
It’spossiblethatI’moverthinkingthis.
They’vewantedtomeetyouforsometimenow,hetextsbackmomentslater.Justhaven’thadthechancetobecauseofwork.ButtheyshouldbehomethisSaturday,ifyou’refree.
Ifrownatthewords.Hemakesitsoundlikehisparentsarerarelyhomeatall.Andthatthere’sachancetheymightcancelevennow.
BeforeIcanreply,headds:Iknowwesaidwewouldn’tgetourfamiliesinvolved,butminecanbepersistent.Ipromiseit’sjustaquickdinnertogetthemoffmybackaboutthis.
I’lloweyouone.
He’sright.Weshouldn’tbegettingourfamiliesinvolved.It’salreadybadenoughthatheandEmilyknoweachother.ButthenIrememberhowhe’dlookedtoday,thesuninhishair,hislowerlipchewedred…TheterriblethingisthateventhoughIkeepembarrassingmyselfaroundhim,keepputtingmyselfatriskofgettinghurt—partofmestillwantstoseehimagain.
Fine,Itype,feelinglikeI’vefailedaself-assignedtest.Butonlythisonce.
Ofcourse,herepliesquickly,andIcanjustimaginehistriumphantlittlegrin.You’rethebest.
whatever.
“It’llbeokay,”Ireassuremyselfoutloud,chuckingmyphoneonthebed.Ijustneedtocharmmyfakeboyfriend’sparentsenoughthattheyapproveofmebutnotsomuchthatthey’llactuallycarewhenwebreakup.Easy.Simple.Whatcouldpossiblygowrong?
SoonSaturday,IwaitoutsideCazSong’sdoorwithaboxofediblebird’snestinonehandandmyheartinmythroat.
Aftercheckingmywarpedreflectionintheshinydoorknobandconfirmingthatthere’snothingembarrassingonmyface,otherthanmyface,Idrawinashakybreathandknock.
“Coming”
Footsteps,firmandswift.Thenthedoorcreaksopens,andIfindmyselfstaringupatCaz.He’sinalightgrayshirtthathugshisshouldersandLevi’sjeans,andhe’sbarefoot.Relaxed.Astripedshowertowelhangsaroundhisneck,darkerintheplaceswherehiswethairhasdrippedwaterontoit.
Hestaresbackforamoment,andthere’ssurpriseinhiseyesandsomethingelse.
“Hey,”hesays.“You’reearly.”
“Oh—sorry.”Ishiftawkwardlybetweenmyfeet.“Iwasscaredofgettingherelate.Isitabadtimeor—”
Helaughsatme.“Whyareyoubeingsoformal?”
“I’mnot,”Ilie,thoughIdon’tdarerelax.I’llneverforgetthatpityinglookinhiseyesbackatthebubbleteashop,andIpraytogodI’llneverhavetoseeitagain.Ifhecanactlikeeverythingisnormalbetweenus,Icantoo.Iwon’tslipupasecondtime.Ican’t.
Hisgazegoestothebird’snest.Thepackagingisbrightred,SpringFestivalred,withfancygoldenedgesandanengravingofflyingsparrowsonthefront.I’dboughtitonlyafterconsultingabouttwentydifferentarticlesalongthelinesof“TheTenBestHerbalGiftPackagestoWinOverYourBoyfriend’sMother.”“Thisisnice,”hesays
“Thanks.It’swhatthearticlerec—”Icutmyselfoff.Clearmythroat.“Thanks,”Irepeatawkwardly.
Smilingalittle,hetakestheboxfromme,andIdomybesttoignorethelightbrushofhisknucklesagainstmine,andthewayheseemstonoticeittoo,hisbodytensingforthebriefestfractionofasecondbeforeheturnsaround.
Ican’thelpbutstareasIfollowCazintohisapartment.
Thewholesetupremindsmeofamuseum,oroneofthosecelebrityhometourswhereyouknowthecelebritydoesn’tactuallylivetherehalfthetime.It’stoopolished.Tooextravagant.
Thewallsofthewidecorridorarelinedwithframedblack-and-whitephotosandabstractart—thekindthatlooklikesomeoneaccidentallyspilledapaintbucketontowhitecanvasbutprobablysoldforhundredsofthousandsofdollarsandrepresenttheinherentunknowabilityofthehumanconditionorsomething—andthesegorgeoustraditionalChineselandscapepaintings,withred-crownedcranesandslopingmountainscapturedinrich,sweepingink.
Thentherearealltheantiquesondisplay:shinybronzewareraisedontablesandslenderporcelainvasescoveredintheselovelyfloralpatterns.There’sevenareplica—atleastIthinkit’sareplica—ofalife-sizeterra-cottawarriorjustproppedupcasuallyinonecorner,likethisisatotallynormalchoiceofinteriordecoration.
Ihaveasudden,horrifyingvisionofmyselftrippingonmyownfeetandknockingoverthevasesonebyonelikedominoes,andIinstinctivelymoveclosertoCaz’sside.
“Somyfatherisn’theretoday,”hetellsmeasweturnthecorner,hisvoiceimpassive.“Thehospitalcalledthismorningandsaidtheyneededhimthereforanemergencyoperation.Hewantedtopassalonghisapologies.”
“Of—ofcourse.That’stotallyunderstandable,”Isayquickly.“AndImean,ifhereallywantstomeetme,wecouldalwaysjustreschedule…”
Cazshakeshishead.“Hegets,like,twodaysoffayear.”
Soonthecorridoropensupintoabright,high-ceilingedlivingroomwithhugewindows,andamiddle-agedwomanwaitingbythesofas.
Caz’smomprettymuchlooksexactlyhowIimaginedshewould,onlymorestylish.Herstraight,shoulder-lengthbobisdarkagainstthedewywhiteofherskin,herthineyebrowstattooedon.Andeventhoughshe’sstandinginthemiddleofherownlivingroom,she’swearingthekindofsatinblouseandironedpencilskirtthatwouldsuitanextravagantcompanybrunch.
Iglancedownatmyownplainwhiteshirt,suddenlyafraidI’veunderdressed.Notthatitmatters.Ishouldn’twanttoimpressCaz’smother,whoI’llonlybeseeingthisonetimeinmylife.Butstill.It’stheprincipleofthething.
“Oh,youmustbeEliza!”shegreetsme,walkinguptous.
“Ayihao,”Isaypolitely,andforsomereason,Idecidetobow.“It’slovelytomeetyou.”
Herpink-paintedlipsstretchintoawidesmile.Shehasdeepdimples,Inotice,justlikeherson.
“Wa,Ilikeyourhair,”shetellsmewithanenviouskindofsigh.“It’ssoblackandstraight.Beautiful.”
“Oh.Thankyou.”Irealizeit’smyturntopayheracomplimentnow.Anevenbettercomplimentthantheoneshejustgaveme.“Ireallylikeyour…”Quick.Thinkofsomething,orelseit’llsoundfake.Myeyesroamoverthehouse,athousandfrantic,half-formedthoughtsfiringthroughmybrainatonce.DoIcomplimentthedecor?Isthatathingmothersliketohear?Orhermakeup?Orwoulditberudetodrawattentiontothefactthatshe’swearingmakeupinthefirstplace?Crap.I’mtakingtoolong.Justsaysomething.Anything.“Iloveyour…nose.”
Iwince,almostcertainshe’sgoingtostartadmonishingCazforbringinghomeaweirdo,butshelooksgenuinelydelighted.
“Youdo?”Herfingersfluttertohernose.“Ialwaysworrythatmynosebridgeisn’thighenough—”
“No,no,it’sperfect,”Ireassureher.Then,inasuddenburstofinspiration,Iadd,“Icanreallyseewhereyoursongothisgoodlooksfrom.”
AndIdidn’tthinkitwaspossible,buthersmilegrowsevenwider,intoanexpressionofsuchpuremotherlyaffectionthatIfeelabriefpangbehindmyribs.Beforecominghere,partofmehadwishedshewouldturnouttobemeanandjudgmental,oneofthoseevilmothers-in-lawfromtheC-dramasIalwayswatch,someoneIcouldstaywhollyindifferenttoandforgetaboutthesecondIleftthebuilding.
ButnowIcan’thelpbaskinginherapproval.Wantingmoreofit.HowamIsupposedtohidemyfeelingsfromCazandconvincehismomIcareabouthimatthesametime?
“You’reverysweet,”shesays,thenpatsCaz’shairdownwithonehand(heimmediatelywincesandrufflesitbackintohisusualmessystyle),andaddsinastagewhisper,“Idon’tthinkweshouldfeedhisegoanymore,though.Hehasenoughpeopletellinghimhowhandsomeheiseveryday.It’sprobablywhyhespendssolonginfrontofthemirrorbeforeschool—”
Cazclapshishandstogether.Raiseshisvoice.“Howaboutwestartpreparingfordinner,hmm?”
ButCaz’smothergoesonlikehehasn’tspoken.“Youknowwhat,Ithinkhe’sgrownevenmoreimage-consciousinrecentmonths.Allthatstylingwithhishairandtheexpensiveskincream—mygod,IswearheusesmorethanIdo—”
“Mom,”Cazsays,louder,clearlytryingandfailingtokeephiscool.“Mom,that’sreallynot—you’reexaggerating—”
“Well,thisisveryinterestingtome,”Itellher,ignoringhimtoo.“Skincream,yousay?”
Shenods.“Andfacemasks.I’veneverseenaboyhisagecaresomuchabouthisappearance;didyouknow,justlastTuesday,heinsistedonmissingawholedayofclassesbecausehehadatinyblemishonhisforehead.”
MyeyebrowsshootupasIprocessthis,thenglanceoveratCaz’sflushedface.Hehadtoldmehewasbusyshootingthatday.“Didhereally.”
“Soridiculous,right?SometimesIworrypeopleatschoolteasehimforit.”
“Oh,Idon’tthinkanyoneatschoolknowsthissideofhim,”Isay,marvelingathowquicklyCazSong’scarefreeactorimageisunravelingrightbeforemyeyes—andhowpanickedhelooksbecauseofit.It’ssorareforhimtobetheonediscomposed,self-conscious,thatIcan’thelpenjoyingmyselfalittle.Oralot.
“Look,I’mstarving,”Caztriesagain,makingasharpturntowardthelivingroom.“Canwestartnow?Please?”
Ibitebackasmileandwalkafterhim.“Yourhouseisreallytidy,”Imusealoudaswepassthehall.
“It’salwayslikethis,”Cazsayshastily,atthesametimethathismothersays:
“Oh,yes,Cazspentagescleaningupbeforeyouarrived.Wantedtomakesureeverythingwasniceandspotless.He’ssothoughtful,isn’the?”
“Yeah,”Isaydespitemyself,anunwantedrushofwarmthfillingmychest.“Heis.”Cazdoesn’tlookatme,butInoticethecolorcreepingupthebackofhisneck,allthewaytohisears.AndIrealizeI’minfargreatertroublethanI’dpreparedmyselffor.
Weenterthenextroomtogether,whereCaz’smotherhassingle-handedlysetoutarestaurant-standardfeast.Therearetwoplatesoffish—pan-friedandbraised—andshreddedporkandcrisplotusandsweetyamsdippedinmeltedsugar,andit’sallsomuchthatIoffertohelprightaway.
Still,whileIsetdowntheplates,Ican’tstopsneakingcuriousglancesatCaz,watchinghimashestraightensthechairs,grabsafewspoonstosharethemaindishes,andwipeshishandsfastidiouslyonacleankitchentowel.
BythetimeI’mseated,I’venotedadozentinynewdetails,likehowCazhelpshismotherlifttheheavierpotsandpans,orhowhe’stheonlyoneinthehouseholdwithhisowndesignatedmug,orhowhetriestosneakallthevegetabledishestotheoppositeendofthetable,asfarawayfromhimaspossible.
ThedinnergoesfarmoresmoothlythanIexpected.Inmydesperation,I’dpreparedafewinoffensiveconversationstarterstohelppassthehours,butCaz’smotherendsupdoingmostofthetalking—braggingandcomplainingabouthersoninturns,orbragginginthetonesofmakingacomplaint.
Thelatterisaveryrefined,subtleart,onethatmostAsianparentsseemtoperfectbythetimetheirchildrenenterkindergarten.
“It’sjustsodifficultforme,”shelamentsasshesucksthemeatoffthefishtail.“Alltheseparentskeepaskingme,Howisyoursonsobrilliant?What’syoursecret?AndIhonestlydon’tknowwhattotellthem,youknow?He’salwaysbusydoinghisownthing,andhejusthappenstobeverygoodatit.HowdoIexplainthat?”
“Thatdoessoundquitedifficult,”Isaycooperatively,whileCazavoidsmygaze,hisshouldersstiff.
“It’sashame,though,”shecontinues,jabbingherchopsticksatCaz.“It’dbeevenbetterifhehadthesametalentinactuallyimportantsubjects,likemathorEnglish,no?Ialwaystellhim—Ialwayssay,Erziya,youcan’texpecttomakealivingoffyourlooksandactingforever.Youshouldprioritizeyourstudiesinstead.Butheneverlistens.”
Cazrubshisneckwithill-concealedagitation,thecolorinhischeeksspreading.Everythingabouthimisunusuallytense,thoughIseemtobetheonlyonewhonotices.
“Well,heworksveryhard,”Isayslowly,unabletopressdownthesurgeofdefensivenessinsideme.“Andtherearealotofpeoplewhoexpectdifferentthingsfromhim.Imean,I’mjustimpressedhe’smanagedtojuggleeverythinginthefirstplace.”
Caz’smotherlooksatmewithsurprise.Butjustwhenshe’sabouttosaysomething,Cazleansforwardhurriedly“Mom,wereyougoingtoeatthefishhead?BecauseIthinkweshouldthrowitaway—”
“What?”Inaflash,Caz’smotherhasscrapedalltheremainsofthebraisedfishontoherplate,guardingitprotectivelywithbothchopsticks.“Haswatergottenintoyourbrain?Youbaijiazi,”shesays.Irecognizethetermonlybecauseit’soneofmymother’sfavoriteinsultstoowhenevershecatchesmewastingfoodorspendingmoneyonanythingshedeemsunnecessary.“Thefishheadiswherethegoodstuffis—itistheessence.”
Cazbreathesasmallsighofrelief,andhisdiversiontacticdoesseemtoworkforagoodtenminutes.Butwhenhismotherhasfinishedspittingoutthefishbones,allofwhicharescarilyclean,shedivesrightbackintothetopic.
“Erzi,howarethosecollegeessayscomingalong,bytheway?Youknowhowimportanttheyare.Haveyoufinishedthemall?Icouldaskacolleaguetoread—”
“They’regood,”hesays,hisexpressionworkingtoohardtoremainneutral.He’sfidgetingwiththehemofhisshirt.“They’redone,actually.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.Imanagedtofind…help.”
Weshareasmall,quietlookoverthetable,themomentburninginsidemelikeasecret.
“Oh,that’sgreat,”hismothersaysearnestly,andturnstosmileatme.“He’salwaysbeensostubbornaboutlettingothershelphim.It’skindofsilly,really;whymakethingsunnecessarilyhardforyourself?”
“Itissilly,”Iagree.
Cazclearshisthroat,hisexpressionstrainedwithdiscomfort.“Ijust—don’tlikeinconveniencingpeople.”
Hismotherjabsherchopsticksathimagain,butit’sagestureperformedwithexasperatedaffection.“Shaerzi,whatdoyouknow?Whenyoucareaboutsomeone,youwanttobeinconvenienced—youwouldn’tmindbeinginconveniencedbythemeverydayfortherestofyourlife.That’swhatloveis.That’salllovereallyis.”
Wheneverything’sover,Cazandhismotherbothwalkmedowntothebottomoftheapartment,despitemyinsistencethatIcanwalkalone.There’sachillintheairbutacrispnesstoo,thesweetscentofgrassandpineandnight-bloomingflowers.Ofmeltedsnow.
“Itwasreally,reallynicetomeetyou,Eliza,”Caz’smothertellsme,pattingthebackofmyhand,herhairburningorange-brownunderthecompound’sstreetlights.“Youshouldcomeovermoreoften.”
“I’lltryto,”Isayvaguely,avoidinganypromisesIcan’tkeep.
Shebeams.Patsmyhandonelasttime.“Oh,youmust.”
Aftershe’sinstructedCaztowalkmehome“likeapropergentleman,”shewavesatthebothofusanddisappearsbackintothebuilding.
Andthenit’sjustCazandme.
“So,”Isay,allmyawkwardnessreturning.“Um,youdon’tactuallyhavetowalkwithme—”
“Iwantto,”Cazsays—then,maybecatchingthesurpriseonmyface,pauses.“Imean,Ishould.”
Wewalkinsilenceforawhilethroughthedark,emptycompound,ourhandsclosebutnevertouching,andIcantellthatthere’sasmuchonhismindasthereisonmine.Becausethethingis…thethingisthatIshouldbehappyrightnow,relievedit’sallover,eagertodroptheactandgohomeandneverentertainanotherthoughtabouthisfamilyagain.
Butthroughoutthewholeevening,Ikeepbeingremindedthatthesefeelingssimplyaren’tgoingaway.Becausethisisn’tjustasilly,superficialcrushanymore.It’smore.It’sworse.It’stherealizationthatnomatterhowhardItrytoprotectmyself,nomatterhowmanybarriersIbuildupandlinesIdrawbetweenus,IamdoomedtogetmyheartbrokenbyCazSong.It’sonlyamatterofwhenandhowbadly.
Andmaybeit’salreadyhappening.Eversincethatmomentinthebubbleteashop,he’sbeenactingso—distant.Sodifferentfromhisusualself.Maybethisisjusthiswayofrejectingme.
Idon’tevennoticethepressurebuildinginmythroat,behindmyeyes,untilIsniff,andCazfreezes.
“Whoa.Wait.”Hisgazecutstomine,blackonbrown,concerndancingoverhisfeatureslikelightoverwater.“Areyou…crying?”
“No,”Isniff,tiltingmyheadbackandblinkingfuriouslyattheempty,starlesssky,tryingtowillthewetnessinmyeyesaway.Butsomethingwarmtricklesdownmycheekanyway,tracingatraildowntomyjaw.
Cazhesitatesasecond,openshismouthandclosesitagain,thenreachesoutandbrushesthetearasidewithonegentlethumb.
Isnapmyheaddown,stareathim,thetendernessofthegesturebreakingopensomethinginsideme.Ican’trememberthelasttimeIfeltlikethis—thawedandvulnerableandexposedandwantingtoomuch,myheartstrainingatmaximumcapacity.Ican’trememberthelasttimeIcriedlikethiseither.Notoutofanger,orhumiliation,orfrustration,butbecauseofanunidentifiableachedeepinmychest.
“Sorry,”Imumble,voicehoarseandstuffywithemotion.NowthatI’mcrying,Ican’tseemtostop.Cazdoesn’tsayanything;hesimplywipesawaymytearsastheyfall.“God,Ican’tbelieveI’mactually—Thisissogross.”
Nowhelaughs,asoftsoundthatdissolvesintheairbetweenus.
“It’snotfunny,”Isay,eventhoughI’mlaughingalittletoo,mycheeksdampandmynoserunning,thesoundrattlinginmythroat.I’mbasicallythedefinitionofanemotionalmessrightnow.
“Ofcourseitisn’t,”Cazagrees.Hewipesmycheeksagain,thenbringshisotherhandgentlytothebackofmyhead,consolingmeasifI’mstilljustakid.“Sowhat’swrong?Wasbeinginmyhousereallythatawful?”Hesaysitlikeajoke,butIcanseeatraceofgenuineworryinhisfeatures.
“No,no,no,”Irushtosay.“No,yourhousewasgreat—Imean,theterra-cottawarriorwasaquestionablechoiceofdecoration—”
“Myfather’schoice.MymotherandIhateittoo.Wekeeptryingtodisposeofitwhenhe’snotaround,buthealwaysfindsawaytobringitback.”
“Yourmotherwasalsoverynice,”Itellhimtearily.
Heraiseshisbrows.“Youshould’veseenherstuffingthestatueintoanactualbodybag.”
Isnortoutalaughdespitemyself,thencontinue.“Everythingisnice.But…”
Butthat’stheproblem.
Ifthisgoeson,Imightjustdieofguilt.Butifthisends,Ialreadyhavetoomuchtogrieve.Somehow,despiteallmyrulesandreservations,I’malreadyintoodeep,sofarlostinthewavesthatsinkingfeelseasierthanswimming.
“Hey,”Cazsayssoftly,loweringhimselfontoastonebenchandpullingmetohisside.“Isthis…?”Hepauses.Iwatchhiminhale,exhale.“Isthistoomuchforyou?Doyouwanttostop?”
Myheartdrops,andthenightseemstofreezearoundus.
DoIwanttostop?
Ishould.Thesmartthing—theselflessthing—todowouldbetocallitoffwhileIstillcan,whilemostofmyheartisstillintact.Therearealreadytoomanypeopleinvolvedinthis:Emily,hismother,allmyreadersandhisfans.Andofcoursehewouldn’thaveaproblemcallingitoff;forhim,itreallyisjustanotherjob,nodifferentfromanydramaprojecthe’stakenupbefore.
ButasIgazeoverathisfaceinthedark,thethoughtoflettinghimgonowsendsaspasmofphysicalpainthroughme.BecauseIknowalltoowellhowthingswillturnoutafterourarrangementisover:We’llgobacktobeingstrangers,andI’llbealoneagain,likeIalwaysam.I’llnevergettotalktohim,tobethisclosetohim,evenifit’sjustpretend.
BecauseI’mselfish,andIwanttoliveinthisdreamforaslongasIcan
AndIknowexactlyhowtoensureithappens.
“Wecan’tstop,”Ihearmyselfsay,thelierisingfullyformedtomylips.HowmanylieshaveItoldbynow?Toomanytocount.ButtheonlywayImanagedtoropeCazintothiswholearrangementinthefirstplacewasbymakingitabouthiscareer;nowit’salsotheonlywaytokeephimhere.“Because…becausewestillneedtodoaninterviewtogether.”
Cazdrawsback.“Aninterview?Idon’trememberyoumentioningit.”
“Imust’veforgotten,”Itellhim,hopinghecan’thearthewaverinmybreath.“Butit’swiththishugemediacompany,andIalreadypromisedSarahDiazwe’dbeavailable.It’snotscheduledforuntilaftertheSpringFestivalholidays,though,soifwecankeepthisupuntilthen…”
“I’mwillingifyouare,”hesaysslowly.It’stoodarktomakeouthisexpression,butIcanfeelhisgazeonme.Asifhe’slookingforsomething.“Butthere’snootherreason,besidetheinterview?”
Itense.Thewordsarethere,crowdedinthebackofmythroat.Icouldtellhim.Behonestforonceinmylife.Bebrave.Myheartstartsdrumminglouder,soloudI’mcertainhe’llhearit.Ibreathein.Tellhim.Butallthatcomesoutis:“Ofcoursenot.”
“Ofcoursenot,”herepeats.Forsomereason,hisvoiceisstrained.CHAPTERFIFTEEN
Thelastdaybeforetheholidays,CazrocksuptoEnglishclasslookinghowIfeelmostofthetime—
Likeshit.
Imean,he’sstillCazSong,sohisfeaturesarestillaesthetically,geometricallypleasing,butthere’sasicklypallortohisskin,akindofexhausted,blearylookinhiseyes.Evenhisfootstepsseemheavy.
“Youlookkindoftired,”Iinformhimwhenheplopshisstuffdownnexttomineandslidesintohisusualseat.We’remeanttobeansweringthereadingquestionsforPrideandPrejudice,butwhatwiththeprospectofimminentfreedomandthedrearywinterweather,noone’sactuallyworking—includingtheteacher.
“Really?BecauseIsleptverywelllastnight,”Cazsays.Hisvoicesoundsdifferentaswell,raspierthanusualandquieter.ThisisthekindofthingIdoubtanybodyelsewouldnotice,buteversinceourconversationinthedarknessofthecompound,I’vebeenhypersensitivearoundhim,tunedintohiseverywordandmove,tryingtodecipherhowhereallyfeelsaboutme.It’sbeenalongweek.
“You’renotsick,areyou?”Iask
“Impossible,”hesaysfirmly.“I’mneversick.”
Unconvinced,Ileanoverandpressmyhandtohisforehead—andalmostgasp.Hisskinisburning.“You—you’rereallyhot.”
Insteadofreactingwithfearoralarm,likeanyordinarypersonwould,thecornerofCaz’smouthtugsup.“Youjustnoticed?”
Ipullbackwithascowl.“Don’tbeconceited.Iobviouslymeantyourtemperature;it’swaytoohottobenormal.”
Hewavesmyconcernsaway.“I’mnotsureifyouknowthis,Eliza,”hesaysdryly,“buthumanskinismeanttobewarm.”
“Yeah,exceptyourskinisliterallyburningup—”
Hesighs.TurnsandlooksatmewithsuchcalmIwanttoscream.“Maybemyskinisjustalwaysthisway.”
“AreyousecretlyawerewolffromTwilight,Caz?”Isnap.“Becauseit’seitherthat,oryourbodyisinastateofrapiddeteriorationaswespeak.”
Hislipstwitchagain,buthisvoiceisfirmer,moreserious,whenhesays,“Don’tsoundsocertain.Touchingmyheadwithyourhandisn’tanaccuratewaytoassesstemperatureanyway.”
“Oh,well,sorryfornotcarryingaprofessionalthermometerinmybag—”
“It’dbemoreaccurate,”hecontinues,undeterred,“ifyouweretopressyourforeheadtomine.Thenyoucouldproperlycomparethetemperatures.”
Istareathim.
Hestaresback,achallengeinthesharpsetofhisjaw,thedarkgleamofhiseyes.Hethinksthiswillbeenoughtogetmeoffhisback.HethinksIwon’tbeabletodoit.
“Whateverworks,”Isaysweetly,relishingtheflashofgenuinesurpriseonhisfacebeforeIwraponehandaroundthenapeofhisneckandpullhimforward.
Ourheadstouch,andatonceIcanfeeltheintenseheatrisingfromhisskin,hispartedlips,theflutterofhislonglasheswhenheblinks.Andthenthemostwildlyinappropriateandunhelpfulthoughtofalltimepopsintomybrain:
ThisishowitmustfeeltokissCazSong.
IjerkbacksofastIalmostpullaneckmuscle.
“So,”Cazsaysafterapause.“What’sthediagnosis?”
“Youhaveafever,”Iinformhim,feelingsomewhatfeverishmyself.Suddenly,I’mscaredIwenttoofar.WhatifhethinksIwastryingtomakeamove?OrthatI’dwantedtokisshim?Isitpossibletodetectthesethings?
Theshrillringofthebellcutsthroughmythoughts.WhenIlookup,flustered,Cazisalreadyrisingfromhisseat.
“Areyougoingtoseekoutmedicalattention?”Iaskhopefully.
“No,becauseIdon’tneedit,”hesays,walkingawaybeforeIcanevenprotest,andIdecidethatIhatehim.Iwillnottalktohim,orquestionhimagain,orreachouttohim.Icouldn’tcarelessifhelivesordies.
Seriously.Imeanit.
ThemomentIgethomefromschool,ItextCaz:
hey
areufeelingslightlybetter?
Istareatthemessageforagoodfifteenminutesafterit’ssent,asifIcansomehowwillitthroughtheethertowhereverCazis,butthelittlebluetickthatindicates“read”doesn’tshowup.Whatever.He’sprobablysleeping.Islammyphonedownandtrytodistractmyselfwithasetofchemistryquestionsforhomework.
Itdoesn’twork.
At3:52p.m.,cursingCazSong’snameundermybreath,Imessagehimagain:
justcheckingtoseeifyou’restillalive!!
Butthatdoesn’tgetaresponseeither.
Myimaginationstartstorunwildwiththeveryworstscenarios:Maybehefaintedonhiswayhome,andnoonewasaroundtohelphim.Maybehisfeverwasactuallyasymptomofsomethingfarworse,likecancer,orsomeotherchronicconditionthatonlygiveshimafewmoremonthstolive.Maybehe’scollapsedinsidehisownhouse.Maybehe’salreadydead
Logically,IknowImightjustbescaringmyselffornoreason.Hemightnotevenbethatsick;it’snotlikeI’madoctororanything.Maybeheisn’tlookingathisphone…Ormaybehejustdoesn’tfeelliketextingme.
Butlogicdoesn’tstopmystomachfromtighteningeverytimeIcheckmyphone.
Noneofmymessageshavebeenread.
At4:15p.m.,Icurlupinthecornerofmyroomandstress-sendanotherstringoftexts:
hi,it’smeagain
sorryforthespamlolbutI’mlowkeyreallyworriedaboutu?Areuathomern??
Then,realizingI’vejustadmittedinthewrittenwordthatI’mconcernedabouthiswell-being,Iquicklyadd:
obviouslyit’dlookreallybadifmysupposedbfjustdiedofafeveronecoldfridayafternoonlikesome16thcenturyVictorianhousewife…
imeanifyou’regoingtobeinmortalperil,atleastletitbebcofadramatichorse-ridingaccidentorsmth
Moretimepasseswithoutanyresponse.IforcemyselftohelpEmilywithherEnglishhomeworkandBachopupscallionsfordinnerandoutlineanewblogpost,allthewhilefeelingmybrainslowlydisintegratingfromstress.ButI’mnotjustworriedanymore—I’mpissedoff.AngrythatI’mstartingtheSpringFestivalholidayscheckingmyphoneattwo-minuteintervalsbecauseIcan’tstopthinkingaboutaguy.Angrythatevenafterallthistime,he’sstilltooobsessedwithputtingupafronttoaskforhelpwhenheneedsit.AngrythatI’vealreadygivenhimmyheartandmytrust,onlyforhimtopullawaytimeandtimeagain.
AngrythatIevencaresomuch.
When5:00p.m.rollsaround,IfireonefinalmessageofwarningtoCaz:
ok.look,cazsong.ifyoudon’treplywithinthenexttenminutes,isweari’mgoingtopersonallywritea200,000wordenemies-to-loversfanficaboutuandacactusandpostitonlineanditWILLgoviral
Tenminuteslater,Igrabmycoatandmarchoutthedoor.
???
Eventhoughthesunhasalreadydisappearedbelowthehorizon,leavingtheaircomfortablycool,I’msweatingbythetimeIarriveoutsideCaz’sapartment
Iknockonthedoorandwaitforages,moresweattricklingfrommyhairlineandbeadingovermylips.
Nooneanswers,butIcanhearit:Theshuffleofmovement.Afaintcough.
He’sinside.
Soofcourse,Idowhatanycomposed,rational,completelynonchalantpersonwoulddo:Ibangbothfistsagainstthedoorandstartyellingloudenoughtobeheardfromthenextbuilding.
“Caz!Caz?CazSong.Iknowyou’reinthere—openthedoororelseIswear—”
Withoutwarning,thedoorswingsopen,andIalmostfallheadfirstintoCaz’schest.Atthelastsecond,Igrabthedoor-frametosteadymyself.Icasuallybrushmyhairtothesideasifthisistheaccepted,normalwaytoshowupatsomebody’sdoorstepwhenthey’vebeenignoringyourtexts.
“Jesus,”Cazsays,takingmein.“Eliza.Whatareyou—”
“Areyouokay?”Iinterrupt,thenimmediatelyfeellikeanidiot.He’sobviouslynotokay;helooksevenweakerthanhedidatschool,hiscomplexionghostlypale,hiseyespitch-blackandfeverish.He’salsoinwhatappearstobehispajamas—agraphiclong-sleeveshirtpromotingoneofhisolddramasandboxershorts—whichishowIknowforcertainthatsomething’swrong.Undernormalcircumstances,Cazwouldn’tbecaughtdeadinanoutfitlikethis.
HeseemstorealizehowhelooksatthesametimeIdo,becausehesuddenlybacksawayandstartsclosingthedooragain.“Sorry—it’sreallynotagoodtimerightnow—”
Igrabthehandlebeforehecanshutmeout.“What?Youcan’tbeserious.”
Buthedoesn’tletgo,andforafewabsurdseconds,thetwoofusjuststandthere,teethgritted,wrestlingthedoorbackandforthbetweenus.It’satestamenttohowweakhemustbefeelingthatit’sactuallyaprettyevenmatch.
“Ohmygod,Caz,”Ihuffout,myknuckleswhitearoundthehandle.“Justletmein—”
“No.”
“What’syourdeal?You’resickandyouneedhelp—”
“Idonotneedhelp.”Hesaysitsovehementlymygripalmostfaltersforasecond.Ialmostturnaway.Idon’thavetobehere,ofcourse.Whateverthisislieswellbeyondtherealmsofourarrangement.Butgodhelpme,Icarewaytoomuchaboutthestubbornboyontheothersideofthedoortogo.
“Caz.Don’tbesounreasonable.”
“I’mnot.Ijustthink—Iappreciateyoucomingoverheretocheckonmeandall,butIreallythinkyoushouldleave.”There’sarawedgetohisvoice,frustrationorevenanger,thoughIcan’ttellifit’sdirectedmoreatmeorhimself.“I…Idon’twantyoutoseemelikethis.”
Anincredulouslaughburststhroughmylips.“Thisisnotthetimetobevain.Icouldn’tcarelessifyou’reinyourpajamas—”
“It’snotjustthat.Nobodyeverseesmethisway.”
“Whatway?”
Throughthenarrowsliverinthedoorway,Icatchaglimpseofhisface.Thetraceofinsecuritythere.Theshadowsunderhiseyes.Cazisthemostimage-consciouspersonIknow,andhe’sawreck.
“Comeon,”Isay,pullingharder.“Thinkofitas—asdoingmeafavor.Ifyoudon’tletmein,andyouendupdying,I’llbetheonefacingchargesfornegligenceasthelastpersontohaveseenyou.Therestofmylifewillberuined.”
Herollshiseyes,butIfeelthedoorgoslightlyslackonhisend.“Okay,that’sdefinitelynothowthatworks.”
“I’llbeconsumedbyguilt,”Igoonasifhehasn’tspoken.“Thepolicewillaskme:Howcouldyoujustleavehimthere?AndI’llhavetoexplain:Ididn’twantto,buthebasicallyshutthedoorinmyface—”
Hismouthtightens.“Fine.ButIwanttomakeitclearthatyou’reherebyyourownchoice.Idon’tneedhelporwhatever.I’mcompletelyokay.”Thewordshavebarelylefthislipswhenhedissolvesintoaviolentcoughingfit
ItrynottolaughathimasIfollowhimintothehouse.Atfirst,IthinkthesituationmightnotbeasbadasIfeared.He’swalkingwellenoughonhisown,hisbackturnedtowardme,hiseverystepstiffbutdeliberate,hisshouldersthrownbackasifhe’sinthemiddleofshootingascene.Heevenmakesapointofcheckinghishairinthehallwaymirror.Butbeforehe’smadeitintothenextroom,heswaysonhisfeetanddoublesoverrightafterward,onehandgrippingtheclosesttableforsupport.Hisbreathinguneven,hisknucklesbone-white.
Myheartlurches.
“Yes,Icandefinitelyseehowokayyouare,”ImutterasIstepforwardandplaceonearmaroundhim,tryingtoholdhimup.Hisweightshiftsontome,andInearlystumbleunderit.“You’re—you’realotheavierthanyoulook.”
“It’sallmuscle,”heprotests,evenashe’sstrugglingtostandup.
God,he’sridiculous.
Wemanagetocrossthecorridorandenterthelivingroomtogether—slowly,clumsily,likeapairfromoneofthosethree-leggedraces.Butwemanageitallthesame.AsIlowerCazontotheclosestcouch,onehandrestedprotectivelyaroundthebackofhisneck,theotheraroundhiswaist,Iscantheroom.It’smessierthanitwaswhenIvisitedtwoweeksago,withjacketsstrewnoverthepillowsandannotatedscriptslyingopenonthecoffeetable,butthere’snosignofhisparents.Notevenascarf,oranextrapairofslippers.
“They’rebothonbusinesstrips,”Cazsays,readingmymind.“AmedicalconferenceinShanghai.Leftafewdaysago.”
“Oh.”ThisdoesanswerwhatIwaswonderingearlier,butforsomereason,Ifindmyselfstillsearchingthetables,themarblehighcounter,eventhecarpetedfloor,asifsomethingelseismissing…Andthenithitsme.“Isn’tthereanywateraroundhere?”
Hestiffens,confusionflashingoverhisface.“Sorry,didyouwantadrink?I’llgetyousome—”
Andheactuallymakestogetupfromthecouch.
“No,no,that’snotwhatImean,”Irushtosay,pushinghimbackdown.Hecomplies,butIcanfeelthetensioninhisarms,therigidityofhisframe.“Imeant,haven’tyouhadanywatersinceyougothome?Or,like,medicine?”
Hegivesaslight,defensiveshakeofhishead.Looksaway.
“Well,haveyouhaddinner,atleast?”
“Dinner,”herepeats,likeit’saforeignword.“Does…chewinggumcount?”Hemustseemyexpression,becauseheglowersback—thoughhelookssoweak,it’sclosertoasulk.“Okay,it’sreallynotthatbigadeal.”
AndeventhoughIknowhe’ssickandI’mmeanttobeextrapatientandcaringandallthat,Ithrowmyhandsupinfrustration.“Ihonestlydon’tknowhowyou’vemanagedtostayalivethesepastseventeenyears.Like,doyoujustnoteatortakecareofyourselfinanywaywhatsoeverandjustpraythatyourbodywillmiraculouslypullthroughenoughto—”IstopabruptlywhenIseehimsmiling.Myhandsdropbackdown.“I’msorry,istheresomethingfunnyaboutthis?”
“No,”hesays,butthecornersofhislipstughigher,andIcan’ttellifhe’smockingmeornot.“Nothing.”
Iglareathim.“Tellme.”
“Idon’t—”
“Tellme.”
“Fine.It’sjustcutethatyou’resoconcerned,that’sall,”hesayswithashrug.
Iopenmymouth,thensnapitshut.Foramoment,I’mrenderedgenuinelyspeechless.“I’mnotconcerned,”Ifinallyforceout,foldingmyarmstightacrossmychest.“I’mirritated.Andhorrifiedbyyourtotaldisregardforyourownhealth.”
Hissmilewidens.“Clearly.”
Itwistaround,determinedtoignorethatsmile.I’veobservedCazSonglongenoughbynowtoknowthathedialsuphischarmswheneverhefeelsuncomfortableoratriskofbeingvulnerable.He’dflirtwithateaspoonifthesituationcalledforit.“I’mgoingtomakesomefood,”Iannounce,headingforthekitchen.“Youjuststayhereand—Idon’tknow.Rest.Trynottodie.”
“I’lltrymybest,”hepromises,mocksolemn.
OneofthemoreusefulskillsI’vepickedupfromallthemovingaroundistheabilitytonavigateprettymuchanyunfamiliarspace.EventhoughI’veonlybeentoCaz’splaceoncebefore,andI’veneversetfootinhiskitchen,ittakesmelessthanaminutetofigureoutwhereallthepansandcutleryandingredientsare.Anotherminutetofillupapotofwater,turnthestoveon,andstartrinsingacupofwhiterice.
ThenIopenhisfridge,blinkingintothewhite-blueartificiallight.
There’sanalarmingshortageoffreshvegetablesandmeatinside.Ahalf-openedpacketofYakultandthatpopularWanglaojiherbaldrinkMaloves.Threecannedlychees,twoyogurts.Analmost-emptyjarofextra-mildLaoganmasauce,somewitheredspringonions,andafewbottlesoffishsauce.
Hardlyenoughtoscrapetogetherameal.
“Areyoujudgingthecontentsofmyrefrigerator?”Cazcallsfrombehindme.ThecouchislinedupwiththekitchenentrancesothathehasafairlyclearviewofeverythingI’mdoing.
“Yes.Verymuchso,”Ireply,andglancebackathim.“Isitalwaysthisempty?”
Heliftsashoulder.“Depends.”
“On?”
“Howmanypeopleareathome.Ifit’sjustme…”
Icanguessatwhathewasabouttosay.Ifit’sjusthim,there’snopointincookingortryingveryhardatanyofthisdomesticstuff.AndjudgingfromeverythingIknowabouthimandhiscareerandhisfamily,it’sprobablyjusthimquiteoften.
“I’mfinewithit,”hesaysabruptly,likehecanmaybesensetheconclusionI’mdrawingonmyown.“Imean,mymother’shomeoftenenough,andmyfather—he’sliterallybusysavinglives.WhatkindofassholewouldIbeifIresentedthat?”
“I…don’tthinkit’dmakeyouanasshole,”Itellhim,pickingmywordswithcare.“Ithinkit’djustmakeyousomeone’sson.”
Theemotionthatcrosseshisfacethen—it’snotsomethingIcanbegintoputintowords.
Butitmakesmyhearthurt.
Myattentionispulledbythesudden,violentboilingofwater.Iliftthepotlidbeforethewaterhasachancetospillover,andpourthewhitericeinside,stirringitafewtimes.
“Ithoughtyoucouldn’tcook,”Cazsays.
Irollmyeyes.“Ican’tbake,butI’vebeencookingformyfamilysinceIwasnine.I’mprettysureIcanhandlethis.”
“Sinceyouwerenine?”There’sacuriousedgetohistone,likehegenuinelywantstoknow.
Ihesitate.Thisisn’tthesortofthingI’dusuallytalkabout,notevenwithZoe,buthestilllookssouncomfortablejustlyingthere,sofrustratedwithhimself,thatIfigureitcan’thurttodistracthim.“Well,yeah.Mymomwasalwaystoobusywithworkorawayonabusinesstriptoworryaboutdinner,andmydad’sworkschedulewastooirregulartoallowhimtocookatthesametimeeveryday,soIguessIkindofjustnaturallytookover.”Istirthepotagain.“Idon’tknow.Thecookingitselfhasneverreallyinterestedme,butIlikedfeelinglikeIwasmakingacontributiontothefamily,youknow?ProvingIcouldhelpoutinmyownway.”
Soon,Ihavetheporridgecookingandabowlofporkflossandscallionspreparedtosprinkleontop.WhenIturnaroundtocheckifCazhasfallenasleep,he’swatchingme,hisblackgazeinexpressiblysoft.Serious.
Itmakesmenervous.
“Whatareyoustaringat?”Iask,tryingtosoundcasualdespitetheheatrushingtomycheeks.
Hetiltshishead,buttheintensityofhisgazedoesn’twaver.“Nothing.”
???
Whentheporridgeisready,IbringitovertoCazonafancytray,crouchingdownbesidehimashesitsupcarefully,hisbackrestingagainstthecouchcushions.
“Youcandrinkityourself,right?”Iask,holdingthebowlandspoonouttohim.
Hesomehowhastheenergytorollhiseyesatme.“Don’tworry,Eliza,Iwasn’tgoingtoaskyoutofeedme.”
“Wasn’texpectingyouto,”Imumble,butnowI’mwonderingifthat’swhatIshould’veoffered.No,Idecide.He’srunningafever—hehasn’tlostfeelinginhislimbs.
“Thankyou,bytheway,”Cazsaysashetakestheporridgefromme,thewhitesteamunfurlingbetweenus.“For—forallthis.”Heclearshisthroat.“Ihaven’t…Noone’sreallytakencareofmelikethisinalongtime.So.Thankyou.”
“There’sabetterwaytosaythankyou,youknow,”Itellhim,hopingtokeepthingslight.Tohidethewarm,exquisiteachebloominginsideme,theforbiddenimpulsetosettheporridgebowlbackdownandwrapmyarmstightaroundhim,holdhim,havehimholdmetoo.Toofferhimthewholeworld,protecthimfromeverythingthatcouldpotentiallyhurthim.“Justthreelittlewords.”
Hestillsforamoment,confusionripplingoverhisfeatures,beforehecatcheson.Huffsoutasigh.“Idon’t—”
“Comeon.Youknowwhattheyare.”
“Eliza—”
“Caz.”
“Okay,fine.”Abeat.Hiseyeslockonmine,astubbornmuscletwitchinginhisjaw,andthenextthreewordsthatleavehismouthsoundpriedout,strained.“You…wereright.”
Ifeelmylipssplitintoabroadgrin,savoringthissmallvictory,thelookofresignationonhisface.“Inthatcase,you’reverywelcome.”
Hepauses.Thenadds,“AndI’malsosorry,bytheway.”
Ilookathiminsurprise.“Aboutwhat?”
“Idon’tknow.Thingshavejustbeenabitweirdbetweenusrecently,and…”Helookslikehe’sgoingtosaysomethingelse,andmyheartlurches—butthenhestopshimself.“Butwe’recoolnow,yeah?”
Iswallow.Smile.Trynottodwelltoohardonwhathemeans,ifIwastheonewhomadethingsweirdinthefirstplace,ifhe’sstillthinkingaboutthatdayinthemilkteastore,ormaybemyembarrassingbreakdownbelowhisapartment.“Yeah.Ofcourse.”
Later,hefinisheshisdinnerandcomplimentsmycooking(“Itreallyismuchbetterthanthecake”),andIstaybyhissideuntilhefallsasleep.Untilthemoonriseshigherinthenightsky.
Andlongafterthat.
AsIlookathim,sounguardedinsleep,Igetthisoddfeelinginmychest—akindoftwistingsensation,tenderasafreshsore,sharpasthestingoftears.Overwhelminglyso.Likemyheartistryingtoclimbupmythroat.
Ilurchbackward.
Caz’seyesflutteropen,hisgazefocusingonme,nightblackandintent.Ifeelalittleshakyundertheweightofit.
“Whereareyougoing?”heasks.
“To,um.”Myvoiceisfailing.“Tocleanup—”
“Stay,”hewhispers,thewordfallingsofastfromhislipsitcouldbeinstinct,aslipofthetongue,amistake.Helooksalmostsurprisedhimself,almostshy,thoughhedoesn’ttakeitback.Doesn’trunaway,thewayIwould.Andit’sonlywhenIseethetense,rollingmotioninhisthroatthatIrealizejusthowharditisforhimtobewitnessedinhiscurrentraw,weakenedstate.Toaskforanythingfromanyone.
Itmakesmewanttobebravertoo,toofferhimsomethinginreturn.Somethingreal,foronce.
“I—Okay.”Slowly,Ikneelbackdownbythecouch.It’ssoquietintheroomthatIcanhearmyeverystaggeredbreath,thelowcreakofthefloorboardsasIshiftmyweight.Everythingisshifting.Tilting.Careeningwildlyoffcourse,andI’mnotsurehowtomakeitstop,orifthat’swhatIevenwant.“Okay.Butononecondition.”
“What?”heasks,instantlywary.
“Ifyoueverfeelsickagain,orhurt,orinjured,orweak,youhavetotellme.Don’tjustkeepittoyourselfandacttough—”
Hestartstoprotest,butIcontinueoverhim,knowingI’mprobablycrossingsomeinvisiblelinebutnotcaring.
“Becausenomatterwhathappens…we’refriendsnow,right?Iwanttobethepersonyouknowyoucanturnto.Theplacewhereyoufeelsafe.Iwantyoutofeellikeyoucanjustbe—human,infrontofme.Likeyoudon’thavetoalwaysshowyourbestside.Okay?”Iaddwhenheopenshismouthtoargueagain.“Promiseme.”
Heswallows,hard.Seessomethinginmyface—resolve,maybe,oralltheworryI’vebeentryingdesperatelytoconceal—thatmakeshimnod.“Fine.”
“Fine,”Irepeat,lettingoutaquietbreathofrelief.
“Good.”
Asmallsmilecurvesmylips.“Great.”
Andthen,sinceI’vecrossedtheforbiddenlinealready,Ireachoverimpulsivelyandstrokehishairgently,withonehand.
It’ssoft.EvensofterthanIexpected.Caz’seyesfallclosedagain,butnotinatiredway;onthecontrary,allthemusclesinhisbodyseemsuddenlytensed.
HeonlyseemstorelaxwhenIscootforward,bringmyhandlowerdowntohisarm,andtellhimwhatI’vewantedsomeonetosaytomeforaslongasIcanremember.WhatI’mstillwaitingforsomeonetosay.“I’mnotgoinganywhere.Ipromise.”CHAPTERSIXTEEN
AfteryearsofcelebratingtheLunarFestivalinplacesthatfocusmostlyonChristmasandNewYear’s,it’snicetofinallygetanactualpublicholidayforit.
Thetwo-weekbreakisablessinginmorewaysthanone.WhateverchangedbetweenCazandmethateveninginhisapartment—andsomethingdidchange;Ifeltitdowntomytoesonmywayhome—isputonholdwhileCazleavesforHengdianforthewholelengthoftheholiday.Imanagetopolishupmyfirstbatchofcollegeapplicationsjustintimefortheapproachingdeadlines.AndMamanagestoorganizealong-overduefamilyreunionataseafoodrestaurant;turnsoutthatgettingoversixtyfamilymemberstogetherinthesameplaceatthesametimeis,inMa’swords,alogisticalnightmare.
Assoonasweenterthroughtherestaurant’slantern-litdoubledoors,we’regreetedbyanopendisplayoffishtanks:crayfishscuttlingacrosstheglassandbarramundiswimmingthroughthemurkywaters.Istareatthemforafewmoments,attheirgapingmouthsandblankblackstares,thentearmyeyesaway.Knowinghowthesetypesofplaceswork,oneofthemwillenduponmyplateprettysoon.Betternottogettooattached.
Acheery,baby-facedwaitressleadsustowardamassiveprivateroomatthefarendoftherestaurant,wherewehearourrelativeslongbeforeweseethem.Mystomachflutterswithnerves.IcanonlypraymymediocreChineseskillspullthrough.
Andthenitbegins.
Itfeelslikesomeelaborate,extended-familyversionofameet-and-greet.Ma,Ba,Emily,andIlineupononesideoftheroom,ourbackstothefloralfoldingscreens,brightsmilesarrangedonourfaces,whileourrelativescomeuponebyonetopinchourcheeksandoffergifts:bagsoffreshreddatesandapricotsfromtheirowngardens,andexpensivecalligraphysetstohelpus“getbackintouchwithourculture.”Fatredpacketsareshovedintoourhands(despiteMa’spoliteproteststhatwe’retoooldforChineseNewYearmoney)andmanyunnecessary,supposedlywell-intentionedcommentsaboutmyweightaremade.
Therearethesharp-eyed,hard-to-impressunclesaskingaboutmygradesandthegossipingauntswhoIcandistinguishonlybythesizeoftheirperms.ThentherearetherelativesIdon’tknowhowtoaddress:Ifit’ssomething-yiorsomething-yilaolaoorifthey’reactuallyourmuch-oldercousins,soEmilyandIendupsneakingglancesatourphonestosearchfortherightnames.
It’sallveryloudandoverwhelmingandchaoticand…I’vemissedthis.Theenergyintheairandthewarmpressoflaughterfromallsides.Thestrangesensationoflookingoutintoacrowdedroomandrecognizingvariationsofmymother’ssmile,mysister’seyes.
Ourlaolao—Ma’smom—isthelastpersontocomegreetus,andpeoplepartforherthewayyouwouldforthequeen.Thereissomethingregalabouther,eveninherlatesixties:Thehardcreasesofherface,thesteelylookinhereyes.Thehistorythere.She’swearingthesamefadedpurpleblousesheworeinoneofthefewphotosofustogether,andhersilver-streakedhairhasbeenpinnedupinanelegantbun.
“Laolaohao,”Isaydutifullywhenshestopsbeforeme.
Withoutaword,shepullsmeintoafierce,bone-crushinghug,envelopingmewiththesweetscentofherbsandjasmineteaandsomekindoflaundrypowder.Iawkwardlypatthebackofhershirt,unsurehowelsetoreciprocate.
“I’msogladyoucamehome,”shewhispers,herbreathwarmonmyskin,hercallousedgriptightaroundmyshoulders,asifshe’sscaredI’llvanishthesecondsheletsgo.
Whenshedoesletgoafewmomentslater,I’malarmedtoseethathereyesarerimmedred.Yetevenmorealarmingisthefaintburningsensationbehindmyowneyes.Iblinkhardandpullmylipsintoabroadsmile.
“Ofcoursewecamehome,”Itellherinmyclumsy,childishMandarin.“You’rehere.”
ShesmilesbackatmewithsomuchlovethatitfeelslikeatangibleweightbeforemovingontoEmily.
ButIremainrootedtothespot,thinking.Aboutfamily.Abouthome
Aroundfiveyearsago,ataschoolIcanbarelyrememberthenameofanymore,ourEnglishteacherhadaskedustowriteanessayonthetopicofhome.Everyoneelseknewimmediatelywhattowrite:theirchildhoodhouseinOhio,theirfamilyfarminTexas,thecitythey’dlivedintheirentirelives.Simple.OnlyIhadbalkedattheidea.
Then,likeacompleteidiot,I’dactuallyraisedmyconcernswiththeteacherinfrontofallmyclassmates.
“Whatifwedon’treallyknowwherehomeis?Orwhatif—whatifwedon’thaveone?”I’dasked.
Afewpeoplelaughed,asifIwasbeingfunnyordifficultonpurpose.
Theteacherjuststaredatmeforabeat.“Don’tberidiculous,”hesaid.“Everyonehasahome.”
I’dtriedtoexplainwhatImeant,butbythen,theteacherhadlosthispatience.HesaidIwaslazy,thatIwastryingtogetoutofastraightforwardassignmentbymakingupnonexistentproblems.Hedidn’tunderstand;noneoftheotherpeopleinmyclassseemedtoeither.Theyhadn’tspenthalftheirchildhoodattendingfamilygatheringsandeatingPekingduckrollsandflyingkitesinBeihaiPark,onlytobewhiskedawaytoacountrywheretheycouldn’tspeakthelanguage,couldn’tevenspelltheirownname.Theyhadn’tlearnedtorideabikeonthewide,sunbakedroadsofNewZealand,onlytohavetosellthatbiketwomonthslaterwhentheymovedtoSingapore.Theyhadn’tspenttheirtenthbirthdayonaplane,andtheireleventhbirthdaycryinginthebathroominEngland,becausetheydidn’tknowanybodythereandsomekidintheirnewclasshadmadefunoftheiraccent.
Homeforthemwasonepiece,oneplace,notsomethingscatteredallaroundtheglobe,fragmentedintosomethingbarelyrecognizable.
ThiswaswhatIendedupwritingaboutformyessay,buttheteacherhadgivenitbacktome,unmarked.SaidIdidn’tunderstandthepointoftheassignment.Askedmetodoitagain.
Sothesecondtimearound,Imadeastoryup.IchoseoneofthecitiesI’dlivedinatrandomandwroteabunchofbullshitabouthowIbelongedthere.Inreturn,IgotanA-plus,andthecomment:Thatwasn’tsohard,wasit?
ButasIgazeoutattheroomnow,Iwonderifmaybetheanswertothatassignmentwasassimpleasthis.Righthere.ThinkingofallthoseroomsIwalkedthroughateight,ten,fourteenyearsoldandallthepeopleImetinthem…ifmaybeIleftapieceofmyselfinthemandtookapieceofthemwithmetoo;isn’tthatwhathomesaremadeof?Acollectionofthethingsthatshapeyou?
MyheartfeelsalittlelighterasItakemyseatbetweenSecondAunt(theonewiththebiggestperm)andThirdAunt,waitingforthedishestocome.Sofarthereareonlyprawncrackersandsaltedpeanutsspreadoutovertheredtablecloth.
“…I’mtellingyou,theywouldbesocutetogether,”SecondAuntissayingasshepicksuponepeanutafteranotherusingonlyherchopsticks.“Iwouldn’tbesurprisediftheywerealsodatinginreallife.It’scommonwithactors,youknow.LikeTangYanandLuoJin.OrZhaoYoutingandGaoYuanyuan.Allthattimetogetheronset—something’sboundtohappen.”
“Yes,yes,andthey’rebothverygood-looking,”ThirdAuntagrees.“Theirchildrenwouldbebeautiful—Icanjustimagineit.”
Ichewquietlyonaprawncrackerandletthemgossipinthebackground.ButthenSecondAuntsays:
“ThatCazSongreallyisgood-looking,isn’the?HiscostumedesignerinTheLegendofFeiyanmust’velovedhimtoo;I’veneverseensomeonepulloffanancientcostumesowell.”
AndIalmostchokeonmycracker.Ohmygod.They’retalkingaboutCaz.NotjustCaz,buthimandhisformercostar,AngelaFei.TheactresswhowasliterallyvotedoneoftheMostStunningWomenAlivelastyear.EventhoughIknowtheyaren’ttogether,asharptastefillsmymouth.Istopeating.
Acrossthetable,Emilyopenshermouth—probablytoannouncetotheentiretablewhoCazisreallydating.Ishootheraquickwarninglook.Luckily,oursistertelepathyisasstrongasever,becauseshepauses,andsnapshermouthshutagain.
Neitherofmyauntsnotices.
“No,hangon.I’mprettysureIheardsomewherethatCazisalreadyinarelationship.Withasuren,noless,”SecondAuntsays,hergoldandjadebraceletsjanglingtogetherassheshakesherhead.Suren:non-celebrity.Shesaysitthewayanoblewomanwouldsaythewordpeasant
ThirdAunt’sbrowsrise.“Asuren?Seriously?WhenhecouldhavehadAngelaFei?”
“Maybeshe’sevenprettierthanAngela,”SecondAuntsays,inatonelikeshehighlydoubtsit.“Ormaybeshehasagoodpersonality.”
ThirdAuntsnorts.“Whoareyoukidding?Youngpeoplethesedaysdon’tdatebasedonpersonality.Especiallynotwhenyou’reaspopularasCazSong.”Thensheswivelsherheadtowardme.“Whatdoyouthink,Ai-Ai?”
“H-huh?”Imanage.It’samiracleIcanfindthestrengthtospeakatall.
“You’vebeenlistening,haven’tyou?”shesays,wavingahandintheair.“Canyouthinkofanygoodreasonwhyasuper-attractive,wealthyactornearthepeakofhiscareerwouldchoosesomerandomgirloverhisgorgeouscostar?”
“Um,no,”Isay,swallowinghard,astonelodgedinmygut.“No.Ireallycan’t.”
I’mlyinginbedthatnight,stillwallowinginself-pityfrommyaunts’conversationearlier,whenCazcallsmeforthefirsttime.
“Hello?”Isay,pressingthephonebetweenmycheekandpillow.“ThisisEliza.Uh,didyoucallthewrongnumberorsomething?”
Ihearhimlaughthen,thelowsoundwashingoverthespeakerlikeatideofftheshore,anddespitemyself,Iflush.There’ssomethingstrangelyintimateaboutcallingsomeoneinthedark.It’slikelisteningtoyourfavoritesonginthemiddleofacrowdedsubway;theworldnarrowsdowntojustyouandthisvoiceinyourear,whileeveryoneelsearoundyougoesabouttheirlives,completelyoblivious.Itfeelssacred.Likeasecret.
“Iknowit’syou,Eliza,”hesayssimply.“Ijustwantedtotalktoyou.”
“Oh,”Isay.
“Yeah.”Hepauses,andthere’safaintrustlingsound,thebriefcreakofsprings,likehe’ssittingdownsomewhere.“Areyoubusynow,or—”
“No,”Itellhim,becauseitappearsI’veforgottenhowtohaveanormalconversationconsistingofmorethanonesyllable.Thenagain,I’veneverhadaboycallmeatnightbefore,notunlessitwasforagroupproject.“Uh,you?”
“I’mbackinthehotel,”hereplies.“Wejustfinishedshootingaprettybigscenetoday.”There’sadistinctpause.“Akissscene,actually.”
“Oh,”Isayagain.Idon’tknowwhyhe’stellingmethis,orhowthehellI’mmeanttorespond,orhowtoblocktheimageoutfrommybrain.Caz.Cazkissingsomeoneelse,someonebeautiful,withlonglegsandshinyhairandperfectskin.SomeonelikeAngelaFei.“Um,that’snice.Congrats.”
“I…wantedtotellyou.”Maybeit’sbecauseofthestaticfromthespeakerorthereceptiononhisend,buthesoundsalmostnervous.“Imean,IfeellikeIshould.”
“What?”
“Thekissscene,”hesaysslowly,withmeaning,andIkindofwishhe’dstopsayingthatword,becauseit’sinvitingallsortsofconfusing,forbiddenthoughtsabouthimintomyhead.“Itwas—Imean,wehadtodofivedifferenttakes,anditwaslong,andmyhandswereonherwaist,buttherewasn’ttongueoranything.Andourclotheswereon.Fully.”
“Iam…soconfusedrightnow.”
Hemakesasmall,frustratednoise.“DoyouseriouslynotunderstandwhatI’msaying?”
“No,”Itellhim,frustratedtoo,heatspreadingfastovermybody,myface.“AllIcanhearisyoudescribingyourselfkissingsomeoneinveryrichdetail.Whichisjustlovely—again,reallyhappyforyou,but—”
“You’renot—you’renotjealous?”
OfcourseIam,Iwanttosay.Iwanttohangupthephoneandgofindhiminpersonandshakehim.I’msojealousit’sembarrassing.Itmakesmesick,eventhoughIdon’treallyhavearighttobejealousinthefirstplace.There’snothinginouragreementthatforbidshimfromkissingotherpeople.Especiallyconsideringhowit’spartofhisjob.
Butmaybe,afterthatnightathisplace,I’veaccidentallyletsomethingslipagain…Maybehe’sregrettingit,openinguptomeevenalittle,orhe’sworriedI’vetakenitthewrongway,thatIthinkIhavesomeclaimonhimnow.Maybethat’swhyhe’sasking.
“OfcourseI’mnotjealous,”Itellhim,andevenmanagealittlelaughasmynailscurlintomysheets.“WhywouldIbe?”
“Okay.Okay,good.”Apause.“Ifyou’resure.”
“Iamsure.Very.”
“Okay,”herepeatsslowly.
Ipullthephoneawayfrommyearforasecond,stareatit,thenbringitback.Whatevenisthisconversation?WhyamIdoingthistomyself?WhydoIfeellikeIhavewhiplasheverytimeItalktohim?“Okay,”Isaytoo,afterapause.“Well,thiswas—fun.Ifyouwerejustcallingtoconfirmthat…Bye?Iguess?”
“Sure”comeshiseventualreply.IwishIcouldseehim,hisexpression.WishIcouldfigureoutwhathe’sthinking.“Bye,then.”
Ihangupfirst,chuckingmyphoneacrossthebedandburyingmyheadbeneathmypillowwithagroan.“Whatthehell,”Imutteroutloud,stillhalf-convincedCazhadcalledmebymistake.Andevenifhehadn’t,there’snowayhewouldwanttocallmeagainafterthis.
Butasalways,CazSongmanagestosurpriseme.Becausehedoescallmeagainthenextnight,atroughlythesametime,andthenightafterthat,andafterthat.Idon’tknowifit’sasafakeboyfriend,tocontinueourchemistrytrainingsessionswhilehe’saway,orasafriend,whichIguessiswhatwearenow.I’mtooscaredtoask.Tooscaredtoruinanothergoodthing.
Atfirst,theconversationsaremoreawkwardthannot—atleastonmypart—andlimitedtoyourtypical,politetopics:Whatdidyoudotoday?Howwasshooting?Didyouseethisper-son’slatestpost?
Yetthecallsgetlongerandlonger,passingtheone-hourmarkandcontinuinguntilthestreetsoutsideareperfectlyquietandIcanonlyhearmyownbreathinginthenight.Soon,theybecomeahabit.
Sometimeswetalkuntilmyphonerunsoutofbattery.SometimesIfallasleepwithhisvoiceinmyear.
Withoutmeaningto,Istarttellinghimstoriesaboutmylifeoverseas.StoriesI’venevertoldanyoneelsebefore,thatI’vekeptlockedupinsidemeforsolongtheyfeelmorelikeascenefromanoldfilmIoncewatchedthansomethingthatactuallyhappenedtome.ItellhimaboutthelastdinnerwehadwithfamilybeforeweleftBeijing,howmylaolaohadcriedandIdidn’tunderstandwhy.ItellhimabouttheclassmatesIhated,theteachersIloved,ifonlybecausetheywereunderstandingwhenIworethewronguniformorgotlostaroundcampus.
Andinexchange,hetellsmethethingsheleavesoutofinterviews.Likehowhesecretlysearcheshisownnameonlineeverydayandveryoccasionallyreadsfanfictionabouthimself.Howhehatesheights,andisafraidofthedark.Howheknowsexactlywhathedislikes,butdoesn’talwaysknowwhathewants
“Isthatwhyyou’replanningtogoalongwiththecollegesyourmotherpickedoutforyou?”Ican’thelpasking.
Apause.“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Comeon,Caz,”Isayquietly,staringupattheceilingandwonderinghowtheceilinglooksfromhishotelroom.It’sprobablyfancier,taller,chandeliersglitteringeverywhere.“IwastherewhenIwrotethosecollegeessayswithyou,remember?Youcouldn’ttellmeasinglethingyouwerelookingforwardto—Ihadtomakeitupforyou.Butwhenyoutalkaboutacting—you’relikeadifferentperson.Youloveit.Andyou’regoodatit.”
“It’smorecomplicatedthanthat,”heprotests.“Mymother—”
“Seemedfairlyreasonable.Maybeit’lltakesomeconvincing,butifyoureallytriedtotalktoher…”
“Butthat’stheproblem.”Heswallows,andIimaginehimtugginghishair,pacingtheroomincirclesthewayhedidthatdayoutsidetheparent-teacherinterviews.“Ifthiswerejustaboutdisciplineormakingmemiserable,Iwouldn’tfeelbaddoingwhateverIwanted,youknow?Exceptshe’snotlikethat.She’sjusttryingtolookoutforme,helpsecureagood,stablefuture—andsometimes…alotofthetime,Ithinkshehasapoint.
“BecauseIhavesomanyfriendswhowantedtobeactors,butneverlandedamajorrole,orwhoworkedtheirassesoffandlandedtherolebutcompletelyfailedtobreakoutand—Imean,Iloveacting,butit’shardandunpredictable.Andbesides,howcanIevenbesurethisiswhatIwanttodofortherestofmylife?I’veonlylived,like,aquarterofmylifesofar.WhatifIturndownanofferfromagreatcollegenowonlytorealizeintwoyearsthatI’mnotinterestedinactinganymore?Whatthen?”
Hestopstalkingabruptly,hisbreathinglouderthannormal,asifhe’sbeenrunningthewholetimehewasdeliveringhismonologue.
CazSongisn’tonlygoodathidingphysicalpain.He’sgoodathidingtheemotionalstufftoo.Justfromlookingathim,seeingthewayheactsatschool,I’dneverguesshethoughtsomuchaboutthethingshe’sjustsaid.
“Justconsiderit,”Itellhimwhenhisbreathinghasslowed.“Okay?”
“Okay,”hesaysreluctantly,afterabeat.“Okay,I’llthinkaboutit.”
“Oh,andCaz?”
“Yeah?”
“Thankyouforkeepingyourpromise.”Iclearmythroat,hatinghowawkwardIsound.“Fromthatnightatyourplace.Iknowit’shardforyoutotalkaboutallthis,butI’m—I’mgladyoudid.”
“It’snobigdeal,”hesays,thoughIcantellitis.Thenhepauses.InavoicesosoftIbarelyhearit,headds,“Thesameforyou.”
Myheartstutters.“What?”
“Thatthingabout…beingthereforme.Iwanttobethatforyoutoo.”
Iclosemyeyesagainstthewords.Ofcoursethey’renicetohear.Ofcourse.ButthisisCazSongwe’retalkingabout;he’sutteredathousandromanticlinesjustlikethison-screen,allwithseemingsincerity.Ican’ttrusthimtoactuallymeanthem,can’tdeludemyselfintothinkinghemightreciprocatemyfeelings,whennobody’severfallenformebefore.Whenhe’sCaztheRisingStar,andI’m..me.
Still,afterwehangup,ittakesmeforevertofallasleep.
I’msousedtoseeingCaz’snameflashingovermyscreenthatwhenmyphonebuzzesonSaturdayevening,Ipickupwithoutlooking.
“Didyoufinallygettokillthegeneraltoday?”Iask,referringtothescenehe’dlasttoldmehewaspreparingfor.Anunexpectedbenefitoffake-datingaC-dramaactor:Yougetabunchofspoilersforyet-to-be-releaseddramas.
There’salongsilence.
ThenZoe’svoicedriftsthroughtheline,confusedandoddlydistant.Ormaybetheconnection’sjustnotgreattoday.“Uh…what?”
“Oh.”Ijerkuprightonmybed,pushingawaytheinterviewnotesI’dbeenlookingthroughearlierforthatBeijingmediacompany.Forsomereason,mymusclestense,asifbracingforsomething.“Oh,sorry.Ithought—Ithoughtyouweresomeoneelse.Hi.”
“WhodidyouthinkIwas?”sheasks.WhenIdon’treplyrightaway,sheanswersforherself:“Caz.”
Imakeasmall,vaguesoundofassent.
“Soyouguysarestilldoingthething,huh?”Again,there’sthatweirdedgetohervoice.
“Whatthing?”
“Thewholedatingfacade.”
“Well,yeah,”Isay,mywholebodygoingrigidnow,defensivenesshardeningmytone.Andthenalong,awkwardbeatpasseswherewebothwaitfortheotherpersontosaymore.Ican’trememberwhenitstartedbeinglikethis,whenweweren’tshoutingovereachothertotalkabouteverythingevenwhennothinghadhappened.Butwe’vebeenbusy.
Butwe’vebeenbusybefore,backwhenIwasstillinAmerica,anditwasn’tthisbad.
It’shappening,Ithink,andassoonasIhavethethought,itbecomesapermanentstain,seepingthrougheverythingandcoloringeverymemoryarottengray.Thechangedplaylistname.Theshortenedcalls.Theunansweredtexts.Theforgottenbracelet.Justlikeallmybestfriendsfromthepast.JunefromLondon.EvafromSingapore.LisafromNewZealand.Intheend,it’salljustthesame.
We’redriftingapart.
No,we’vedriftedapart.Whateverishappeningnowistheaftermath.
Myheartseizesinsilentdespair,butZoespeaksupagain,oblivioustoitall.“Whatareyouplanningtodoaboutit?”
“Doaboutit?”Irepeat,unabletoshakethefeelingthatI’velostthreadofthisconversation.
“Well,Imean,youcan’tjustkeeplyingtotheworld,canyou?”shepusheson.“Like,atfirst,Ithoughtit’donlybethissuper-temporarything.Ajoke.Butit’sbeenentiremonths,andit’sjust…Itjustseemslikethekindofthingdestinedtoblowupinyourface.”
Myjawclenches,thetensionnowstretchinglikeawireallthewaydowntomytoes.OneofthereasonsI’vealwaysadmiredZoeisherabilitytocutthroughallthebullshit,gettotheverycoreofthings.She’sbravelikethat,braverthanI’lleverbe.
Butthat’salsopreciselywhythisistheverylasttopicIwanttotalkabout.
“It’llworkout,”Isay,withallthefalsecalmIcanmusterwhilewringingthecornerofmypillowbetweenclammyfingers.“Eventually.ButI’vealreadypromisedSarah—everyoneatCraneswift—thatI’lldothisbiginterviewafterthebreak,andit’smeanttobegreatformycareer,and—”
“AndI’mallforopeningyourselfuptoopportunities,”Zoesays.“Exceptwhenyourcareer’sfoundedonaliterallie.Imean,howdoyouexpecttoretainyourreadersorearntherespectofanypublicationoutthereiftheyfindout—”
“Sotheycan’tfindout,”Icutin,gutroiling.“Theywon’t.”
“Yeah,well—”Shestartstosaysomethingelse,butaloudnotificationchimesonherend,andshepauses.“Sorry,thegradesformychemexamjustcameout…”
“Gocheckit,”Itellher.
“Yousure?”Sheletsoutasmalllaugh,butshedoesn’tmeanit.Iwouldknow.Iusedtoknoweverythingabouther—whichlaughsshewasfakingandwhenshewantedtoleaveaconversation,aparty,aroom.
Shewantstoleavenow.
AndIdon’tknowhowtomakepeoplestay;Ineverhave.SoIonlysay,“Yeah,ofcourse.Um,bye.”
“Okay.Bye.”
Butthere’saterribleringoffinalityinhervoice.CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
Thedaybeforeschoolbeginsagain,mylifeunravels.
Well,itdoesn’tsomuchunravelascompletelyimplode:startingwiththenotificationthatpopsuponmyphonefirstthinginthemorning.
IkNewYouwereLying.
Istareatitforalongtime,myheartbeatingoutofcontrol.It’sunnervingashell,andnotjustbecauseofthearbitrarycapitalization.
IfI’mbeingaccusedoflying,there’sonlythingIcouldbelyingabout
Asickfeelingdigsintomygut.Isitupfastandunlockmyphone,headingstraightovertoTwitter.Andthat’swhenalltheothercommentscomefloodingin,sosimilartothefirst.Justashostile.Justasominous.
@blondie22:Liar.
@abigailsmithh:LmaoIguesspplwilldoANYTHINGforcloutthesedays.Girlbye.
@user1127:CazSongdeservesbetter.
@MayIsADog:talkaboutpathetic???andhereiwasthinkingweactuallyhadacutewholesomecoupletorootfor…guessnot.
@chengxiaoshi:IKNEWIT.iTOLDY’ALLthiswasapublicitystunt!!IfuckingCALLEDIT.
@wenkexing520:Thisiswhywecan’thavenicethings.
Andit’s…Imean,I’vereceivedhatemessagesbefore.It’sinevitableforanyonewho’severgoneatleastalittleviral.So-calledfanstellingmeI’mtoouglyforCaz,orthatI’mholdinghimbackinhiscareer.RandomtrollsgoingonabouthowI’muntalentedandoverrated.Anonymoususersclaimingit’santi-feministofmetofallinlove.Racistassholesmakingtheusualstereotypicaljokesinthecomments.
They’vealwaysstung,ofcourse,andhitalittletooclosetohomeforcomfort,buttheobviousstrategywassimplytoignorethem.
Butthis.Thisisdifferent.
MywholebodyistremblingasIsearchmyownnameonGoogle,andthere’samomentwhennothinghasloadedyetthatIcanfeelmyheartbeatthuddingfuriouslyinmyears,andIthinkImightthrowup.Ormaybestartcrying.Thentheresultsappear,andI’mtoobusyreadingaboutwhyabunchofstrangersontheinternethatemetoevenmustertheenergyfortears.
Thesourceoftheproblemquicklybecomesevident.
Aroundmidnightyesterday,whileIwassoundasleep,someonepostedalongarticlespeculatingthatmyrelationshipwithCazwasonlyapublicitystuntcookedupbyhismanager.Thearticlenotedsome“discrepancies”betweenmypersonalessayandCaz’sschedule.Likehow,onthedaywesupposedlywentoutforhotpot,Cazwasbusydoingpromotionalactivitiesforhiscampusdramaandcouldn’thavepossiblymetupwithmethen.Orhow,inoneparagraph,Imentionedthestraycathairclingingtohissweater,despitethefactthathe’sallergictocats.It’swhateveryoneintheentertainmentindustrydoesthesedaysHasanyoneevenseenthemreallykiss,apartfromthatonepeck-on-a-cheekselfiethegirlposted?
Maybeitwould’vebeenfineif,bythesamestrange,unpredictablealchemyoftheinternetthatmademyessaygoviralinthefirstplace,thearticlehadn’tshotuptonumberoneontrendingsearches.
Anditallfellapartfromthere.
“Ohmygod,”Iwhisper,throwingmyphoneontomybed,whereitlandswithalight,unsatisfyingflop.Iturnaround.Squeezemyeyesshut.“Ohmygod.”
TheworstpartofallthisisthatIshould’veanticipatedit.Becauseitfeelslikeatotalend-of-the-worlddisaster,yes,butitalsofeelslikeaninevitability.
Zoe’swordsfromtheotherdayfloatbacktome:Itjustseemslikethekindofthingdestinedtoblowupinyourface…
Andsuddenly,withanachesoacuteitfeelslikeacavity,IfindmyselfmissingZoe.HowI’dwalkintoacrowdedclassroomknowingshehadsavedaseatforme.Howshe’dalwayswaitformebythelockersinthemorningandafterschool,ananchortomyday.Morethanthat,ImissthepersonIalwaysbecamearoundher:someonebraverandbetterandstronger,someonewhowasn’tafraidtocrackdumbjokesandembarrassthemselvesalittleandgoafterwhattheywanted.
Ifshewerehere,shewouldn’tknowhowtofixthiseither.Butshe’dknowexactlywhattosaytocalmmedown,tomakemefeelokay.
Behindme,myphonechimesagain.
Nodoubtmorehatecomments.AndIknowIshouldn’treadthem,thatthere’snopointtorturingmyselfanyfurther,butit’sliketellingyourselfnottoscratchanitch,orpressanoldbruise:Asmasochisticasitis,youcan’thelpdoingitanyway.
SoIgrabmyphoneandbracemyselfforsomevariationoffraudorliarorIhateyourfuckingguts,butinsteadIseeonlyanameflashingovermyscreen.
SarahDiaz.
Weeksfromnow,whenIlookbackonthisparticularmorning,it’lllikelybenothingmoreawhite-noiseblurofpanic,agapingblackholeinmymemory.
I’mbarelyconsciousoftheday’seventsevenasthey’reunfolding.OnesecondI’monthephonewithSarah,reassuringherthateverything’sjustamisunderstandingandItotallyhaveaplan,whenIinfacttotallydonothaveaplan,andthenextI’mtextingCaz,who’sonlyjustlandedinBeijingandisn’tawareofthiscompleteshitstormyet,butsoonwillbe.
Andinbetweenallthis,I’mlyingfacedownonthecouch,cursingmyselfandtryingnottopullmyhairout.
Still,bylunchtime,I’vecalmeddownenoughtostartthinking.Hard.MahasseenPRcrisesfarworsethanthis—liketherat-in-the-coffeeincident,andthetoxic-masculinityincident,andthemanyKevin-inducedaccidents—andshe’smanagedtosmooththemallover.Sometimeshercompany’sreputationhasevenimprovedasaresult.
Sowhatwouldshedo?
Issueanapology?Aformalstatement?No.That’snotherstyle;sheneverconfessestoanythingifshecanhelpit.Infact,she’dprobablydotheopposite.Coveruponemajoreventwithanother…
Iclosemyeyesandthinkandthinkandfinally,miraculously,likethatdayIsawCazSongonmyTVscreen,anideacomestome.
Ifthemainissueisthatpeopledon’tbelieveCazSongandIarereallytogether,thenIhavejustthethingtoprovethemwrong.
Myphonelightsup.
Iflinchbyinstinct,dreadingwhatImightsee,butit’samessagefromCaz.He’scaughtuptoeverything.
Whatdowedo?heasks.
IthinkIhaveasolution,Itextback.butyou’reprobablynotgoingtolikeit.oh,also—what’syourmanager’snumber?letmeknowasap.
Ispendthenextdaymakingphonecallsandwritingfranticemails.
First,IgetintouchwithCaz’spublicityteam.ThispartgoesmoresmoothlythanIcoulddarehope:WetrackdowntheIPaddressoftheoriginalposterwhowroteupthearticle,onlytofindthatit’sasishengfan,astalkeressentially,who’salreadybeengiventwowarningsforlurkingaroundCaz’shotelroom.It’sperfect.Afterall,thebestwaytogetridofanunwantedstoryistoattackitatitssource,erodethecredibilityoftheauthor.Fromthere,allwehavetodoisspreadtheinformationonlineandwaitforthenarrativetowriteitself.JealousfanmakesupliesaboutCazandhisgirlfriend.Fancomesupwithwildconspiracytheoriesaboutherfavoritestar.
Atthesametime,themanagerpullsafewstringsbehindthescenesandaccidentally-deliberatelyleakssomephotosfromgodknowswhereofamarriedactorfromarivalcompanyleadingabrothelworkerintohishotelroomatnight.Withinhours,thenewsblowsupandsqueezesouttheoldarticleonmeandCazfromthetrendingsearches,untilit’sallanyonecantalkabout.
ThenitjustcomesdowntoCazandme,andhowwellwecanpullofftheultimateperformance.
“Youready?”
InodasImovetojoinCazontheroofofoneofourschoolbuildings.Thisismyfirsttimeseeinghimupclosesincebeforetheholidays,andI’dforgottenhowoverwhelmingitfeltjusttobeinhispresence,scandalornot.Thebuzzinginmystomach,therushofbloodinmyveins,everynerveendonedge.Hishairisalittlelongernow,hisskintanner,theleanmusclesinhisarmsflexingasheleansovertheglassrailings.
Helooksgood.
Maybetoogood,inadistractingway.Ican’tlookathimwithoutthinkingaboutthosenightswithhisvoicepressedtomyear.Itfeelslikemyhearthasmissedastep.
“Areyou?”Iask,quicklystuffingallunnecessarythoughtsaway.Ineedtofocus.Weonlygetthisonechancetofixeverything,andithastobeperfectlyexecuted.
“WhenamInot?”He’smakingthisexpressionlike,Igotit,relax.Ihavenoideahowhe’ssochillaboutthis.It’salmostirritating.“Let’sdothis.”
Inodagain.Exhaleslowlyandstarepasttherailings,stampingmyfeettokeepwarm.Asexpected,thecourtyardbelowandsurroundingfootpathsarealreadystartingtofillupwithstudents.Theroofistheonespoteveryonehasaclearviewof,nomatterwheretheyareintheschool.Thesayinggoesthatpeopleonlybelievewhattheyseewiththeirowneyes.SoI’mjustprayingthatiftheyseeustogether,reallytogethertogether,they’llbesufficientlyconvincedofourrelationship.
Okay,it’snotthemostfoolproofplan,andIhavenoideaifit’llworkornot—butit’sthebestwecandofornow.
Whenenoughpeoplehavegatheredtoformacrowd,ItwistaroundandpatCaz’sshoulder.“Okay.Start.”
Hearchesabrow,hislipstwitching.“You’renotevengoingtoletmegetintothemomentabit?”
Ishekidding?“You’reanactor,”Ihiss.Icanfeeleveryone’seyesonus,watchingourexchange.“Beserious.”
“Fine,”hesays,andthoughI’vewitnesseditmorethanafewtimesbynow,itstillstartlesmewhenhesnapseasilyintohisrole,thehumorwipedcleanfromhisface,hiseyesdeepeningtoblack.Thecolorofamoonlesssky,charcoalreadytoignite,theearthafterastorm.“Likethis?”
“Y-yeah,”Imanage.Swallow.“Yeah,likethat.”Onesmallstep,andI’veclosedthedistancebetweenus.Iliftmylipstohisearandwhisper,foronlyhimtohear,“Nowhurryupandkissmebeforepeoplestartleaving.”
Ibracemyself.Trytoemptymymind.It’ssupposedtobeaprofessionalkiss,ifsuchathingexists.Neitherofusshouldfeelanythingotherthangrimdeterminationtodothiswell,andmaybeahintofannoyance,impatienceathavingtodothisinthefirstplace.
Butthisiswhathappensinstead:
Cazcupsmyfacewithonesteady,slenderhandandtracesagentlelinedownmycheek,andmymind—mymindteeterstowardoblivion.Mybreathingbetraysme.Hisink-blackeyeslockonmine,andIamstaringupathim,halfinshockandmaybeawe.He’sunreasonablybeautifulandhe’ssocloseitmakesmeacheandIwanthimcloserstill.IwanthimeventhoughIshouldn’t.Iwanthimtowantmetoo.
Ican’tevenrememberwhatweweresupposedtodo.
Then,slowly,hebringshisotherhanduptomyface.Hisfingerstrembleslightly,andtheairbetweenuschanges.Solidifies.Overheats.Mymouthpartsofitsownaccord,andhesees.
Hemakesasoft,barelyaudiblesoundthatcouldbeasighortheedgeofalaughorsomethingelse,asurrender,andthenheleansallthewayin,presseshislipstominelikehecan’thelphimself,likehe’sbeenwaitingforeverjusttokissme—
AndIkisshimback.
Ikisshimwithanintensitythatshocksme.
Becausesomehow,IrealizeI’vebeenyearningforthis:thesoftnessofhislipsmovingagainstmyown,thefirmnessofhisgrip,thesmall,hungryfiresspreadingfromeverysinglepointofcontact.
Then,justasquickasitstarted,it’sover.
Idon’tknowwhopullsawayfirst,butwe’resuddenlyscramblingbackward,standingapart,nothingbutourunevenbreathstouchingthespacebetweenus.Forasplitsecond,Cazlooksstunned.Almostdrunk.
Butinthenextsecond,heishimselfagain.Confident.Assured.Hestraightens,runsaboredhandthroughhishair,andlooksoutatthestudentsontheschooloval.
MybloodispoundingsoloudinmyearsI’dnearlyforgottentheywerethere,butIgazedowntoo,assessingtheirexpressions.Somearestaringatuswithopenenvyandshock.Others…Othersarefrowning,likethey’renotentirelysurewhatitisthey’vejustwitnessed.
“Doyou—doyouthinkitworked?”IaskCaz,myvoicewaytoohightobenormal.
“Honestly?”Ihearhimswallow.“No.”
“Wait—what?”Idemand,twistingaround.ButbeforeIcanevencontinue,hegrabsmywristandpullsmeoutofsight,leadingmeawayuntilwe’reconcealedbyjadebamboosandmandarintrees,hiddeninaminigardenofourown,softshadowsdancingaroundus,lightbleedingthroughthegapsintheleaves.“What?”Irepeatinahiss.Hestillhasn’tletgo.I’mintimatelyawareofthewarmpressofhisfingersagainstmyskin,thepreciseshapeandsoundofhiseverybreath.
“Yeah,no,thesescandalsarerarelyresolvedinaday—orwithasingleperformance.Youneedtogiveitalotmoretime.”
“Thenwhy—”Ishakemyhead.Myheadisstillspinning.Imanagetoproduceexactlyonecoherentthought—CazSongandIjustkissed—beforemybrainrunsintoawallandcrashes.CazandIkissed,andforalongmoment,fromwhenourlipsmet,Cazhadkissedmelike…likehereallymeantit.No.Stop.Notthepointhere.“Ifyoudidn’tthinkitwouldwork,whydidyouagreetotheplan?”
Somethingflickersoverhisface,buthemerelyshrugs.“Youjustseemedlikeyoureallywantedtokissme.AndwhoamItodenyyouthepleasure?”
Myfaceburstsintoflame.Hesaysitlikehe’steasing.No,likehe’smockingme.Butofcourseheis.Ofcoursehehadn’tactuallymeantit—that’showhekisseseveryone,allhisbeautifulcostarsonset.WhoamIkidding?Akissisjustakisstohim.
“Wow,”Isay,shiftingback,mortificationburningthroughmybodylikehotoil.“Okay.Well,clearlythiswasamistake—andfortherecord,Iabsolutelydidnotwanttokissyou.Atall.Itwasonlyforabiggercause—diretimes,andallthat—”
“Really?”Hemovesforward.Cockshishead.“Thenwhatareyouthinkingrightnow?”
“I—What?”Iflushharder.Throughmyhumiliation,I’mthinking,unforgivably,aboutwhatit’dbeliketokisshimagain,tokisshimandreallysavorit,evenknowingthatit’dbemorerealformethanitcouldeverbeforhim.
Butit’slikethekisshasunlockedeverysuppressedfearandfeelinginsideme.BecauseI’malsothinkingabouthowtensofthousandsofpeopleacrosstheworldaresomehowinvestedinCazandme,butonlyinthefantasyversionofourstory.I’mthinkingabouthowitwouldfeeltohaveCazonlytolosehim,thewayIloseeveryonewhenIleave,thekindofbone-deep,inconsolablepainIwouldhavetosufferasaconsequenceofmywanting.Howeasyitwouldbetoreverttothatold,familiarloneliness,exceptthistime,thelonelinesswouldhurtmorethaniteverhasbefore,alonelinessshapedentirelybyhisabsence.
I’mthinkingthatifItellhimwhatIreallyfeel,justlayitalloutthere,therewilltrulybenogoingbackfromthis.Thatit’sbeenhardenoughjusttogettowhereweare—fromstrangerstobegrudgingalliestoactualfriends—todemolisheverypainstakingbrickoftrustbuiltbetweenusbyaskingforsomethingmore.ThatI’llhavebrokeneveryruleI’velaiddownformyself,justtogiveCaz—beautiful,unpredictable,guardedCaz—alltheammunitionheneedstobreakmyheart.
“I’m…notsurewhattothink,”Isay.
Hetakesanotherstepcloser.Istepbackautomatically,thebamboostalksrisinguparoundme,brushingmycheek.Hestops.Releaseshisgriponmywrist,onlytobringhishanduptothecurveofmyjaw,andit’sallIcandonottodissolverightthereoruttersomethingincrediblydangerousandsincere.
“Soyoudon’thaveanyrealfeelingsforme?”heasks,hisvoicedippingintoalowregisterI’veneverheardbefore.“Notevenalittle?”Hekeepshisgazesteadyonme,buthisfingerstraildowntoasoft,vulnerablespotatthebaseofmyneck,andIflinch,likeanidiot.
Ican’tspeak;Ishakemyhead.
“Really?”hesays,onebrowraised,lookingexactlythewayhedidthatfirstdayIspoketohim,whenIclaimedtonothaveoverheardhiscallandhedidn’tbelievemeatall.
Ihearmyselfswallow.Trytoignorethesensationofhishandsstillonmyskin.“N-no.None.”
Cazrespondsbyleaningin,andforonewild,beautiful,terrifyingsecond,Ithinkhe’sgoingtopresshislipstomine,andIcan’thelpit—Ileanintoo.Butinsteadhemerelysmiles,asifhe’sjustprovensomethingtobothofus,andlowershiscurvedmouthtomyear.
“Liar,”hewhispers.
AndIdon’tknowwhattodo,howtoreact,howtoprocessthatI’vebeencaught.SoIreverttomyoldhabits,myingrainedmethodsofself-defense:Iwrenchmyselffreefromhisgrip.Ispinonmyheels,twistingawayfromhim.AndIrun.Myfeetpoundallthewaydownthestairs,andIshovethedooropen,burstingintotheblindingsunlight.Idon’tgotoclassandIdon’tstopuntilI’mfarenoughawayandaloneinaremotecornerofcampus.Untilit’sjustme,myracingthoughts,andmyviolentlypoundingheartbeat.CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
Itryhardnottothinkaboutit.
Really.Itryvery,veryhardtoblockoutallthoughtsofCazSong’ssoftlipsbrushingmine,hiscallousedhandscuppingmyface,thewaymyinsideshadsparkedandmeltedasiflefttoolongoverred-burningcoals.
Butthememorieskeeprushingback,persistent,insuchunwantedclarityImightaswellhaverecordedourexchange,analyzedtheentiresceneoverandoverlikethemovieswehavetowritecomparativeessaysonforEnglishclass.
Whatisthesignificanceoftheline“Soyoudon’thaveanyrealfeelingsforme?”Whatdidthelookinhiseyessymbolize?Discuss,withevidence.
Allthroughthenextweek,whileCazisawayshooting,theycontinuetospringuponmeatrandom:whenI’mhalfwaythroughrinsingthedishes(becausemyparentsliketousethedishwasherasadryingrack,andsimplydon’ttrustdishwashersanyhow);whenI’mchangingintomypajamaslateratnight,halfmyshirtstuckovermyhead,longhairtangledupinthebuttons—
Whatareyouthinkingrightnow?
“Shit,”Imumbleoutloud,yankingtheshirtdownwithalittletoomuchforceandaccidentallypullingafewhairsout.Myeyeswater.“Shit,”Isayagain,louder,angryatnoonebutmyself.
Irefreshmyphone—nonewmessagessincelastFriday—thenslamitdown.Iblockhim,thenunblockhimbeforehecanfindout.Ideleteourentirechathistory,theninstantlyregretit.
Anditonlygetsworsefromthere.
OnSundaymorning,Ma—havingrecentlyfinalizedamajorprojectandclearedoutsometimeinhercrampedschedule—takesusouttoDinTaiFungforbrunch.
I’mfindingmywaybackfromtherestaurantbathroom,verynarrowlyavoidingcrashingintoawaitresscarryingamassivestackofprawndumplingsandxiaolongbao,whenIseeCaz’sface.
Asin:hisface,magnifiedtimestenandairbrushedtoabove-humanlevelsofperfectionandprintedoveraglossyposterbythetablewherethey’reservingtea.It’sanadvertisementforsomekindoflychee-flavoredsoftdrink.He’sholdingthecandy-pinkbottleupwithonehandandsmilingwithhismouthclosed.It’shisfakesmile,theoneheuseswhenhe’sforcedtodosomethinghedoesn’twant.
Thetaglinebelowreads,Getyourgirlsomethingsweet.
Andit’sallsocornyandunexpectedandridiculouslyill-timedthatIcanonlygapeattheposter,athisbeautiful,familiarface,thefeaturesI’vestudiedinsuchcloseproximityinprivate,blownupforeveryonetoadmire.Somethinghotandpainfulwrapsaroundmyheartandsqueezes.
Thispostershouldn’tbehere.OrmaybeIshouldn’tbehere.
Butifnothingelse,thisprovesthatmyreactionthatdaywaswise,accurate.Notthekiss,butmerunningawayfromhim.Becauseoneshinyposterinadimsumrestaurantisonlythebeginning.IfCaz’scareercontinuesonitscurrenttrajectory,ifhegrowsmoreandmorefamous,picksupmoresponsorshipsandendorsementopportunitiesandhitdramasleftandright,itwon’tjustbehimadvertisingacutelittledrink.It’llbehisfaceonlit-upbillboards;hissmileonsubways;hisdark,scorchinggazeeverytimeIturnontheTV,rememberinghowitfeltwhenheusedthatgazeonme.Hewillbeeverywhere,hauntingeverycursedcornerofthecountry,andIwillbeleftreelinginhiswake
“Areyouafantoo?”
Ispinaround,startled,tofindagirlmaybeonlyayearortwoyoungerthanIam.She’sdressedfromheadtotoeindesignerclothesandstaringattheposterofCazasifshe’sjustseenavisionofGodhimself,bothhandsclutchedtighttoherchest,cheeksflusheddespitethecoolindoortemperature.Ifwewereinacartoon,hereyeswouldprobablybebrightpinkheartsigns.
“Um…”Isay,onlynowtranslatingherquestionfromMandarintoEnglishinsidemyheadandprocessingit.“Somethinglikethat.Iguess.”
Shereleasesasmall,wistfulsigh,eyesstillgluedtotheposter.Thenshesays,“He’sveryattractive,isn’the?”
Itrynottostabmyselfwithoneofthemetalchopstickslyingonthetablebesideme.“Mm,”Ireply,asnoncommittallyaspossible.
“It’ssuchashame,though,”shecontinues,clearlyoblivioustohowlittleIwanttobehavingthisconversationrightnow,orever.
“What?What’sashame?”
Sheraisesaperfectlyshapedbrow,likeI’mplayingdumb.“Haven’tyouheardaboutthewholescandalwithhimandthewritergirl?Somepeoplearesayingit’sapublicitystunt.”
“Ah.”WithwhatIhopesoundsonlylikecasualcuriosity,Iask,“Anddoyouthinkitis?”
“Notsure.”Sheshrugs.“I’dprobablyneedmoreevidence.Ihearthey’redoingthisbiginterviewtogethersoon,so…maybewe’llseethen?”Shetrailsoffwithashrug.
Iquicklyexcusemyselfandmakeabeelineformytableontheotherendoftherestaurant.It’snotuntilI’msittingdownbetweenMaandEmily,myfacehiddenbehindthelaminatedmenuanditsmanybeautifullyshotimagesofsteamedbuns,thatIallowmyselftorelax.
Then,whilemyparentsarebickeringoverwhattypeofdumplingstoorder(Balaunchesintoamoving,impassionedspeechabouthowpork-and-chivedumplingswereakeypartofhischildhoodandeatingthemalwaysremindshimofhome;Mastrikesbackwithhardstatistics—thelasttimeweorderedpork-and-chivedumplings,weonlyate40percentofthem,andplus,can’theseethattheshrimponesareonsale?)andEmilyissecretlyjottingdowneverydessertoptionthereisontheorderform,Islidemyphoneoutfrommypocketandsearchmyownname,eventhoughIpromisedmyselfIwouldn’t.
Thecommentsare,unfortunately,dividedtoo:
@alyssaL:listenI’musuallyprettycynicalaboutthisstuffbutdiduguysSEEthatkiss?thesparks?theintensity??tHEWAYHELOOKEDATHER???likeIknowCazisanactorbutIdon’tthinkhe’sTHATgoodanactorlol
@violetthewen:I’MSOCONFLICTEDDDnowakdfjlalaisitrealoRNOT
@clazzy001:themostunbelievablepartformeiswhysomeonelikecazsongwouldevenbedatingthiselizagirl????AngelaFeiiswayprettier
@huachengseye:okeitherthey’reREALLYcommittedtothispublicitystuntorthey’reREALLYinloveweachotherandjustdgaf
@chanel.cao:noteverythingisforpublicityy’all
Islidemyphoneaway,mystomachchurning.AsmuchasIhatetoconcedehe’sright,it’sjustlikeCazpredicted:MyplanwasnowherenearaseffectiveasI’dhoped.
Whichmeansneitherofusisintheclearyet.
Bythetimewegetbackhomefromtherestaurant,I’mdeterminedtofindmyselfadistraction.
SomethingthatwillforceasideallthoughtsofCaz,andthekiss,andthespeculationonline.Somethingthatwillallowmetoachieveastateoftotal,blissfulzen.NormallywhenI’mlookingforanescape,I’lljustwrite,butthesedaysallwritingdoesisremindmeofCraneswift,andmyessay,whichleadsmerightbacktoCazagain.
SoIdecidetogorunning.
Asidefromtheobviousironyofmeliterallyrunningawayfrommyproblems,thisseemslikeagreatideaatfirst.Idigoutthecutetwo-pieceworkoutsetIboughtyearsagofortheaestheticandhaven’ttouchedsince,tiemyhairbackinahighponytail,anddoafewstretchesdownbytheplayground.Theearlyspringairiscrispwiththescentofanimpendingstorm,thetemperaturejuststartingtowarm,withtheoccasionalcoolbreeze.Evenbetter,therearen’ttoomanypeoplecrowdingthecompound’sspecialjogginglanesatthishour.
Everything’sperfect.
ThenIactuallystartrunningandcometotherapidconclusionthatIhateit.
Mybody,sousedtomildvariationsofsittingandlyingdownandslow,unhurriedwalksbetweenclasses,seemstorevoltagainstthesuddenchangeinrhythm.I’vebarelymadeithalfwayaroundthelakebeforemylegsstartcramping,atight,wrenchingpainthatshootsupthemusclesinmythighseverytimemyfeethitthepavement.
Still,Ikeeprunning.Forcingmyfeetforward.
Ipushonforacouplemoreyards,gulpingdownairwithincreasingdifficultyuntilIsoundhowIimaginedyingwalrusesmustsound,whenIseeanoldmanfromthecornerofmyeye.Anoldoldman.He’sprobablyinhislateseventiesorearlyeighties,judgingfromthedeepwrinklesetchedintohisskinandthedragon-headwalkingcanetremblinginhisgrip,andhe’sshufflingdownthelaneparalleltomine.
Wemakeeyecontact.Heflashesmeashakythumbs-up.
Andthen—goodgod—heoutrunsme.Or,well,outwalks,whichiswithoutadoubtmuchworse.AllIcandoisstareathisretreatingfigureuntilheroundsthecornerofanapartmentbuilding,hiscane’stap-tappingfadingintothedistance.
Apparently,thehumiliationistoomuchformybodytobear.Mykneeswobble.Mylegsgiveout.Istumbletoastopbythelakepavilion,pantinghard,theamountofsweatblurringmyvisionandtricklingdownmyupperlipwhollydisproportionatetotheamountofexerciseI’vejustcompleted.
TheonlyupsideofmycurrentstateisthatCazSongisdefinitelyoffmymindnow,becauseI’mfartoopreoccupiedwithmymorebasic,immediateneeds,suchasbreathing.Andnotfainting.
Ispendaneternitylikethis,doubledover,clingingtothepavilionpillarsandhatingeverything,beforeIfindthestrengthtostartwalkingbackhome.
AndthenIstepintosomethingbrownandfoulandsquishy,whichofcourseturnsouttobe—
“Crap,”Imutter,staringattheliteraldogcrapnowsmearedovertheheelofmysneakers.YouhavegottobekiddingmeYouhaveactuallygottobekiddingme.Whennoonespringsoutfromanearbybushtoconfirmthat,indeed,mylifeisapracticaljoke,Ithrowanexasperatedhandupintheair.“Imean,wow.Okay.Thismightaswellbehappening.”
Afterscanningthesurroundingareaonce—allemptysavefortwobeady-eyedpigeonsglidingacrossthemeltedfringesofthelake—Isquatdownawkwardlyrightthere,inthemiddleofthelane,andattempttoscrapemyshoescleanwithatwig.
I’msofocusedonmytaskthatIdon’thearthefootstepsapproachinguntiltheystoprightinfrontofme.
“Eliza?”
Myheartlurches.
Thatvoice.Smoothandlowandslightlywry,asthoughsharinganinsidejokewithhimself.Iwouldknowthatvoiceanywhere,butitcan’tbe—itcan’t—
Slowly,Iliftmygaze,takinginthedetailsbitbybit.Darkjeanscomeintoview,thenaloosewhiteshirt,leavingthearmsbaredtothecold,themuscleslongandlithe,afaint,puckeredscarrunningdownthecenter…
Ofcourseit’shim.
“Oh.Hi,”Isay,casuallytossingthetwigovermyshoulderandswayingforadangerousfewsecondsbeforestandingup,smilealreadyforcedintoplace.AsifthisisexactlyhowIenjoybumpingintopeople.Coveredinsweat.Inmid-squat.Whilewipinganimalexcrementoffmyshoesandfailingatit,noless.
“Hi?”Cazsays,headcockedtooneside.Itsoundslikeaquestion.
Youdon’thaveanyrealfeelingsforme?
No.Stop.Don’tthinkaboutit.
“So,um.Isteppedindogpoo,”Itellhim.
“Yeah.”Histoneisappropriatelysomber,butthecornersofhismouthtwitch,likehe’smakingaseriousefforttosuppresshislaughter.“Icanseethat.”
“Right.”Inod.Myfacefeelsallhotanditchy,andnotjustbecauseofthesweat.“Well,Iwasalsooutonajog.Youknow,gettingthosestepsin.”
“Icanseethattoo.”Hegesturestomyworkoutclothes,hiseyeslingering.
Anawkwardsilencestretchesandstrainsbetweenus.Ormaybetheawkwardnessisonlyme.Cazlookscalm,unaffected.Stillfightingbackalaugh.It’sasifourkissontheroofneverhappened,asifithasn’tbeenninewholedayssincewelastspoke.
Ifeelaviolentrushofangertowardhim.ThiswholetimeI’vebeendesperatelytryingtodistractmyself,fightingoffallthoughtsofhim—sodesperateIevenresortedtorunningundernon-life-threateningcircumstances—he’sbeen…what?Justlivinghisbestlife?Studyinghisscripts?Havingagreattimeforgettingallaboutme?
Mynailsdigintomypalms.
Cazsayssomething,butIdon’thearhim,can’thearhimabovetheviolentbuzzinginmyears.Thenherepeatshimself,louder.“It’sgoingtorainsoon.”
He’snotthekindtomakesmalltalkabouttheweather,soIpausedespitemyselfandfollowhisgazeup.Sureenough,darkcloudsaregatheringoverheadlikeaflockofmadravens,coloringthelakewaterfromgreentoadeep,depressinggray.Thatearthyscentintheairissharpernowtoo,brimmingwithunshedrain.
“Weshouldprobablyheadinside,”Cazsays,lookingbackatme,hiseyesalmostasblackashislashes.Itoccurstomewithajoltthatwe’restandingtooclose.Again.“Icanwalkyoutoyourapartmentifyou’dlike.”
Ifoldmyarmsacrossmychest,creatingaveryineffectualbarrierbetweenus.“No.It’sfine.Myshoesaren’tcleanyet,andbesides,Idoubtit’llrainthatquickly.Youcansortofseethesun—”
Thewordshavebarelyleftmymouthwhenthefirstfewdropletsofrainsplatterovermytop,thecoldseepingstraightthroughthepolyestersleeves.
Then,asifsomeone’sturnedonagiantfaucetbehindtheclouds,itstartspouring.
“Yeah,whatwereyousaying?”Cazasks,hisvoicealmostlostbeneaththeheavyonrushofwater.It’severywherenow,beatingdownonthepavementinaquickeningrhythm,slappingagainstoutstretchedleaves,crushingthinstalksofgrassflattothepavementlikeaheavyboot.Thesmellofwetdirtandpinerisestomynose.
Iglareathim,blinkingthroughtherain.I’malreadysoaked.“Just—justgo.Icanwalkhomemyself.”
Hedoesn’tleave.Instead,heshootsmeafaintlyamusedlook.“Areyousure?Becauseyoulookalittle…winded.Plus,yourapartmentisn’tthatfarfrommine—”
Ishakemyheadquickly,waterblurringtheedgesofmyvision.Ican’ttrustmyselftobealonewithhimlikethis.“I’mfineI’llbehomeinnotime.”ButwhenItrytostepback,mylegmusclesspasm,andIwobbleviolently,ahot,tearingpainshootingdownmycalves.Great.Justwonderful.TheonetimeIdecidetoengageinvoluntaryphysicalactivityandmybodygivesuponme.
Inaninstant,allthehumorfallsawayfromCaz’sface,replacedbyconcern.“Youevidentlycan’t.”
“I’mjusttiredfromtherunning,that’sall.I’llbeokaysoon.”
Hecastsmealong,doubtfullook.Then:“Letmecarryyou,”hesayssimply.Readily.Hishairhasfallenoverhisforeheadinlong,wet-inkstrands,hisshirtplasteredtohisskin,anddespitebeingdrenchedfromheadtotoeinfreezingrain,Ifeelallofasuddenlikethere’swaterboilinginsideme,dangerouslyclosetospillingover.
“What?”
Hegesturestohisback.“Youheardme.I’vecarriedplentyofgirlsonmybackbeforewhileshooting.It’llbeeasy.”
AsifIneedthereminderthatbig,romanticgesturesmeannothingtohim.Thatwhateverhe’ssaidordonearoundme,he’sdonewithothergirlstoo:actresses,idols,models.Thatsuchcloseproximityiseasyforhim,whenitfeelslikelife-or-deathforme.
“Ithinkyou’reoverestimatingyourstrength,”Itellhimstiffly.
“Idoubtit.”
“You’realsounderestimatingmyweight.”
“Comeon,Eliza.”Herollshiseyes.“You’re,like,fivefootoneatthemost.”
“It’sfivefootthree,”Igrumble.
Heholdsuphishands,usingoneofthemtoshieldhisheadfromthedownpour.“Look,wouldyouratherstandoutherebickeringintherainoveryourheight—whichdefinitelyisn’tfivefootthree,bytheway—orgosomewherewarmanddry?”
WhichishowIendupgettingapiggybackridehomefromCazSong,therainpeltingourskineverystepoftheway,watersloshingathisfeet,thecloudedskychurningviolentlyoverhead.Myarmswrappedaroundhisneck.Everythinglooksdarker,moresaturated:thepassingtreesarichbrown,pinkblossomsjuststartingtosprout.Thecompoundisemptynowsaveforus.
Itfeelslikewe’rethelasttwopeopleleftintheworld.
“I’vebeenmeaningtotalktoyou,youknow,”Cazsayssomeminuteslaterasweroundabendinthelane.Hisgriponmylegsremainsfirm,butIcanhearthestraininhisbreathing,theslightfalterinhisfootsteps.Idomybesttostayverystill.
“Aboutwhat?”Iask.
“LastFriday…”
Andsuddenlymyheartispoundinglouderthantherain.“You’reright,weshouldtalkaboutthe—thepublicresponse,”Itellhim,panicking.“Haveyouheardanythingfromyourmanager?BecauseIwaslookingatsomeofthecomments,andthere’sstillasignificantsegmentonlinewhoneedmoreconvincing,andIfeelliketheupcominginterviewwouldbeagreatopportunity—”
“Youmustknowthat’snotwhatIcareabout.”
Coldcreepsintomyveins.Myteethchatter.“What—whatdoyoucareabout,then?”
“You,”hesaysquietly.“Iwantyou,Eliza.”
Thewordshanginthemistygrayair,andI’mgladhecan’tseemyface.Youalreadyhaveme,I’mtemptedtotellhim.MorethanIwaseverplanningtogive.
“I—”
“Butnotaspartofasecretarrangement,”hecontinues,talkingfaster,likehehastogetthisoffhischestandhe’snotsureifhe’llhavethechancetodosoagain.“Notforshow.Notfor‘astrategic,mutuallybeneficialandromanticallyorientedalliancetohelpfurtherourrespectivecareers’—”
“You—youmemorizedthat?”
“OfcourseIdid.EventhoughIstillfeellikewecould’veusedabettername.”Withoutmissingabeat,hegoeson.“Idon’twanttoactlikewemetwhileyouwereapartmenthuntingandhititoff,whenthefirsttimewereallymet,youweresittingtwoseatsinfrontofmeinEnglishclassandtheteacherwasreadingoutoneofyouressaysandIjustthought—I’veneverknownanyonewhocanwritelikethatbefore.Idon’twanttoconstantlykeepmyguarduparoundyouwhenyou’retheonlyonewho’severmademefeellikeIcanjustbe…honest.Myself.LikeImatterevenwhenallthecamerasareoff.
“Idon’twanttowaitforanexcusetokissyouonlywhenthere’saliteralcrisisgoingonandwhenhalfourschoolisstandingaroundtowatch.Idon’twantourwholerelationshiptobebuiltaroundalie.AndIknowthat’saskingforalot,becauseyouhaveyourreadersandtheirexpectationsandthere’salreadyenoughscrutinybut…Ijustwant—”Hesucksinabreath,andhemighthaveonceclaimedtoneverbeganyoneforanything,buthisvoiceispainfullyclosetopleadingwhenhesays,“Iwantthistobereal.”
Myheartseizes.
HowmanytimeshaveIdreamedofhimsayingsomethinglikethis?Ahundred.Athousand.Butitwasonlythat—adream.Iamtotally,utterlyunpreparedforthisspeechinreallife.
“What…abouttheessay?”Ihearmyselfask.There’swaterinmyeyes,onmytongue.Ittasteslikesalt.“Peoplearealreadysayingit’sapublicitystunt—we’vejustspentallourenergytryingtoconvincethemit’snot.Ifwe—IfIgooutthereandsaythewholestoryismadeup—”
“Wecanfigurethatout,”hepromises.God,healwaysmakesthesethingssoundsoeasy.
Ifonly.
“Ijust—Idon’tunderstandwhyyou’retellingmethis,”Iblurtout.“Whynow?Sincewhendidyoueven—”
Andheactuallylaughs,thoughthere’snohumorinit.“Well,youhaven’texactlymadeiteasyforme.”
“What’sthatsupposedtomean?”
“Eliza,”hesays,shakinghishead.“I’musuallyprettygoodwiththisstuff,butwhenitcomestoyou—onesecondyou’resayingthingsthatsoundsosincere,likeyoumightreallylikeme,andyou’remakingmethosepapercranes…Andthenextyou’retellingmethatyou’reonlydoingthisforyourinternship,thateverysincere-soundingthingthatcomesoutofyourmouthisjustflowerybullshit,andyou’replanningoutoureverysingleinteractionthreeweeksinadvance.Ifyouhadn’tkissedmebacklikethat…Istillwouldn’tknow.”
Istareahead,fullyconvincednowthatI’minsomesortofalternateuniverse,whereCazSongistheonesecond-guessingmyfeelingstowardhim.
“Besides,”hegoeson,voicelow,“alotofpeoplemightlikemeformy—reputation.Butthat’sthesideIshowtothemonpurposetomakethemlikeme.Nobody’severgottentoknowmeaswellasyouhave.Iwasn’tsure…Ididn’tknowifthoseotherpartsofmewereworthwantingtoo.”
Andmyheartshatters.
Butmyresolvedoesn’t.
“Ofcoursethey’reworthwanting,”Isay,indisbeliefthatI’devenneedtoaffirmthisoutloud.“Caz,youdon’tknowhowhardit’sbeentopretendlike—likeIdon’twantyou.Butthisisn’tgoingtowork.”
Hestills;Ifeelthemusclesinhisshouldersbunch.“Whynot?”
“Apartfromthethousandsoflogisticalreasons,youmean?It’s—Okay.Okay,youknowZoe?ZoeSato-Meyer?”
“Iremember,yeah.”Hisvoiceiscarefullyneutral.“Theonewhogaveyouthebracelet.”
“Exactly.Sheis—shewasmybestfriend.”Thecorrectionmakesmychestachelikeabruise,butIcontinue.“Wedidn’tevenhaveafightoranything.Itwasjust—wedriftedapart.That’swhatalwayshappenswhenI’minvolved,Caz.Everysinglefuckingtime.Andyoumightsayorthinkyouwantmenow,but…that’swhatwillhappenwithustoo.I’mcertainofit.”
ThisistheclosestIhaveevergottentovoicingthetruth:thatI’mafraid.Thatforalongtimenow,betweenmaybethethirdandfourthmove,thefourthorfifthfriendIlostalongtheway,I’vesuspectedthatthere’ssomethingfundamentallyunlovableaboutme.SomethingthatmakesiteasyforpeopletoforgetmethesecondIleave,todriftoutoftouchnomatterhowhardItrytokeeptheminmylife.
I’vesaidbeforethatmydefaultsettingisloneliness,butmaybeIwaswrong.
Maybeit’sreallyfear.
“Youcan’tkeepdoingthis,Eliza,”Cazsays.We’vereachedmybuildingnow,andIslideoffhisbackbeforehecancarrymefarther.ThenIstandupunsteadily,soakedthroughandshivering,andbringmyselftolookathim.Hisjawisset,tinyjewelsofrainwaterglisteningonhisskin,hiseyesdarkerthantheskybehindhim.Thisfeels,ineveryway,likeafinale.
“Doingwhat?”
“Youcan’tcontroleverything.Youcan’tdecidehowotherpeoplefeel—howIfeel—”
“ButIalreadyknowhowit’sgoingtoend,”Ichokeout.“Iknow.Andwhenithappens—I’mgoingtobetheoneheartbroken.Notyou—”
“That’snottrue—”
“Youthinkthatnow.Butyoudon’tknow—youcan’tknow—”Myvoicethreatenstowaver,togivemeaway,butIcatchmyself.Drawinadeepbreath.Assumesomesemblanceofprofessionalism,hidebehinditlikearmor.“Look,thisismyfaultfornotstickingstrictlytoourbusinessarrangement.That’sallitwassupposedtobe;that’sallitreallycanbe.AndI’mclosetofinishingupwithmyinternship.Oncewedotheinterviewtogether,andcleanupthiswholemess—wecanstageaproperbreakup.Partwaysforgood.”
Hiseyesflash.“Sothat’sit?You’rejustnotgoingtogiveitachance?Youdon’thavethegutstoeventry?”
Iwanttoanswerhim.Ireallydo,butthere’safist-sizedlumpinmythroatandIcanbarelyswallow,letalonetalk.SoIjustnod.
AndCazwaits.Hewaits,andIdisappointhimagainandagainwitheverynewsecondthatpassesbetweenus,untilheunderstands.“Fine,”hesaysatlast,backingoutintotherain.Already,hisoutlineisblurring,likesomethingfromadream.“Ifthat’swhatyouwant.”
“Whoa.Whathappenedtoyou?”
Emily’seyeswidenassheopensthefrontdoortoseemestandinghere,drippingwetandshivering,myhairindirtytangles,myfeetcompletelybareafterabandoningmydisgustingsneakersoutsidetheentrance.
“Itrained,”Isay,andIrealizeIsoundlikeI’vebeencrying.
“Yeah,clearly.”Shegapesatmeafewmomentslonger,opensandcloseshermouthafewtimes,probablydeliberatinghowappropriateitwouldbetomakesomejokeaboutmysad,disheveledappearance,beforesighingandhurryingoffintothelaundry.
Shereturnswithtwothicktowelsthatsmellfaintlylikepine.
“Thanks,”Icroakout,steppingthroughthedoorway,leavingwetfootprintseverywherebehindme.ButwhenIbenddowntowipethem,IonlyendupsprayingdropletsofmudandwateralloverthemarblesurfaceandslippingonthemessI’vejustmade,mylefthipbonehittingthedampfloorwithapainfulthud.
That’sit,IdecideasIpullmyselfslowlybackup.Iwince.Thisiswithoutadoubtthemostmiserablemomentinmywholelife.Itisliterallyimpossibleforthingstogetanymoredepressingthanthis.“IthinkI’mjustgoingtotakeashowerfirst.”
“Um,”Emilysays.
“Um,what?”
“Theshowersaren’treally…workingrightnow,”sheinformsme.“Ithinksomethinggotstuckinthemainpipeswhenitwasraining.MaandBawenttofindthewuyedownstairs,buttheysaidit’s,like,awhole-buildingissue.Mighttakethemawhiletofixit.”
Andonceagain,theuniversehasmanagedtoprovemewrong.
“Right,”Isay,wrappingbothtowelstightaroundmysoakedclothes.“Cool.Verycool.Well,thenIguessI’lljustwaithere.”
“Icanwaitherewithyou,”Emilyoffers.
IstarttotellherNo,it’sokay,justgoplay,butmythroat’sclosedupagain,andmaybeIdon’twanttobealonerightnow.EvenifIalreadyfeellonelierthanI’veeverfelt.
We’rebothsilentforalongtime,listeningtothelighttapofrainagainstthewindows,thedistantrumbleofthunder,thesteadydripofwaterfrommyhair.
Then,asifshecan’thelpherself,Emilyblurtsout,“DidyouhaveafightwithCaz?”
Thesoundofhisnamesearslikesaltonanopenwound.Swallowinghard,allIcanthinktosayis“I’msorry.”ThoughI’mnotsurewhatexactlyI’mapologizingfor.Lyingaboutmyrelationshipwithhimtoeveryone,evennow?Makingmypersonalessayupinthefirstplace?Introducinghimintoherlife,whensheknowsjustaswellasIdohowhorribleitistobepulledawayfromthepeopleyoucareabout,howrareitistomovetoanewplaceandfindsomeonetherewhocanmakeitfeellikehome?There’sjustsomuch.SomanywaysI’vescrewedup.SomanythingsI’vedonewrong.“Iknowyoureallylikehim.”
“Idolikehim,”Emilysaysslowly.Thenshelooksupatme,andI’mstruckbytwothings:First,howtallshe’sgrownwithoutmyrealizing,herheadnowalmostlevelwithmynose.Andsecond,thatfierce,protectivelookinhereyes,likeourpositionshavebeenswitchedandshe’stheoldersiblingwho’dteardowntheworldforme.“Butifhewasmeantoyou,I’llstoplikinghimimmediately.Iwon’teveninvitehimtomynextbirthdayparty.”
Ichokeoutasmalllaugh,butthesound’stingedbysadness.“No,no.It’snotthat.Ifanything…”Ifanything,I’mtheonewhowrongedhim.
“Well,eitherway,”Emilycontinues,leaningbackagainstthewall,“themainreasonIlikedhimwasbecauseofhowyouactwhenyou’retogether.”
Thissurprisesme.“What…whatamIlikearoundhim?”
“Happy,”shesayssimply.CHAPTERNINETEEN
Cazdoesn’tshowupatschoolthenextday.
Orthenextday.Orthenext.Hedoesn’treadanyofmytextsaskingifhe’sokay,orreturnmyvoicemailsaskingifwecanmakeaplanfortheinterview,andIendupfindingoutthroughadodgymediasitethathe’srequestedatwo-weekbreakfromschooltofinishfilminghisdrama.
AndI—
Well,Isurvive.Ibrushmyteethandgotoclassandtakemynotes.Ievenwriteupthatlonger,officialarticleIpromisedSarahDiaz—amuchmoreseriousonethistimeabouttheslowcollapseofthetutoringcenterindustryinChina,tobeprintedinthespringeditionofCraneswift—andemailittoher,shovingdownasurgeofanxietywhensheconfirmsreceiptalongsidethequestion:Areyouallsetfortheinterview?
Idon’tknowhowtotellherthatI’mnotsureifCazwillevenbecoming.Ifwe’lleverspeakagain.ThateverytimeIremembertheknife-brightflashofhurt—thenanger—inhiseyes,thesoundofhisfootstepsinthebeatingrain,itfeelslikesomeone’ssqueezingmyheartinsidetheirfist,likethere’snochancewecaneverfindourwaybackfromthis.Butthere’stoomuchridingontheinterview:mycareer,Caz’sreputation,thepublic’sopinionofus,alloureffortssofar.SoinsteadIwrite,inthevaguestwaypossible,It’sallgoingjustfine.
Andmaybewheneverything’soveranddonewithandI’mlyingaloneinmybedroom,staringaroundatmyfourblankwalls,I’llthinkofCazandaterrible,burningpressurewillbuildinthebackofmythroat.MaybeI’llimaginehimshootinghisdramas,laughingwithMingri,singingkaraokewithhisgorgeouscostars,anddigmynailsintomypillow.MaybeI’llmisshimandhatehimandcursehisname.
Butotherthanthat,I’mdoingfine.Great.
There’sanewemailinmyinboxthenextSaturday,barelytwolineslong:
I’vejustfinishedreadingyourpiece.Pleasecallmewhenyou’refree.—Sarah
AtfirstallIcandoisstareatthescreen,notreallyregisteringanyofit.ThenIreadtheemailagain,myheartkickingfasterandfasteragainstmyribs,dreadrisingtomythroatlikebile.
Don’tfreakout,Iscoldmyself.Youdon’tknowthatit’sbad.
ButIdon’tknowthatit’sgoodeither.
I’mshakingasIretreatalonetothebalconyanddialSarahDiaz’snumber,grippingthephonetightinbothhands.
Sheanswersonthefirstring.Likeshe’sbeenwaitingforme.“Eliza.Howareyou?”
IfeellikeI’mabouttothrowuporhaveaminipanicattackbecauseofyouremail,thankyou.Andhowareyou?“I’mgood,”Imanage.
“Well,that’sgoodtohear.I’msorrytoreachoutsosuddenly,butIreallywantedtotalktoyouaboutyourarticle…”
“Whatdidyouthink?”Isoundsodesperate.Soyoung.
“It’s…”Andthenshepauses.Foratleasttwentyseconds.Nobodypauseslikethatwhenthey’reabouttotellyouyourarticlewasthebestthingthey’veeverread.It’sanI’m-sorry-to-inform-you-your-missing-relative-was-found-dead-in-a-ditchkindofpause.AnI-might’ve-accidentally-run-over-your-dog-on-my-way-to-workkindofpause.
Sweatslicksmypalms,myskinflashinghotandcold,thenhotagain.Istartpacingaroundthebalcony,asifmovingmighthelpredirectallmynervousenergy.
“It’s…different,”Sarahfinallysays.Hervoiceisstrained.“It’sverydifferentfromyourblogposts.”
Idon’tknowwhattosaytothat,soIjuststaysilent,andallthewhilemystomachclenchestighterandtighter.
Thenshereleasesanaudiblesigh.“I’mjustgoingtobehonestwithyou.Youknowhowimportantauthenticityandpassionistoourbrand,andI’mafraidIdidn’treallyfeelanyofthatcomethroughasIwasreading.Imean,itwasclearlywellresearched,butthewritingfellflat,andIcouldn’treallyseeamessagetothepiece,youknow?Asawhole,itfeltvery…hollow.”
“Oh”isallIcanmanageatfirst.Iswallowhard,fightingthesudden,overwhelmingurgetocry.“Oh,that’s—Imean,that’sfair.That’sfine.”
“IhopeI’mnotcomingacrossastooharsh,Eliza,”Sarahcontinues,andthecreepofsympathyinhervoice—ofpity,even—somehowmakesmefeelathousandtimesworse.“BecauseIwantedtolovethis.Itrulydid.AndyouknowhowmuchIadoreyourworkoverall.Imean,thatfirstessaywassojoyousandauthenticandsincere—which,Ithink,isthecruxoftheissuehere.”
Abuzzingfillsmyears,theironyofherwordshittingmelikeaslapintheface.HowcouldanessayI’dcompletelymadeupbesincere?AnessayonakindoffeelingI’dneverevenexperienced?
“Whatdoyoumean?”Iask.
“Well,itseemsyouwritebestwhenyoutrulybelieveinwhatyou’rewritingabout.”
“Right.Okay.That’s—okay.”
“Butdon’tdespair,”Sarahadds.“I’vespokenwithmyteam,andwe’reallhappytogiveyouonemorechancewiththis.Towriteonatopicofyourchoosing.Ofcourse,ifwerunintosimilarissuesagain…”
Theunspokenendofhersentenceisclear.IfIdon’tproducesomethingsheloves,therewon’tbeanextchance.Thiswillbetheend.Myrecommendationlettergoneandmypotentialwritingcareeroverbeforeitevenproperlybegan.
Istoppacingandpressmyforeheadtothecoldglassofthebalconywindow,lettingmybreathcloudthesurface.IfIsquint,Icanmakeoutthebare,crookedtreesplanteddownbelow,thechildrenracingthroughtheplayground,thecouplewalkinginleisurelycirclesaroundthestilllake,thedimafternoonsunpaintingtheirsilhouettesagentlebluegray.
Allofthemseemhundredsofmilesaway.
“Don’tworry,”Ihearmyselfsay.“I’llgiveyousomethingelse.Somethingbetter.Iswear.”
“Well,I’mgladtohearthat,Eliza.”Shesoundsrelieved.“Isincerelyhopeyoudo.Oh,andjusttodouble-check—iseverythingstillgoodtogofortheinterview?”
Again,mythoughtsdrifttoCaz,andmythroatconstricts.Theremight’vebeenatimewhereIcouldgiveheragentledisclaimerabouthimpossibly-very-likelynotshowingup,butthat’snolongeraviableoption.Rightnow,myroleatCraneswiftishingingonmypersonalessayandmyrelationshipwithCaz;Ican’tscrewthatuptoo.
“Yes,”Isaywithfalsecheer.“Yep.Ofcourse.”
AssoonasIhangup,IgrabmylaptopfrommybedroomandreadthroughthearticleIsenther.I’maboutfourparagraphsinwhenIrealizewithasharppangthatSarahDiazwasright.Itdoesfeelhollow.Despiteitbeinganopinionpiece,thewholethingreadslikeoneofthoseawfulAI-generatednewsreports.There’snopassion.Noflow.Nospark.
BecauseifI’mbeingtotallyhonestwithmyself…Idon’tcareaboutthetopic.Neverdid.Ijustthoughtitwasthekindofthingthatwouldseemimpressive.
EventhetightnessinmychestnowhasnothingtodowiththearticleitselfbutwiththethoughtofhavingdisappointedSarahandtheothersatCraneswift,andtheterrifyingprospectoffailingagain.
WhichiswhyIcan’tletthathappen.
Iturnawayfromthewindow.Takeadeep,steadyingbreathtoclearmyhead.IpromisedSarahsomethingbetter,andI’lldeliver.Ihaveto.AllIneedistofigureoutwhatspecificingredientitwasthatmadeSarahfallinlovewithmycompletelyfictionalpersonalessayandreplicateit,andeverythingelsewillworkout.Easy.
Icandothis.
Ican’tdothis.
It’smidnight,accordingtothealarmclockbesidemybed,andI’vebeenstaringatablankWorddocumentforthepastsixhours.I’mfairlysuremybrainstarteddisintegratingatthetwo-hourmark.
“Godhelpme,”Imutter,rubbingmytemplestowardoffagrowingmigraine.
Youwritebestwhenyoutrulybelieveinwhatyou’rewritingabout,SarahhadinsistedButwhatdoItrulybelievein?
Nothing.
Everything.
I’mseriouslydebatingwhetherornotbangingmyheadagainstthewallmighthelpforcesomewordsoutwhenIhearthesoftclickandcreakofthefrontdoorslidingopen.Therattleofkeys.Thenthefamiliarclack-clack-clackofheelsonhardwood.
Ma’shome.
GratefulforanexcusetotemporarilyputasidetheBlankScreenofDoom,Itiptoetowardthelivingroomtogreether.
She’sinherusualworkattire:afitted,perfectlyironedblazer;aplainsilkblouse;andafewminimalistsilveraccessories.Betweenthatandherknife-straightpostureevenasshe’skickingawayherredbottoms,shelookslikeshe’sreadytoconquertheworld.
AsIstepcloser,however,thesour-sweetodorofalcoholandfaintcigarettesmokewaftstowardme.Igrimaceandchangedirectionsatthelastsecond,headingintothekitcheninstead.
Theherbalmedicinepacketshaveallbeenlabeledanddividedintoneat,coloredcontainers:Forheadaches.Forperiodpains.Forexcessiveinternalheat.Still,it’smoreduetomusclememorythanMa’sexemplarycategorizationskillsthatIquicklylocatetheboxIneed:Forhangovers.
Iemptyoneofthepacketsintoaglassofhotwaterandstirthebrownpowderuntilitdissolves,tryingnottogagatthesmell.
ForreasonsI’myettofullyunderstand(thoughithassome-thingtodowith“renqing,”orpersonalconnections),thebusinessculturehereinvolvesalotoflate-nightdinnersandalcohol,totheextentwhereit’salmostimpossibletogetabigpromotionifyoudon’tdrinkatall.Caseinpoint:MostofMa’smajorcontractshavebeensignedoverglassesofbaijiuorredwine.
TheproblemisthatMaactuallyhatesalcohol,butIsuspectshe’ddrinkliquidfireifshethoughtitcouldhelphercloseadeal.
“Ai-Ai?Whatareyoudoingupsolate?”
IturnaroundatthesoftshuffleofslippersandextendthecupofmedicinetoMa.“Makingsureyoudon’twakeuphungovertomorrow,ofcourse.”Ileanbackagainstthecounter.“Youknow,I’mprettysureourrolesaremeanttobereversedrightnow.”
Sherollshereyes,butthesmileshegivesmeiswarm.“Haohaizi.You’reverythoughtful.”
“Yeah,yeah,”Isay.Complimentsalwaysmakemefeelweird.“Justdrinkitwhileit’sstillwarm.”
Shedoesintwogreatgulps,thenmakessuchanexaggeratedexpressionofdisgustthatIcackledespitemyself.
“Iguesswhattheysayistrue,”shesays,shakingherhead,acontemplativelookinhereyes.“Sometimesthethingsthataregoodforyou…reallytastebad.”
“Wow,that’ssuperdeep,Ma.”Isnort.“MaybeyoushouldtellthattoBaforhisnextpoetrycollection.”
“MaybeIwill,”shesaysveryseriously;thenwebothstartlaughing.Butsomewherebetweenonemomentandthenext,mylaughterweakensattheedges,andIstartthinkingofallthethingsIshouldn’tbethinkingabout,likeCazandmyfailedwritingcareerandtheliesIkeepholdinginsidemelikeparasites,andmyfacecrumples.ThenI’mcryingasifI’venevercriedbefore.AsifI’llneverstop.
“Ai-Ai?”Masoundsbewildered,whichisunderstandable,consideringmyemotionsjustdidacompleteone-eightywithinthematterofseconds.“What’swrong?”
“N-n-nothing.”It’stheuglykindofcrying,allloudheavesandhiccupsandhyperventilating,snotdribblingdownmyface.“I—I’mfine.I’mfine.”
“IsitbecauseofthatCazboy?”Maasks,puttinganarmaroundme,andIbreatheinthesourscentofwinelayeredoverherjasmineperfume.
Inodandshakemyheadatthesametime,moreharshsobsjoltingthroughmybody.“It’snot…It’s…”Idon’tknowhowtoexplainit.
Becauseyes,it’sCaz,ofcourseit’shim,theboywhocarriedmethroughtherainandnevershowedhisfaceagain.ButCazisn’ttheonlyoneI’mheartbrokenover
There’sZoetoo.
AndeventhoughImissthembothintensely,withallmyheart,indifferentways,missingZoeisalmostworse.Becausetherearen’tthousandsofbooksandpoemsandmoviesouttheretodescribeexactlywhatI’mfeeling,orlyricallybeautifulsongsformetocrytoandsingalongwithinthecar.There’snoguidebookonhowtosurvivethiskindoffallout,noprescribedremedytosoothethisparticularkindofpain.Romanticbreakupsareromanticizedconstantly,talkedabouteverywherebyeveryone,butplatonicbreakupsareswepttotheside,sufferedinsecret,asifthey’resomehowlessimportant.
“AreyoutryingtotellmethatyourrelationshipwithCazisfake?”Maasksgently.
Thisstunsmeintosilence.Evenmyhiccupsstopforafewseconds.
“How…howdidyouknow?”
“You’remydaughter”isallshesays,likethat’sexplanationenough.Maybeitis.
“I’msorry.”Irubmyeyes,stillsniffling.“Areyoumadatme?”
“IsupposeIshouldbe,”shesaysslowly,tuckingmyhairbehindoneear.Thenshegrabsatissuefromthekitchencounterandwipesmyfacedry,andit’ssuchanatural,motherlythingtodothatIalmostburstintotearsagain.“Butno,I’mnot.”
Westaylikethatinsilenceforawhile,herarmwarmaroundmyshoulders,bitsofwettissuestucktomycheek.Andit’snice.It’speaceful.Istillfeelliketheapocalypseishappening,butI’mgratefulthatthere’sshelterhere.
“Ijust—Idon’tknowwhattodo,”Icroakoutatlast.“Idon’tknowwhatI’mdoing.”
“That’sokay,”shesays.
“No.No,it’snot.NoonelikesmeandIkeepruiningevery-thingand—”Istopshortbeforemyvoicecancrack.
Mastudiesmeforamoment,thenshemovestothecouchandsitsmedownbesideher,hermannerismssuddenlybusinesslike,serious.“Doyouknow,”shebegins,foldingonelegovertheother,“thefirsttimeIannouncedthatweweremovingallthewayacrosstheworld,toacountrywhereyoucouldn’tevenspeakthelanguage,Iexpectedyoutothrowatantrum.Smashsomething,oratleastslamadoor.Youwereonlyachild,afterall;itwould’vebeenunderstandable.Butyouknowwhatyoudid?”
Isensethatthisismoreofarhetoricalquestion,butIshakemyheadanyway.
“Yousimplynodded,withcompletecalm,andaskedmeifyoucouldbringyourfavoritesweatshirt.AtfirstIthoughtyouweremaybetooyoungtounderstandthe—thesignificanceofamovelikethat,butthenIrealizedthatyouunderstooditverywell,andthatyoucareddeeply.Morethananyofus.Youjustdidn’twanttocauseanytroubleformeoryourfather.
“Youholdeverythinginhere,Ai-Ai,”shesayssternly,pointingtoherownheart.“Forbetterorworse.Butnoteveryoneisgoingtoguessatwhatyou’rethinkinglikeIdo.Nooneisgoingtoknowhowyoufeelifyoudon’ttellthem.Anduntilyoudo—youcanneverreallyknowwhat’sgoingtohappen.”
Idon’tgotosleepafterthat.Ican’t.Ma’swordskeepclatteringaroundmybrain,untilthenoisegetssoloudIfindmyselfreachingformyphone.OpeningituptomylastconversationwithZoe.
Myfingershoveroverthekeys.Mypulsespeeds.
Thiswholereaching-out-to-the-people-you-care-aboutthingfeelsascounterintuitiveandmasochisticasstickingmyhandintoanopenflame.
ButthisisZoe.ThegirlwhosufferedthroughMs.Betty’sbiologylecturesandpopquizzeswithme;whooncelentmeherjackettocoverupanembarrassingfoodstaineventhoughtheweatherwasfreezing;whoalwayscheeredtheloudestwhenIdidthesmallestthings,likehitthevolleyballoverthenetinPEclass.ThegirlwhothrewmeasurprisefarewellpartyattheendofninthgradebeforeIleftLAandlistenedpatientlytomypointlessrantsandunderstoodmydryhumorandirrationalfearswhennooneelsedid.
IfIcantellanyonehowIreallyfeel,itshouldbeher.
SoIhugmykneesclosetomychest,drawinashakybreath,andtypeout:
hello!ijustwantedtosaythatireallymissyouand
Andwhat?WheredoIgofromthere?Besides,whostartsaspill-your-heart-outmessagewithahelloandanexclamationpoint?She’sgoingtothinkI’msomeonefromcustomerservice.She’sgoingtothinkmyphonewashacked,orI’velosttheabilitytotextlikeanormalteenager.
No.
Ideletetheentiremessageandstartanemail.
Hey,it’sme.
Iknowwe’vebothbeenkindofdistantlatelysoIguessIjustwantedtoreachout.Giveyouanupdateonmylife.
ThesedaysI’vebeenlisteningtothatplaylistwemadetogetherineighthgrade,anditgotmethinkingaboutallthosecarridesbacktoyourhousewhenweplayedourmusicsoloudyourdadwouldpretendtogetmadatus,eventhoughhewasalwayssmiling.AndalsothatdayafterCarrotdumpedyou(andsincewe’rebeingtotallyhonesthere,Ineverlikedhimanyway—healwaysworehismuddyshoesinsideyourhouse,andheabsolutelydoesNOTlooklikeayoungKeanuReeves),whenwehadourschooltriptothebeachandyouwerechuckingrocksintothewavesasiftheseahadpersonallyoffendedyouwhileIwentthrougheverypost-breakupclichéIknew,andthewaterwasthesameflatgrayshadeasthesky,andeverythingwasbothhorribleandwonderfulbecauseafterwardwesharedapacketofsalt-and-vinegarchipsandaddedliketwentydepressingsongstoourplaylist.ThenIsaidsomethingthatmadeyoulaughforthefirsttimethatdayandsoonwewerebothlaughingatnothinguntilourstomachshurt.Wedidthatalot,actually.SometimesIfeltlikewecouldturnanythingintoaninsidejoke.
AndsoIguessthepointofmynostalgicramblingisthatImissyou.Obviously.AndIrealizethatit’shardforustomakenewmemoriesliketheoldoneswhenwe’renoteveninthesamecountry,andsomanyfriendshipsdriftapartafteroneofthemmovesschools/cities/getsajobetc.But…
Ifiguredit’dbebettertojusttellyouallthis,insteadofwritingmoresad,dramaticmonologuesinmyhead.AndIfiguredtheremightalsobea(small)chancethatyou’vebeenlisteningtothesongsonouroldplaylisttoo.Oratleastthinkingaboutit.
Besides,evenifthisdoeshappentobethelastmessageIeversendyou,I’dmuchratherweleaveitonagoodnote.Thoughofcourse,I’mhopingwedon’thavetoleavethingsonanynoteatall.
Justshootmeamessageifyouwanttotalk.Orgivemeacall.Anything.Youknowhowtofindme.
Hopeissuchaterriblething.
It’slikeabadhabityoucan’tshakeoff,astraydogthatkeepsshowingupoutsideyourdoorforscraps,evenwhenyouhavenothinglefttogive.Everytimeyouthinkyou’reridofitatlast,itmanagestosneakitswaybackin.Takeover.Clingon.
AndthoughIknowthisalltoowell,Istillcan’thelpfeelingasharp,brightsparkofhopewhenmyphoneringsthenextmorning.
Avideo-callinvitefromZoe.
IpickupsofastInearlydropthephone,butImanagetosetituponmybedsidetable,positionmyselfinfrontofthecamerajustasZoe’sfacefillsmyscreen.Andit’sjust—
Hope.
There’ssomuchhopeinme.
“Hi,”Isay.
Shesmiles.It’sanawkwardsmile,butearnest.“Hi.”
I’msuddenlyremindedofthatdayineighthgrade,thefirsttimewereallyspoke.IwasnewbutalreadylovedbytheEnglishteachers,andZoewasthelong-reigningstarstudentineverysubject,somostpeoplethoughtwe’dhateeachother.Butthen,afterI’dreadoneofmycreativewritingpiecesoutloudforapresentation,she’dapproachedme.She’dbeensmilinglikethisaswell,whileIwaswaryandhopefulandnervous—untilsheopenedhermouthandsaid,“God,yourwritingissobeautiful.”
That’showwebecamebestfriends.
It’sactuallyfunny,lookingbackatit.Howwritinghasalwaysbeenthestringtyingmetopeople.
“Ireadyourmessage,”Zoesaysnow.“Thankyou.Really.And—sorry.Iknowthingshavebeenkindofweird…”
“Youdon’thavetoapologize—”
“No,no,butIdo.”Shesighs,longandloud.“It’sjustbeensohecticoverherewithcollegeapplicationsandit’s—well,yourememberhowcompetitiveitwas.Peoplereadytokilleachotheroveragoodgrade.Nowimaginethat,butlikeonfreakingsteroids.Andthenthisnewgirl,Divya—I’mnotsureifyouknow—”
“Iremember,”Itellher.
“Yeah,soitturnsoutshe’sapplyingforthesamecollegeandmajorasme,and—Imean,it’sstillcompetitiveashell,butit’salsonicehavingsomeonewhounderstands,youknow?”
Inod,lettinghertalk.
“Andmeanwhile,you’regoingoutwithacelebrityanddoingallthiscoolshitandIdidn’twanttopilemystressontopofyoursso…So,yeah,”shefinishes,givingmethatstiff,awkwardsmileagain.
“Wow.”
“Iknowit’s—”
“Wow,Zoe.”Ishakemyheadandlaugh.“Areyoukiddingme?Youonceletmeranttoyouforanhouraboutthoseminishampoostheygiveoutinhotels,butyoudidn’twanttobothermewithyourveryvalidstressaboutyourliteralfuture?”
Finally,hersmilewidens.TurnsintothegrinIknowsowellandmissedsomuch.“Well,whenyouputitlikethat…”
“I’mright.YouknowI’mright.”
“Isupposeso…”
Andmaybehopeisn’tsoterribleafterall.Becausewespendthenexthourchattingandcatchingup,andeventhoughit’snotexactlythesameasitusedtobe—therearemorepauses,andthosesmallhintsofawkwardness—Idon’tthinkI’velostherIfonlyitcouldbelikethiswithCaztoo,asmallvoicewhispersinthebackofmyhead.IfonlyIcouldjustfixeverything.ButIquicklydrownitout.Zoe’sbeenmybestfriendforyears.CazSong,ontheotherhand,isrankedinthetopthreeofChina’sbiggestheartthrobs;thedistancebetweenusisirreconcilable.
BeforeIcandwellonitlonger,theconversationturnstoCraneswift,andmywriting.
“It’sgoinghorribly,”Itellherupfront.“IsentSarahmyfinalarticle,andshethoughtitwastheworstthingintheworld.”
“Idoubtshesaidthat.”
“Shestronglyimpliedit.”
“Comeon,”shesaysonceshestopslaughing.“You’retalented,Iknowyouare.Didshetellyouwhatwaswrongor—”
“Itwastoo…stiff,apparently.Itdidn’tfeelasgenuineasmyblogposts.”
“Thenchangeit,”shesays,liketheanswerisobvious.
“ButIcan’tbethepersonwhoexclusivelywritesthesepersonal,sentimental,whollysincereessaysaboutloveandjoy,”Iprotest.“Ican’t.That’snotme.Iwantedtowritesomethingserious.”
“Well,whynot?”
“It’sjust.Becauseitfeels…”Iscramblefortherightword.“Itfeelsembarrassing.”
Zoejustshrugs.“Mostsincerethingsfeelatleastalittleembarrassing.It’spartofourdefensemechanisms.Ourheart’swayofprotectingusfrompotentialhurt.”
BeforeIcanarguewiththat,Ihearhermomshoutingforherfromtheotherroom.
“Shit.Forgottotakeoutthelaundry,”shemutters,gettinguptoleave.Thenshepauses.“I’llcallyoulater,okay?Promise.”
“Okay.Bye.Missyou,”Isayinarush,andIrealizeshemighthaveapointaboutthekindofthingsthatareembarrassing.
Shelaughs,liftsherhandtowaveatme,andit’sonlythenthatIcatchsightofthefrayedbluestringaroundherwrist.Abraceletidenticaltomyown.She’skeptitallalong.“Missyoutoo.”CHAPTERTWENTY
Theinterviewisscheduledfor4:00p.m.thefollowingMonday.
At2:00p.m.,Iswallowmyprideandwrite,thenrewrite,atexttoCaz,myfingersshakingasItypeoutthetimeandlocation,alongsidethequestion:Willyoubethere?At2:30p.m.,thelittlereadiconpopsupbelowthemessage,butthere’snoreply.
At3:30p.m.,Ishowupalonetotheseniorlibrary,mygutroiling.
Theinterviewer,RachelKim,wantedustomeethere.Somethingaboutitoffering“insight”intomydailylifeasastudent,whichisprettyfunnysinceIhaven’tsetfootintothelibraryonceinallmytimehere.Iobviouslydidn’ttellherthat,though.Imean,it’snotasifthisinterviewisgoingtobegroundedintruthanyway.
WhenIwalkthroughthelibrary’sslidingglassdoors,thecameracrewisalreadysettingupinside.There’sequipmenteverywhere,professionalcamerasandmicrophonesandscreensrestingontopofchildren’sbookshelves,longmetalrodsleaningagainstthepastelwalls.Achairandtwovintagesofasplacedatthecenteroftheroom.Someonehasevenleftoutatrayofcupcakesandwater,allstilluntouched.
I’mactuallytremblingasImakemywayovertothesofas.Isitdownandcrossmylegs.Uncrossthem.Fidgetwithastraythreadinthecushions.
Iresistthesuddenurgetothrowup
It’sjustnerves,Itellmyself.Nerves,andthefactthatCazisn’therewithme.
Thenexthalfhourcrawlsbyatanexcruciatinglyslowpace.MymouthalwaysgetsdrywhenI’mstressed,soIkeepgettingupandchuggingwaterandrunningtothebathroomandbackagain,allthewhiletryingtolookcoolaboutthewholething.ThecameracrewmustthinkIhavefoodpoisoning.
I’montomyeighthcupofwaterwhenthefrontdoorsslideopen.
AprettyyoungwomanwithapixiecutandthelongestfalselashesI’veeverseenglidesintotheroom,hereyesinstantlylandingonme.
“YoumustbeEliza!”shegushes,extendingamanicuredhand.Hernailsarepaintedthesameglossypeachpinkshadeasherdress.“I’mRachel.”
“Yes.Hi.”Istandupquickly,prayingshedoesn’tnoticethesweatstainsonthesofa,andgiveherhandafirmshake.
“Itissolovelytomeetyouinperson,”shesays,allColgate-adsmiles.Herbreathsmellslikespearmint.“God,I’vebeenlookingforwardtothisinterviewforages.”
“Yeah.”Itrytomatchherlevelofenthusiasmandfailmiserably.“Imean,samehere.”
Webothsitdown.Or,atleast,Ido—shekindofpauseshalfwayandcranesherneckleftandright,likeImightbehidingsomethingbehindme.
“Sorry,”shesaysafterabeat.“It’sjustthat…IsCaznotgoingtobehere?”
Myhearttwistsatthename.Mythroatburns.
ButjustasI’mabouttofeedhersomeexcuseaboutCazbeingcalledawaylastminutetoreshootascene,thelibrarydoorsslideopenagain,andCazstridesinlikehehadplannedtocomehereallalong.
Agiddy,overwhelmingsurgeofrelief—mingledwithdisbelief—shootsthroughme.
“SorryI’mlate,”hesaystoRachel,shakingherhand.“YouknowhowBeijingtrafficcanbe.”Thenheturnstomeforthefirsttimesincethatdayintherainandsmiles.
Andmyheartfalls.Breaksuponimpact.
Becauseit’shisformalsmile,thesamesmilehegivesstrangersandfansandinterviewerslikeRachel,thecornersofhismouthcurvingupjustslightly,neitherofhisdimplesshowing.
Itshouldn’thurtthismuch.Ishouldjustbegladhe’sstillhonoringouragreementaftereverythingthathappenedbetweenus.YetasIforcemyselftosmilebackathimandwatchhimtaketheseatbesideme,soclosehisshouldersalmostbrushmyown,Ican’thelpfeelinglikethere’sanaxelodgedinmychest,twistingdeeperwitheverypassingsecond.
“Itissogoodtoseeyoutwotogether,”Rachelgushesasshesitsdownoppositeus,handsfoldedneatlyoverherskirt.“I’msureyou’veheardthis,like,amilliontimesalready,butyoureallydomakethecutestcouple.”
Justsmileandplayalong,Icommandmyself,squashingtheurgetoglanceoveratCaz,toassesshisreactionatherwords.It’llallbeoversoon.
Buttheinterviewdragsonforever.Afterlaunchingintoalong,complimentaryintroduction,coveringeverythingfrommyculturalbackgroundtotheschoolsI’veattendedtohowmyessaywentviralinthefirstplace,RachelpivotstoCaz’sactingcareer,herColgatebeamwidening.
“You’vestarredinquiteafewpopularworks,haven’tyou?”shesaysonceshe’slistedthemall.“Fromcampusdramastocostumeandxianxiadramas.”
“Yeah,guessIhave.”Unlikeme,Cazobviouslyhasnoproblemdoinginterviews;hisanswerscomeoutsmoothandeasy,theresultofyearsofpracticeandexperienceunderthespotlight.Butthere’sanuncharacteristictensiontohisbodythat,whileIdoubtisnoticeabletoonlookers,pullsatthenarrowspacebetweenuslikeatautcord.
Maybe,Idarethink,it’skillinghimthewayit’skillingme,sit-tingthisclosetogether,actinglikeeverything’sfine,likewe’redatingandinlove,whenwehaven’tevenspokeninmorethanaweek—
“Andwhatdoyouthinkofhiswork,Eliza?”Rachelasks.“Doyouwatchhisdramasoften?”
Iblink,notexpectingtobecued.“Um.”Iclearmythroat.“Ido,ofcourseIdo.Often.He’sgreatinthem.”Thispartrequiresnobullshitting—heisgreatinhisdramas,andbynow,I’vewatchedeverythinghe’severactedin,includinghisfirstminorroleastheprince’sguardinanearlypalacedrama.
Eventhen,hewasbeautiful.
“Whataboutyou?”RachelturnsbacktoCaz,pausingtotakeanincrediblysmall,elegantsipofwater,thenanother,asifdeterminedtostretchthisinterviewoutforaslongaspossible.“WouldyoucallyourselfafanofEliza’swriting?”
“Yes,”Cazsaysquietly,andthistime,Ican’tstopmyselffromsneakingaglanceathisface.Thoughhiseyesaredarkandsteady,staringstraightahead,there’ssomesubtle,complexinterplayofemotionsjustbeneaththatmaskofnonchalance,somethingthatmakeshisnextwordssoundlikeaconfession.“I’vealwaysbeenherfan.”
“Oh,howsweet,”Rachelcoos,thenaddssomethingelseaboutmyblogpostsforCraneswift,butIbarelyhearher
I’mrememberingwhatCazsaidtheotherday:
Thefirsttimewereallymet,youweresittingtwoseatsinfrontofmeinEnglishclassandtheteacherwasreadingoutoneofyouressays.
Andthen,asifI’veaccidentallyunlockedsomementalvaultofallmyforbidden,repressedmemories,everythinghesaidafterthatcomesrushingbacktometoo.
Iwantthistobereal.
Thelibraryseemstospin,theartificialheatswellingaroundme,thecameralightsblinding,recordingeverylittleshiftandflickerofemotiononmyface.ThespacebetweenCazandmesomehowfeelsbothsmallerandwiderthanever.
“…okay,Eliza?Doyouwantadrinkofwater?”
WhenIglanceup,RachelandCazandthecrewareallstaringatme,variationsofconfusionandconcernplayingoutintheirexpressions.Well,mostlyconfusion.It’sCazwholooksmostconcerned—thoughonlyforafleetingsecond,beforehisjawtightensandhisfeaturessmoothoveragain.Ican’tbearit.Ican’tbearit,yetIhaveto.Ineedtoseethisperformancethroughtotheend.
“Sorry,”Isay,wrenchingmyattentionawayfromhim.“Just,um,spacedoutthereforasecond.I’mgood.”
“Oh,well,wehavebeentalkingforawhile,haven’twe?”Rachelsaysasshechecksherwatchinmildsurprise.“Don’tworry,we’llbewrappingupsoon.”
Ihaven’tevenhadthechancetoreleaseasilentbreathofreliefbeforeshereachesintoherbagandretrievesathin,laminatedscript.
“What…?”Ibegin.
“Justafunthingwethoughtwe’dtry,”Rachelexplainscheerily,tossingthescriptovertome.
Istudythescript,andmyheartstumblesoveritsnextbeats.ThetranslatedlinesarefromafamoussceneCazshotforhislastcostumedrama,whereheplayedaghostkingdesperatelyinlovewithabanishedprincessoverthecourseoftenlifetimes.Andit’snotjustanyfamousscene—it’sthefamousconfessionscene,setrightaftertheghostkingtransfershisownpowerstotheprincesstosaveher.I’veseenscreenshotsandquotesofitfloatingaroundalloversocialmedia.
“Basically,we’dloveforCaztoreenactthisiconicscenewithyou,”Rachelsayswithawink.Ormaybesomething’sjustgottenstuckinherfalselashes.“AndIknowyou’renotanactor,Eliza,butyourlinesaresupershort.Plus,”sheadds,grinning,“sincethisisyourboyfriend,it’snotlikethere’smuchactualactingneeded.”
I’mprobablymoreofanactorthanyourealize,Ithink,mouthdry.
Ahalf-formedprotestrisestomylips,butIswallowitbackdownagain,unsurehowtophraseitwithoutinvitingsuspicion.Besides,Cazdoesn’tseemtohaveanymajorissuesactingoutoneofhismostdramatic,romanticscenesrightherewithme.Hejustglancesovermyshoulderatthescript,repeatsthelinestohimselfafewtimes,nods,andsays,“Okay.Surething.”
AndifInoticehimswallowrightafter,hisfingersflexingoverthesofacushions,it’sstillnothingcomparedwiththepanicworminginmygut.I’mhonestlynotsurehowmuchlongerIcanmaintainmycomposure,hidemyhurt,beforeIfallapart.
“Wheneveryou’reready,”Rachelcalls,wavingforthecamerastomoveclosertous.
Cazleaveshisseatandpromptlykneelsdownbeforeme,rightonthelibraryfloor,alreadyslippingintocharacterlikeasecondskin:There’sanewhardnesstotheplanesofhisface,abrilliantintensitytohispitch-blackgaze.Takingmyhandinhis,heasks,voicelowandmuchdeeperthanitusuallyis,“Howdoyoufeel?”
Mymindblanksforamoment,registeringnothingbutthecool,firmpressofhisfingers,beforeIrealizethatit’smyturntosaymylines.“Better.I…um…No—wait—”Flushing,Iscanthroughthescriptagain.“Ishouldbeaskingyouthat,youfool.Howcouldyou—”
“It’snothing,”hesays,fullyimmersedinthescene.Heliftshishanduptomycheek,tucksaloosestrandofhairbehindmyear,andItrytokeepmybreathingeven,toconcealhowmuchhisproximityhurts.Onlystagedirections,Iremindmyself,againandagain.Onlythat.
“It’snotnothing,”Icontinuefrommemory.“Yourpowers…”
“Icansurvivethisworldwithoutmypowers,butIcan’tsurviveitwithoutyou.”Slowly,hesays,“I’vewaitedtenlifetimesforyou,lostyoutentimes,foughtmywaythroughtheunderworldtoretrieveyoursoul.Youaremylight,YourHighness;theonlyhomeI’veeverknown.I’dgladlydiebeforeIletyouslipthroughmyfingersagain.”
Uponhislastwords,thelibraryfallsintocompletesilence;eventhecrewseemsentrancedbyhisperformance.
AndthoughIknow—Iknow—it’sallfake,thehottangleofemotionsinmythroatisn’t.Ourgazeslock,mesittingdown,himstillonhisknees,thatinvisiblestringbetweenustightening,andsomethingseemstorippleoverhisfacetoo.
ThenRachel’sloud,abruptapplauseshattersthestillness.
“Oh,thatwaswonderful,”sheenthuses,longnailsflutteringatherchest.“EvenbetterthanIcould’vehoped.I’llbesuretoaddthisintothepromovideo.”Shethengoesonforawhileabouthowgreattheinterviewwent,howmuchshelovesmyblogposts,howexcitedsheistoseemycareerwithCraneswifttakeofffurther,andIthink:
Thisisit.ThisisexactlywhatIwanted—orwhatIthoughtIwanted.Thepromiseofagoodcareer.Theopportunitytoimpresstheinterviewer,andwhoeverendsupwatchingthisathome.ThesafetyofkeepingCazSongatadistance,ofkeepingeverythingbetweenuspurelyprofessional.
SowhydoIfeelsomiserable?
WhenRachelfinallyreleasesmefromtheconversationandbusiesherselfpackinguptheinterviewequipment,IhurryafterCazoutthelibrarywithouthesitating.Withoutanyinstinctforself-preservation.Instead,there’sjustthehorriblehopebloominginsidemelikeaseverebruise,theold,foolishthoughtresurfacing:Maybethere’sawaytofixthis.TotellhimhowIfeel,thewayIdidwithZoe.Somewaytokeephiminmylife,evenifit’sonlyasfriends.NowthatI’veexperiencedthealternativefirsthand—nocallsfromhim,norealsmiles,nothing,asifIdon’tevenexistinhislife—Irealizethatpainmightbeinevitable.Butsomekindsofpainareworsethanothers.
Cazstopshalfwaydowntheemptycorridor,andIalmostcrashintohim.
Foramoment,hejuststaresdownatme,anunfathomablelookinhiseyes.
“Whatareyoudoing?”heasks,hisvoicequieternowthatwe’realone,distant.Itkillsme,butIknowIalsocan’tblamehim.Iwastheonewhoputthatdistancebetweenus.
“I—I’m—”Ichewmytongue,theironyofithittingme.HowsupposedlygoodIamwithwords,exceptwhenitcomestothis.Tohim.“Ijustwantedtosay—totellyou…”
Hetiltshisheadslightly,somethingbehindhisgazeshifting.LikehecareswhatIhavetosaynext,despitehimself.“Yeah?”
“I’msorry,”Iblurtout.“Ididn’tmean—theotherday,whenyousaid—Iwaslying—”
“Youwerelying,”herepeats.“Aboutwhichpart?”
“I—”
Heshiftsposition,sothatmyback’sfacingtheclosestwall,andmovesforward.Hisvoiceremainssoft,gentleeven,yeteachwordcutsthroughtheairlikeknives.“AbouthowIshouldtrustyou?HowIcouldbemyselfaroundyou?HowaboutthatapparentlyyouknowbetterthanIdohowIreallyfeel,evenwhenI’vejustlaidmyheartouttoyou?Whichoneisit,Eliza?”
Aflushrisesthroughme.Thisisgoingsoterriblywrong.
Butheisn’tfinishedyet.Hestepsforwardagain,justlikethatdayontheroof,andthebackofmyheadtouchesthehardwall.“Thoseareallyourwords,notmine,”hesays.“Youaskmetofeelcomfortablearoundyou,butthesecondIdo,youjust—youretreat.Yourunaway.Doyouknowwhatit’slikeforme?Itrustedyouwithmyhurt,myfears,mydoubts,myheart—thingsI’venevertoldanyoneelse,andyouleft.”
“Iknowthatnow,”Ibabble,myeyesstinging.“Iknowitwasn’tfairbut…youcametoday.”There’ssomuchhopeinmyvoiceit’sembarrassing.Youcameforme,right?
YetthehopeinsidemewiltswhenIseehisexpression.
“Icamebecausewemadeadeal,andbecauseIunderstandhowmuchitmeanstoyouandyourcareer.But,Eliza…”Heshakeshisheadwithalaughthatsoundsmorelikeasigh.Hemovesawayfromme,andthespacebetweenus—thespaceI’doncetriedsohardtomanufacture—feelscold,cursed.“Whetherthey’rerealornot—allyourwordshaveconsequences.Youcan’tjusttakethemback.”
Ittakesmetoolongtorecover,topickmyheartupfromwhereit’sfallenlikeshatteredglass.BythetimeIdo,Cazisalreadygone.CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
Thenextweek,I’minmathclasswhentheinterviewgoesup.
Ms.Suiisouttoday.We’vebeenleftwithoutasubandinstructedtousethehourasastudyhall,soeveryonearoundmeisalreadyscrollingthroughtheirsocials,atabofouralgebraquestionsleftopeninthecornerjustforshow.Thenthere’sasmallflurryofactivity:quiet,half-muffledgiggles,chairssqueakingasfriendsturnfromtheirdeskstowatch,curiouseyesswivelingfromtheirscreenstome.
Andtheemptyseatbesideme.
Anow-familiarpangfillsmygut.Cazhasbeenabsentfromschoolallweek.Busyshootingagain.
Although,asSavannahsetsherlaptopontheteacher’sdesk,inclearviewofthewholeclassroom,andstartsplayingthatdramaticreenactmentCazandIdid,I’mnotsosurethisisn’tagoodthing.
“Ohmygod.Lookatyoutwo,”Nadiasays,grinningoveratmewhiletheothersgiggle.
Idon’treallywantto,thesamewayyouwouldn’twanttoscratchatanopenwound,butthevideovolume’snowplayingtooloudformetoignore,myownstiltedvoicedriftingtowardme:
“Ishouldbeaskingyouthat,youfool…”
Resistingeveryimpulsetocringe,Ilookup.
WhoevereditedourinterviewhasgonethroughthetroubleofplacingmyclipwithCazbesideareferenceclipfromtheoriginaldramahestarredin.Andasthevideoplayson,thecamerazoominginonCaz’sfacewhilehemakeshisfamousconfession,Ican’thelpnoticingadifferencebetweenthetwoversions.Imean,there’sobviouslyadifference;theoriginalactressisfarmorebeautifulandnaturalon-screenthanI’lleverbe,andwiththepeachblossomsunfurlingaroundtheminthebackgroundandtheirlong,blood-splattered,traditional-styledrobes,theirscenetogetherlookslikesomethingfromanepictragedy.
ButthelookinCaz’seyesissomehowdifferenttoo.
BecausewhenCaztellstheactresshowhewaitedforher,howhemissedher,howherefusestoloseheragain,hisactingisimpeccable,whollyconvincing.Yetit’sonlythat—acting.Whenhemurmursthosesamelinestome,however,theraw,piercingintensityofhisgazeisundeniablyreal.
WhatwasitthatDaikihadteasedusforonCaz’sbirthday?
Wecanseeitinyoureyes…
Igriptheedgeofmydesk,astartledbreathrattlinginmythroat.Cazhadtoldme,ofcourse.Boththedaywekissed,andthedayintherain,andagainaftertheinterview.Butmaybe,upuntilthisveryinstant—withtheevidenceplayingrightbeforemyeyes,thecameraforcingmetoseemyselfandhimthroughitsobjectivelens—I’dnevertrulytrustedthathecouldmeanit.ThatCazSongcouldfeelsomethingrealforme.Thatthereisn’tsomethingfundamentallybrokenaboutme,somethingthatwillinevitablydrivehimaway.
Andnowtheonlyidentifiablethoughtinmyheadis:
Shit.
Shit.I’vemessedup.Miscalculated.ThewholetimeI’vebeentryingtoprotectmyselffromgettinghurt…I’vehurthimtoo.MorethanIcould’vepossiblyimagined.Ihavetotalktohim,setthingsright.Askforonemorechance.
Istarttorisetomyfeet,butatthefrontoftheclassroom,Savannahlurchesbackfirst.“Ohmygod,”shewhispers,staringatsomethingonherlaptop.Herwidenedeyescuttome,andconfusionrollsthroughmygut,mergingwithsomethingsourlikedread.“Um,Eliza—Ithinkyoushould…Idon’t…”
Theinterviewcliphasendednow,butanotificationhaspoppedup.There’sanewarticleaboutCazwaiting,postedonlyafewminutesago.Ipeercloser,heartspeeding,andthewordsleapoutatmeinfragments,sinkinginlikeshardsofglass:
YoungactorCazSong…whilefilminghighlyanticipatedxianxiadrama…accidentonset…injuriesunknown…LijiaHospital…waitingforcomment—
Igocompletelystill.
Stillasdeath.
What?Iwanttosay,butthewordneverleavesmymouth.You’rejoking,butthatdoesn’tmakeitouteither.Iwanttothrowup.Myheartisself-cannibalizing,Iswear,shrinkingsmaller,shrinkingintonothing,andIcan’tdoanythingexceptstandthere.SuckinbreathafterbreathafterbreathuntilImanagetounhookmyvoicefrommythroat.
Eventhen,itcomesoutasaweakrasp.“Idon’t…Idon’tunderstand.”
“Itsayssomethingaboutabrokenwire,”Savannahsays,readingfast,andthetemperatureintheclassroomseemstoplummetahundreddegrees.Everyoneisfrozenbesideme.“Ortheequipmentwhentheywereshooting.Somekindofmalfunction—”
AndI’mofficiallypanicking.Hyperventilating.Mymindfoggedwithwhite.
IthinkofCazandthepalescarrunningdownhisforearmandthosecursed,worn-downwiresthatshould’vebeenreplacedmonthsago.Italreadyhappenedtohimonce.Itcouldalwayshappenagain.
“I’llcallhim,”Icroak,becausethatsmall,hopeful,foolishpartofmeisstillprayingthisisallamisunderstanding.Maybehewasn’tevenshootingtoday.Maybehewrappeduphissceneearlyandleftbeforetheaccident.
Maybe.
Please.
TheentireclassstayssilentasIscrollthroughmycontacts,findCaz’snumberonmyfirsttry.It’ssofamiliarIalmosthaveitmemorizedbynow.ThenIclickthecallbuttonandputitonloudspeakeranditrings—
Andrings.
Myheartlurchestomythroatinbeatwitheverynew,unansweredsoundofthedial.Ifeelnauseated.Faint.IfIclosemyeyesIcanimagineCaz’svoiceonthephonenow,smoothandlowandslightlyconfusedastowhyI’mcallinghiminthefirstplace,andforabriefmomentwhentheringingstops,Iswearit’shim.
Butallthatcomesthroughishisvoicemail.
Istuffmyphoneawayandlookup,willmyselfnottoseethepityswimminginSavannah’seyes,theopenconcernlaidoutonNadia’sface.“Ifateacherasks,justtellthemIhadtoleave.”
“Wait.Whereareyougoing?”
It’ssuchanabsurdquestionthatIalmostburstintohystericallaughter.WhereelsecouldIgo?Whereelse,buttohim?Itdoesn’tmatterthathe’smoreorlessrejectedmealready,thatthiscouldverywellendbadly.Ijustneedtoseehim,tobethereforhim,confirmformyselfthathe’sokay.Nomatterhowmuchithurts.
“Thehospital,”Icallovermyshoulder,alreadytwistingaway,punchingLiShushu’snumberintomyphonewithtremblingfingers.
ThenIrun—
Butthistime,I’mnotrunningaway
ThedrivetoLijiaHospitaltakesaneternity,everypassingminutedragginglikeaknifeacrossmyskin.
Butsomehow,beforeIcanlosemymindormyheartcanexplode,thesignforLijiaHospitalcomesintoview.Itlooksbrand-new,thebluepaintgleaming.
Idon’twaitforLiShushutoparkthecarproperlybeforeIrunout,yellingbackovermyshoulderforhimtodrivehomewithoutme,becauseifCazissafe,thenwecantalkandfigureoutawaybacktothecompoundourselves,andifhe’snot,well—
Ismotherthethoughttodeathandrunfaster.
TheairsmellsdifferentthesecondIburstintothehospital.Likeantisepticsandlemonpinetocoverupsomethingnastyandthesharp,metallictangofstainlesssteelormaybejustoldblood.Likedesperationandsickness.
Andnowcomesthetrickypart—
IhavenoideawhereCaz’sroomis.
IfIsimplywalkuptoareceptionistandaskforCazSong’sroomnumber,they’llmostlikelydismissmeasafan,ormaybeastalker.Theymightevenkickmeout.
WhichmeansIhavetofigureoutwhereheismyself.It’smanageable—thereareonlyfourlevelsinthehospital.That’swhatthesignsbesidethemainstaircasesay.Andsincethefirstfloorismainlyforadministrativepurposesandthesecondflooristhelaborward,Icanstartonthethirdfloor,searcharoundfromthere…
Nosoonerthanthevagueplanformsinmyhead,I’malreadymoving,takingthestairstwoatatime.
Thethirdflooropensupintoavast,white-walledroomlinedwithuncomfortable-lookingplasticseats.Colorlessafternoonlightdriftsinthroughthewindows.Therearemoredoctorsuphere,andpatientstoo:asnifflingchildhookedtoanIV,atoo-bigmilitarycoatrestingaroundhisskinnyshoulders;awearymotherfumblingthroughherpurseforreceipts,medicaldetails.
IcheckeveryfaceIpass,everycurtainedroomonbothendsofthehall.Idon’tknowwhatexactlyI’mlookingfor.MaybeCazhimself,aliveandwell,oracastmember,or—
Someone.
Anyone.
Evenjustonetinysignthathe’sallright.
MyhearthammersagainstmyribsasImovedeeperin,searchingandfindingnothing.Myskinbuzzes,anewtideofpanicrushingtoshore.
ThenIspotafamiliarfigurewaitingoutsideoneoftheclosedrooms—broadjawandcroppedhairandevenbroadershoulders,halfhisbodystillcoveredinplatesoffakearmor.
Mingri.
Reliefcrashesthroughmychest,butit’scutshortbythelookonhisface.
Hislipsaresetinahard,tiredline,hiseyesvacantandrimmedwithred.AsIstare,hewipeshisfaceroughlywithonehand.Ishe…crying?
No.
Myfootstepsfalter,andsuddenlyIwanttoturnrightbackaround.Getoutofhere.Gobacktonotknowing.Buthe’salreadyseenme.
“Eliza?”Mingrirubshiseyesonelasttimeandstraightens,walksoverslowly,exhaustionwrittenalloverhisbody.Exhaustion,or…grief.Hisvoiceishushed.“Whatareyoudoinghere?”
“I…”There’ssomethingstuckinmythroat,somethingpainful.Itrytoclearit.“Where’sCaz?”
Hisfeaturespinch,andIknow—evenbeforehesaysthewords—Iknow.Isteelmyselfwitheverycellinmybody,butit’sstillnotenoughtostomachwhathesaysnext,inMandarin:
“Tabuzai.”
Idoaquicktranslationinmyhead—heisn’there—andeverythingstops.Myearsring.Ringonandonandonlikeanunansweredcallbeforethestaticturnstosilence.IthinkIcollapsetotheground,becausenextthingIknowmykneesarebruisingagainstthegraytiles,thecoldofthefloorcreepingintomyskin,intomybones,sinkingitssharpteethintoeverything.Mingrimovesforwardwithhandsoutstretched,startstosaysomethingelse,butIcan’thearhim.Can’teventhink.
Nothere.Notanymore.
Dead.
Anaildeepinmychest,twisting.That’swhatitfeelslike,andIdon’twanttofeelthis,butwhendidthateverstopanything?It’sover.Allofit.AndIneverevengotthechancetotellhimhowIreallyfelt,neverevengottogivehimarealapology.Ibreatheinandoutandtheworldisstillmoving,itmustbe,buteverythingisfrozeninsideme.IhadalwaysfearedCazSongwouldbreakmyheart,butthis—
Thisisthekindofheartbreakyouneverrecoverfrom.CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO
Twohandstouchmyshoulders.Gentle.
Idon’tknowwhotheybelongto.Idon’tcare.Myeyesblur,thehospitallightsbleedingintothecornersofmyvisionlikeawhitehazeofstars,andit’snotuntilIhearhisvoice,feelhisshadowreachingoverme,thatIfreeze.
“Whathappened?Whatdidyousaytoher?”
Hisvoice.NotMingri’s,but—
Mybreathingstutters.Myheartcrashesandpicksupagainatathousandmilesaminute,andItwistaroundsofastmyspinecracks,becauseit’snotrealit’snotrealitcan’tberealitcan’tbeexceptitis.
Itis.
CazSongisstandinginthecenterofthehospitalcorridor,gazingdownatme,longlashesshadowinghischeeks,eyesliquid-blackwithconcern.He’salive.He’saliveandrightthereandhe’sneverlookedsobeautifulandeventhoughIcan’tbeartolookawayfromhim,IturntoMingriforconfirmationthatI’mnothallucinating.
AndMingriisturnedtowardCaz,whichmeansImustnotbe.
He’sreallyhere.
“Eliza?”Cazsays,andhisvoiceissoexquisitelytenderthatIforgetmyself,forgeteverything,justspringupfromthegroundwithmorestrengththanIknewIpossessedandthrowmyarmsaroundhisbody,crashheadfirstintohischest.Hewobblesslightlyuponimpact,caughtoffguard,buthemanagestoregainhisbalance.
AndIholdhim.Holdontohim.
Ibreatheinthesummerscentofhisshampooandfeelthefirmnessofhisshoulders,thehardplaceswherehismusclesconnect,theslopeofhisneck,anditallfeelssoniceIcouldcry.
ThenMingriclearshisthroat.
Wepullapart,butthemomentlingerssomewhereinthespacebetweenmyfingertips,theleftoverheatfromhisbodywarmingmyskin.
“Sorry.Ihadnoidea—”Mingrisays,handshalfthrownupinbewildereddefense.“Ididn’tthink—”
“Whatdidyoutellher?”Cazrepeats,hiseyesstillonme.Allthetendernessisgone.Infact,hesoundsmorepissedoffthanI’veeverheardhim.PissedoffatMingri
“I…”Mingribringsonehandtothebackofhisneck,rubsitoverflushedskin.“Ijusttoldheryouweren’thereanymore.Thatyou’dleft.TogetwateriswhatImeant,butIcanseehowshemayhavemistakenherefor,ah,thegeneralphysicalrealmoftheliving,insteadofthisspecificspace—andmaybeIshouldn’thaveusedMandarin…”
Cazstaresathimforalong,disbelievingbeat.ThenhepunchesMingri’sshoulder.It’snotaparticularlyaggressivepunch—notthekindintendedtobeatthecrapoutofsomeoneorstartafight—butjudgingfromthethuditmakesandMingri’simmediatewince,it’snotparticularlygentleeither.
“Howcouldyousaythat?”Cazdemands.
“Ithoughtshealreadyknewyouwereokay!Andbesides,Imean,Ididn’texactlygetachancetoclarifybeforeshe—”
“Youmighthaveconsideredyourwordchoicebetter,”Cazcutshimoff.
“Well,it’snotlikeIwaslying,”Mingrimumbles.
Bynowmydespairhasrecededintoonlyconfusedembarrassment.IbrushmycheeksascasuallyasIcan,asifIhaven’tjustbeencaughtbreakingdown.ThenIlookbackandforthbetweenthetwoofthembeforesettlingonMingri.
“Butyou…”Isay,remembering.“Youlookedsooutofit,andyouwererubbingyoureyes…”
“Yeah,becauseIwasyawning.Andthatlookonmyfaceiswhathappenswhenyoushootthesamescenefortytimesinaboilingtentwithoutanybreaks.”HetossesCazanot-so-subtlelookofirritation.Jerksanaccusingthumbtowardhim.“Thankstothisguy,we’vebeenworkinghard-coreforweeks.Imean,heusedtobealldedicatedandshit,butrecently—”
“Mingri.”Cazclearshisthroat.
Mingriignoreshim.“Recentlyhe’sbeenextraintense.Won’tevenstopforlunch.Eventhedirectorwasaskinghimtotakeiteasy.Anyway,wefiguredithadsomethingtodowithyou—”
“Mingri.”
“Buthewasscaringtheshitoutofus,sowedidn’t—”
“Ithinkthat’senough,”Cazsaysloudly,andMingrithrowsahandupinsurrender.
“Okay,okay,I’llgiveyoutwosomespace.”Thenasmall,wistfulgrinflitsoverhisface.“I’mmeanttobemeetingKaigeoutsideanyway,so…”
“Yes,go,havefun,”Caztellshimwithsomeforce.
ButMingrilingersforabeatandwinks.“Goodtoseeyouagain,Eliza.Really.Forthesakeoftheentirecastandcrew,pleasetakecareofhim”—hedodgesanotherpunchfromCaz—“and,um,sorryagainaboutthedeaththing.”
“It’sfine,”Isayinarush,becauseIkindofreallywanttospeaktoCazalone.Mingriseemstogetthemessage;hewavesatbothofusandthenhe’soff.
Ashisfootstepsretreatdownthecorridor,IturnbacktoCaz.
“Areyouinjuredor—”
“Justashallowcutonmyarm,”hesays,rollinguphissleevetoshowme.There’sabandagestretchingfromhiselbowtohiswrist,runningalmostparalleltohisoldscar.“Wedidn’tevenneedtocometothehospitalforthis,buttheywerescaredit’dbeinfectedorsomething.”HeshrugsandpusheshissleevebackdownbeforeIcanlookcloser.“It’sreallyfine.”
“Andarewe—”Iswallow.Makemyselffinishthesentence.He’salreadyrejectedmeonce.Theworstthatcouldhappenisherejectsmeagain,andIlosehim,andIspendtherestofmylifenursingabrokenheart.ButifIdon’ttellhimhowIfeel,whenIfeelit?That’sanotherkindofheartbreak:morefatal,moreterrible.“Arewefine?Areyou—areyoustillmad?”
Surprisedancesoverhisfeatures.Thenhestuffshishandsinhispockets,leansback,andlooksatmewithsuchintensitythatforamomentIforgethowtobreathe.“Whatdoyouthink?”
“I…”I’mforcedtotrailoffwhentwonursesappeardownthecorridorcarryingdarkvialsofblood.Theysmileandnodatusastheypass.Wesmileback.Everyone’sverypolite,andIwanttotearmyhairout.Myheartfeelslikeit’stryingtofightitswayfreefrommyribs.
Assoonasthey’reoutofearshot,Itryagain.“Iwasthinking—”
Anothergroupofnurseswalkpastus,chatting,seeminglyinacompetitiontoseewhocanwalktheslowest.Werepeatthewholeexcruciatingprocessagain.Ismileuntilmyteethgrindintodust,untilmyjawphysicallyhurtsfrommyefforttokeepfromscreaming.
“Youknowwhat?”Idecide,unabletostanditanymore.“Followme.”
Allthehospitalroomsarecompletelyoccupied,asarethewaitingareasandthedownstairslobby,soweendupsneakingintoacleaningclosetonthefarcornerofthesecondfloor.
“Feelslikehome,”CazremarksasIpushhimgentlyagainstacabinetofdisinfectantsandshutthedoorbehindus.Thespaceisevensmallerthanthejanitor’sclosetatourschool;afewmoreinches,andwe’dbetouching.We’restandingsoclose,infact,thatIcanfeelthesubtlechangeinhisbreathingwhenhelooksatme.“So.Whatwereyousayingbefore?”
Allthistime,I’vepridedmyselfonmyabilitytolie,tospinastoryoutofnothing,toactlikeIdon’tcareaboutanything.Butinsincerityiseasy.Bullshittingyourwaythroughthingsiseasy.Itdoesn’trequireanyemotionalattachment;therearen’tanystakesinvolved.Itcan’thurtyou,becauseyouneverbelievedinanyofitanyway.
Buttellingthetruth—sayingexactlywhatyoumean,howyoufeel,tothepeopleyoucareaboutmost…That’soneofthehardestthingsintheworld.Becauseyouhavetotrustthem.Trustthattheywon’thurtyou,evenwhentheyhavethepowerto.
Itakeadeepbreath.Openmymouth.
MyonlysourceofcomfortisthatI’vealreadydonethiswithZoe,anditdidn’tkillme.Maybe,justmaybe,Icandoitagain.
“BeforeIcamehere,”Ibegin,reachingfortherightwords,“Iwasactuallywatchingthatinterviewwedid.Withtheconfessionscene.Imean,okay—thatwas,like,thecatalyst,butIguessI’vebeenthinkingaboutthislongbefore…ButIjustdidn’tknowit,youknow?”
Caz’sbrowscrinklefaintly,andIrealizeI’mmakingnosense.God,I’mterribleatthis.
Iflush,tryagain.“WhatImeanis—well,first,ifI’mgoingtobeseriousaboutmywriting,Idon’twantmywholecareertobebuiltaroundalie.Morethanlikelythetruthisgoingtocomeoutoneday,andIthink…Iwasjusttryingtodelayit,becauseI’matotalcoward,andtherearetoomanypeopleoutthereIdidn’twanttoletdown.Exceptbycontinuingthelie,Iwaslettingthemdownanyway.
“Second,Irealizedthat—andtrustme,believingyouweredeadforafewmomentsbacktherehasreallyreaffirmedthis—Idon’twantourrelationshiptobebuiltaroundalieeither.Iwanttobewithyou,”Isay,andmyvoicesoftensonitsown,likethewordsaretoosacredtobespokenaloudinthisdim,crampedroomofbleachandfeatherdustersandtangiblelonging.Imoveforward,tiltmyheadup.Theexcruciatingdistancebetweenusnarrowsdownfromthreeinchestotwotoone.“Forreal,thistime.”
Thesecondsthatfollowaresomeofthemostterrifyingonesinmylife.MaybeI’llalwaysbescared.Maybethefearofgettinghurt,ofbeingleftalone,willnevertrulygoaway.Butevenifit’smydefaultsetting,Icanfightit.Somanybeautifulthingslieontheothersideoffear.
Likelove.
Likethis.
Cazstaresdownatmeforforever,thelookinhiseyesaskingandansweringeverything.Thenhebringshisfingertipsslowlytomyjaw,asifhe’snotentirelyconvincedIexist.“Really?”
“Really.”Iinhale.ItseemsimpossiblethathalfanhouragoIfeltlikeIwoulddie,andnowhereIam,morealivethanIeverthoughtIcouldbe.“Hey,yourfaceisn’tinjuredoranything,right?”
Hestills,confused.“No,why—”
“Good,”Itellhim,smiling,andIpressmylipstohis.CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
Andnowcomestherealdamagecontrol.
AfterIgethome,IwriteoutaquickemailtoSarahtellingherthatIhaveaplanformysecondpiece.It’llbedifferentfrommypersonalessay,Iexplain,andmuchlongerinlength,butI’mreadytopourmywholeheartintoit.
Allofthisistrue.
There’sanideathat’sbeenbrewinginthebackofmymindeversinceIenteredthecleaningclosetwithCaz,andit’sriskyandabsolutelyterrifying,butI’mlearningthatmostvaluablethingsare.
Aroundmidnight,Sarahsendsmeareply.
Ilookforwardtoreadingit.
OnceIhavethegreenlight,Igettoworkrightaway.IopenupablankWorddocumentandtitleit“THIS_TIME_IT’S_REAL.docx.”ThenIstartfromtheverybeginning.Theactualbeginning,including—
TheEnglishassignmentIdidn’twanttodo.Theparent-teacherinterviews.StumblingacrossCazoutinthecorridor.Everyawkward,heart-pounding,embarrassingdetail.
It’saconfessionandanapologyandalovestoryallwrappedinone,andthemoreIwritethemoreIrealizethatIwaswrongbefore.Writingisn’taformoflying—notthegoodkindanyway,thekindthatmakesyoufeelsomething.
Writingisameansoftellingthetruth.Boththebeautifulandtheugly.
Italsooccurstomethatmaybe,justmaybe,ImeanthalfthethingsIwroteinmyoriginalessay.Maybethereissomesmall,weakpartofmethatwantstobewanted,toholdhandswithsomeonebeautifulintheblue-dark,tobreatheandhearitsecho,towalkthroughthealleysofBeijingwithanothershadowfallingnaturallybesidemine.
No,notweak.ThisiswhatIneedtogetintomyhead.Hopeisnotweakness.It’soxygen,acrackinthewindow,thepaleslashofmoonlightacrossadustyroom.
MaybeIshouldstartlearningtoinviteitin.
Betweenmywritingsessions,Ipaintmybedroomwallsblue.
EmilyandBacomeintohelp.Weblastmusicfrommylaptopandwearoldraincoatsfishedfromboxesandcoverthefloorwithlastmonth’snewspapersandwepaintandpaintandpaint.Emilylovesthistaskmorethananyone.Herbrushflieseverywhereoverthewhitecanvas,splatteringdropletsofcolorontoherrosycheeksandbarefeet,sohertoeslookliketheymightbeanalien’s.WeknowMaisgoingtoscoldherformakingamesswhenshesees,butBajustlaughs.Therearespecksofpaintinhishairtoo.Inthecreasesofhisskinwhenhesmiles.
Ismilebackathim,gratefulforeverything.
Wefinishpaintinglessthananhourbeforelunch,andweallstoptoadmireourwork.I’vechosenabright,cheerfulshadeofblue,asblueasthespringskyoutsidemywindow.Asblueasfreshcornflowers.Andwhenthesunhitstheroomattherightangle,lightingupeverythingfromwithin,thewallslookalmostturquoise,thesameshadeastheshallowestendsoftheocean,oracliffsidepool.
IwanttowakeupeverydayandlookaroundmybedroomandfeelwhatIfeelnow:Happy.Hopeful.
Afterthepainthasdried,IhangupthestringoffairylightsIboughtonTaobaoandcarefullyarrangeaseriesofphotosontothewallbesidemybed.
Inthefirstfewphotos,I’mwithZoe.Bothofusarelaughingsohardourfaceslookclosetodistorted,handsclutchingoursides.
Therearemorephotos:ofthefrozen-overcompoundlakeinwinter;myfamilycrowdedtogetherattheseafoodrestaurant,chopsticksinhands;theWestbridgeschoolbuildingsatsunset,theskyblushingpinkoverthecourtyard.OfmeandCazthatdayinChaoyangPark,mylipstouchinghischeek,hiseyeswidewithfaintsurprise.
Istareatthephotosonthewallandliebackdownonmysoftcovers,andthisstrange,tenderfeelinginmychest—itfeelsalotlikehome.
I’msittingontherooftopagain,butthistime,I’mnotalone.
“Hey,”Cazsays,hoppingontotheswingsbesideme,afolderinhishand.He’sgrinning,andIcan’ttellifsomethingincrediblehashappenedorifhe’sjustgladtobehere.Imean,that’sdefinitelywhyI’mgrinninglikeanidiot.It’sweirdhoweverythingfeelsnewandfamiliaratonce,thefuturestretchingaheadofusbothlikeagleaming,openroad.New,becauseI’mnotafraidtoopenuptohimanymore,andmaybe,eventually,otherpeopletoo;I’vealreadymadeplanstogoshoppingatIndigowithSavannahandhavelunchthenextdaywithallofCaz’sfriends.
Andfamiliar,becauseit’shim.
“What’sthat?”Iask,noddingatwhathe’sholding.
“Acollegeapplication.”
“IthoughtIalreadyhelpedyouwriteallofthem,”Isay,confused.
“Thisisdifferent.”Hedrumstwofingersoverthefolder,asmall,nervoushabitofhisthatfewothersseemtoknow,thenholdsitoutformetoread.“Thisone—thisisfortheBeijingFilmAcademy.”
Ittakesamomentforthenametoregister.Thenmyeyeswiden.“Caz.Wait,youmean—”
“I’vebeenthinkingalotaboutwhatyousaid,”heexplainsasIopenthefolder,flippingcarefullythroughthepagesinside.They’vealreadybeenfilledoutinhismessyhandwriting.Warmthrushesthroughmychest.Iknowbetterthananyonehowharditistoshareyourwritingwithothers,howvulnerableitleavesyou.
“AndIstillwantacollegeeducation,”hecontinues.“I’msureofthat,butIguess…itcan’thurttostudysomethingI’mactuallyinterestedin,canit?Abunchoffamousactorshavegraduatedfromheretoo.”
“Ohmygod.Caz.That’samazing.”
Heshrugsandrubsahandoverthebackofhisnecklikeit’snobigdeal,buthe’ssoclearlytryingnottosmile.“Imightneedyourhelpwithit,though.Youdon’thavetowriteanything—justreadoverit,tellmewhatyouthink,ifit’snottooinconvenient—”
“OfcourseI’llhelp,”Isay.Ialmoststarttojustifythiswithaclausefromourarrangement,oracompletelieabouthowIenjoyeditingpeople’scollegeapplicationsanyway.ThenIrememberthatwedon’thavetopretendanymore,wecanbothjustbeourselves,andit’sreliefandsharpdelightallatonce,theverybestfeelingintheworld.“Caz,I’dlovetobeinconveniencedbyyou.Iwouldn’tmindbeinginconveniencedbyyoufortherestofmylife.”
“Thankyou.”Hesoundsalmostshy.“Iseriouslyoweyou—”
Iholdupahandbeforehecansayanymore.“Okay,stopbeingsopolite.It’sscaringme.”
Hescoffs.“What,you’dpreferifIneverthankedyouforanything?”
“See?”Ipointafingerathim;hemakesahalf-heartedattempttobatitaside.“Thatattituderightthere?That’smuchbetter.”
“You’resoweirdsometimes,”hesays,anditsomehowsoundsmoreaffectionatethanIloveyou.Hekickstheswingback,andmystomachdipspleasantlywiththemotion.“Anyway,whataboutyou?How’sthewriting?”
“I’mabouttwo-thirdsdone.But,like,Ihavenoideahowpeoplewillrespondtoit.”
Andthat’sthething.That’salwaysthething:Itmightnotgowell.Itmightgoterribly.Imightwakeuponedayhavinggivenmyhearttotheworld,revealedallthosevulnerableandembarrassingpartsofme,spelledoutmyinnermostthoughts,anddiscoverthatnoonelikesthem.Orworse,thatnoonecaresinthefirstplace.
It’sthesamewithCaz.There’sstilleverychancethatwhatwehavewon’tlasttheyear,oreventheseason.Maybewe’llgraduateandenduponoppositeendsoftheworldandslowlydriftapart.Maybehe’llchangeirrevocably,sheddingtheselfthatoncewantedmeanddiscardingitlikeanoldwintercoat.MaybeIwill.
Butcertainjoys,I’mdiscovering,areworththepotentialpain.
“Areyouhappy?”IaskCaz,tiltingmyheadtoproperlylookathim,tostudythefamiliarcurveofhisjaw,thedeepdimplesinhischeekswhenhesmilesandpullsmecloser.Thecityrisesupbehindhim,andifsomeoneweretoassignmeanessayabouthomeagain,IknowexactlywhatI’dwrite.
“Iam,”hesayssoftly.“Areyou?”
Ibreatheinthesweetscentofmagnoliasfromthegardens,feelthespringaironmyskin,thescratchofhisjacketagainstmyneck.Hispresencebesideme,warm.Whole.Myheartthreatenstooverflow.
“I’msounbelievablyhappyrightnow,”Itellhim.
AndImeaneveryword.ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Despitethetitleofthisbook,thejourneytogettingitpublishedhasbeenabsolutelysurrealintheverybestway,andwouldnotbepossiblewithoutanyofthefollowingpeople:
ThankyoutoKathleenRushall,mybrilliantagent.It’simpossibletotalkaboutyouwithoutgushingaboutyou.Ican’texpresshowgratefulIamforyoursupport,yourpatience,yourfaith,andyouradvice.You’vetrulychangedmylife,andeverydayImarvelathowluckyIamforit.ThankyoualsotothewonderfulteamatAndreaBrownLiteraryAgency.
ThankyoutoMayaMarlette,foryourendlessenthusiasmandhardworkanddelightfulemails,andforbelievinginthisbookfromtheverybeginning.Ahugethank-youtoeveryoneintheScholasticfamily,includingtheincredibleMalloryKassandJalenGarcia-Hall.ThankyoutotheimmenselytalentedCarolineNoll,ElizabethWhiting,AlanSmagler,DanMoser,JaradWaxman,andJodyStigliano,aswellasRachelFeld,ErinBerger,BrookeShearouse,ShannonPender,andJordanaKulakforchampioningmywork.Morethankstomyaudioteam,ledbyLoriBentonandJohnPels,forhelpingbringmybooktolife.Thankyoutomyall-starproductioneditorJanellHarris,myamazingcopyeditor,PriscillaEakeley,myproofreaders,JodyCorbett,JackieHornberger,andJessicaWhite,andthemostlovelylibrary/conventionsteam,EmilyHeddleson,LizetteSerrano,andSabrinaMontenigro.ManythankstoDavidLevithan,EllieBerger,andLeslieGarych.Andthebiggestthank-youtoMaeveNorton,ElizabethParisi,andKanithThailamthong,foryourpassionandexpertiseinputtingtogethermyfinalcover.
Thankyouso,somuchtothefantasticTarynFagernessatTarynFagernessAgency.Yoursupportreallymeanstheworld.
Allmythankstoeveryonewho’sworkedonshapingandsellingthisbook,bothintheUSandabroad.
ThankyoutoFiandPhoebe,forreassuringmewhenI’mstressed,whichismostofthetime,andforconstantlyinspiringmetobebetter.
Thankyoutomylittlesister,Alyssa,forreadingeveryversionofthisbookandcheeringmeon.Idon’tliketoadmititoften,butyou’rethebestreaderandsiblingIcouldeveraskfor,andthehouseisalwayswarmerwhenyou’rearound.
Thankyou,againandforever,tomyparents,whohavegivenmeallI’veeverneededandmore.Ihopetomakeyouproud.ABOUTTHEAUTHOR
AnnLiangisagraduateoftheUniversityofMelbourne.BorninBeijing,shegrewuptravelingbackandforthbetweenChinaandAustralia,butsomehowendedupwithanAmericanaccent.Whensheisn’twriting,shecanbefoundmakingoverambitiousto-dolists,binge-watchingdramas,andhavingprofoundconversationswithherpetlabradoodleaboutwho’sagooddog.Youcanfindheronlineatannliang.com.PublishedintheUKbyScholastic,2023
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