Page 16 of Next Time Will Be Our Turn
Anyway, so there it was. Ellery kissing a girl. I was so confused. On the one hand, I was really disappointed. On the other hand, I didn’t know why I would be disappointed, because I was straight. What I felt for her yesterday was merely excitement at making a new friend, that was all. And a girl crush. Veryplatonic. Nothing more platonic than girl crushes. But I still felt stupid though. Because—oh, I don’t know. Because I’d assumed she would be just as lonely as I was. Because I’d assumed she, too, would have no one to have lunch with and would therefore jump at the opportunity to grab lunch together. There is nothing lonelier than realizing that you’re the loneliest person you know.
Chapter 7
MAGNOLIA
1998
Is there anything quite so dramatic as being sixteen? I’ve lived an entire lifetime of drama, and I’m pretty sure there isn’t. Seeing Ellery kissing the mysterious, beautiful girl, I stood there, frozen, for quite some time. Then the drama caught up with me and I turned and rushed off—very dramatically, I might add, all pounding heart and burning face. I ran until I was pretty sure I was out of sight, then I leaned against the wall and covered my face with my hands. I didn’t cry. I’d only known Ellery for about an hour, and even with all the drama pulsing through my veins, I was aware that it was a bit early to be sobbing over her. Still, there was an undeniable sadness inside me, an emptiness that took me by surprise.
It’s stupid, I told myself. I just needed a friend, that was all. Once I caught my breath, I straightened up and walked away. I wandered to a bulletin board, where I spotted a flyer for badminton club. Open to all. In Indonesia, everybody plays badminton.We kind of kick ass at it. Compared to other Indos, I did not kick ass at badminton, but I was pretty decent. The first meeting was tomorrow at six p.m. I headed to class feeling slightly less like I was being swallowed by a dark abyss.
The next evening, Iris dropped me off at school, grumbling, and told me to get a ride home because she wasnotpicking me up at nine p.m. I said fine, then made my way to the gym, wondering how the hell I was going to get home afterward. But once I stepped foot inside the gym, I forgot about all my problems.
The gymnasium was huge, big enough to fit eight badminton courts, and all eight were filled with people playing badminton. Shuttlecocks soared through the air, back and forth, and shouts echoed around the space. A white lady wearing a tracksuit waved me over and said, “First day?”
I nodded.
“What’s your name?”
“Magnolia Chen.”
“Great to have you, Magnolia Chen. I’m Coach Anderson. Have you played before?”
I nodded again.
“Cool. Let’s see…you can have that court right there, I think they’re wrapping up soon. And Winnie here will play with you.”
Winnie turned out to be a FOB just like me, though she was from Hong Kong. Her English was so heavily accented I could barely understand her, and after a few minutes of struggling to speak to each other, we settled on speaking Mandarin. She was relieved.
“You speak terrible Mandarin,” she said, “but it’s still better than my English.” There was no trace of meanness when she said it; she was merely stating a fact.
“Thanks. Yeah, it’s really hard to get rid of the Indonesian accent when it comes to Mandarin.”
“Stick with me and you’ll be speaking Mandarin like a native before you know it.”
“Or maybe you’ll be speaking English like an American,” I said.
Winnie chuckled. “I doubt it. You know, I went to high school here.”
“Whaaat?” Okay, so not at all a FOB like me. I stood corrected.
“Yeah, it was vicious. I hated it.”
I thought of Winnie with her thick accent navigating her way through an American high school that was filled with people like Iris, and I grimaced. “Well, you made it.”
“Barely.” Then she smiled. “But, yeah, I did make it.”
The court opened up then, and we started our warm-up. From the way she moved, I could tell she grew up playing badminton. You can always tell from the way they swing their arms—people who grew up playing would swing from the shoulder, their movements fluid, their whole body twisting effortlessly as one with the racket. Those who picked it up recently swing from the elbow. I hadn’t realized just how homesick I’d been until Winnie and I started hitting the shuttlecock, and I felt so energized, a surge of happiness filling my entire body from limb to limb. When we started the game in earnest, we were both grinning, our eyes wide, our feet flying across the court. Each time my racket hit the shuttlecock, my whole body heard and felt the satisfyingthwackof it and gave me another shot of endorphins. Winnie won by three points, but I didn’t even feel like I’d lost.
“That was a great game,” Winnie said, coming to the center to shake my hand.
I was beaming so hard that my cheeks were hurting.
“Where are you from?” someone said from the sidelines. An Asian guy with a jawline that could cut glass.
“She’s Chinese-Indonesian,” Winnie said to him. She turned back to me. “This is James. Don’t let him give you a hard time.”
James gave me a once-over, and my stomach flipped in a way that had nothing to do with badminton. “You’re decent.”
