Page 37 of This Time It's Real
I turn to him, surprised. “Yeah. How did you know?”
He shrugs. “You two look alike.”
This is so inaccurate I almost burst out laughing. Unlike Emily, I’ve inherited none of Ma’s delicate, sculpted-ice features, her glossy hair and dewy skin. Instead, I take after both my father and no one, my face drawn from a random arrangement of broad, cutting strokes and round lines, like some kind of afterthought. “You’re probably the first person in the history of the world to say that.”
“It’s the smile,” he says, eyes flickering to me. “You two have the same smile.”
Before I can even think of an adequate response to this, Emily catches sight of me.
“Jie! Jie!” she yells, breaking off from the circle and sprinting across the short length of the courtyard. Her pigtails whip forward as she skids to a stop before me, seconds away from crashing into my stomach, and looks up, breathless and beaming.
Then she sees Caz. And she goes perfectly still.
“Hey,” Caz offers.
Emily’s eyes are so wide she looks like a cartoon character. “You’re . . . Caz Song,” she says, voice hushed. “My sister’s boyfriend.”
“Yeah.” Caz bends down slightly until they’re the same height. Smiles. It’s a different smile from the one he wears on TV, or around people in our year level; it’s gentle, kind. “I am.”
“Holy shit,” my nine-year-old sister whispers.
I elbow her, hard.“Language.”
“Sorry,” she says, sounding not even remotely sorry. “I meant holycrap.Happy?”
“Not really,” I mutter.
Caz’s smile widens until his dimples are visible, and Emily positively melts. Which, under ordinary circumstances, should be a good thing; everyonewantstheir family to like their boyfriend. But all I feel is a faint pang of unease. The more attached Emily gets to Caz, the more it’ll hurt when our six-month relationship reaches its end.
Thankfully, this conversation from hell is interrupted by none other than Emily’s entire friend group—
“Emily!Come on!”
“Dude, what’s taking so long?”
“Are you playing or not? Because we can play without you, you know.” This, from their leader. She’s crossed her arms over her chest, tapping her foot impatiently on the asphalt. I feel an immediate surge of dislike toward her.
“I—I’ll be there in a minute!” Emily calls back, then turns back to us with large puppy-dog eyes. “Can you guys join in?”
I expect Caz to make some polite excuse about schoolwork and leave, but instead, he nods and grins widely. “Of course.”
Emily squeals and throws her skinny arms high up over her head, looking like a perfect stock-image result for when people google “happy” or “celebration.” “For real?”
“Yeah, for real.”
I stare at Caz over Emily’s shoulder, my mind spinning. All he does is smile back at me. What the hell is he up to? We agreed to keep our families out of this, and I can’t imagine him benefiting from this situation in any way. Is he so committed to his role as the perfect fake boyfriend? Or is it just a habit for him by now, to constantly entertain, perform, impress?
“Well, you guys go ahead,” I say, backing up against the building wall, books still clutched tight to my body like a shield. “I’ll watch from here.”
Emily pouts. “You’re not coming?”
“I . . . don’t think that’s necessary.”
“Of courseit’s necessary.” Caz’s smile is evil now, wicked. He extends a hand in invitation, and a third possibility pops into my head: Maybe he just wants to see me make a fool of myself. “Come on. Whodoesn’tenjoy kicking pieces of glued feathers around?”
I take another step backward; my heel hits cold brick. “No, no. No, I’m basically allergic to it—”
“What, fun?” Caz says, and Emily giggles.
