Page 14 of This Time It's Real
I snort despite myself. “My point stands. And also, you’renine.”
“I’ll be turning ten in less than half a year,” she argues, her voice bordering on a whine. “It’s the same thing.”
“Still doesn’t change the fact that I’m older than you.”
She goes silent at that, but I know the conversation isn’t over. She’s just taking her time to think up a good counterargument; we’re both like Ma in that way.
I’m thinking too—thinking about how I should handle this, what story I should feed her. The good news is that Emily isn’t allowed to use social media until she turns thirteen, so she can’t know thedetailsof my essay. But people at school will continue to talk . . .
I lean back against the soft leather seat and close my eyes. I can feel a stress migraine forming.
When I open my eyes again, Emily is taking out a packet of matcha-flavored Pocky from her schoolbag, a very triumphant expression on her face.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing.” But she’s smiling now. A dangerous sign. “It’s just that . . . you might not have to tellme, but you’d have to tell Ma and Ba, right?”
My pulse jumps. “Emily—don’t youdare. . .”
“Then just answer my question,” she insists, ripping the packet open. “I’ll keep it a secret. Cross my heart.”
I clench my jaw, weighing out my next move. I essentially have two choices: bribery or blackmail. Then my gaze lands on the Pocky sticks in her hand.
Perfect.
“I’ll explain when I’m ready,” I say. She opens her mouth to argue, but I continue, louder. “Until then, you have to promise not to speak a word about this at home. I’ll buy you ten packets of Pocky if you do.”
She falters, mouth still half-open. If there’s anything Emily’s willing to make a compromise for, it’s food.
“Fine,” she bites out eventually, and I let loose a small, silent sigh of relief. At least that’s one less thing to worry about for now. Then Emily crosses her arms over her chest, jutting her chin forward. “But I want fifteen packets, and I want the cookies-and-cream-flavored ones too.”
I frown. “You’re getting thirteen. Cookies-and-cream only if they’re available, plain chocolate if not. And that’s final.”
It’s not until I see the happy gleam in her eyes that I realize she was planning this all along—that she probably only wanted twelve or thirteen packets in the first place. I’m going to have to be more careful around her when she gets older. She’s already picking up on some of Ma’s negotiation tactics.
Unsure whether to be annoyed or impressed, I hold out my palm.
“Um, are you going for a handshake?” Emily asks.
“No. I’m asking for a Pocky; I barely had lunch.” On cue, my stomach grumbles. As good as the roujiamos were, I only had a few bites in the end. After I received Sarah Diaz’s email, I was too busy freaking out to eat anything else. I mean, the opportunity could change the course of my whole career—my wholelife.Just thinking about it now makes me a little dizzy.
“That’s not my fault,” Emily protests, holding the snack packet close to her chest. But after a beat, she grudgingly hands me three Pocky sticks.
“Thanks, kid.” I grin, and she pulls a face at me. She hates it when people call her that.
We’re both quiet for the rest of the drive, Emily because she’s eating, and me because I’m trying to draft a reply to Craneswift. After about a dozen attempts, I end up sliding my phone back into my pocket, email unsent.
I don’t know what to say. That’s the problem. I don’t even know what the internship itself would entail, what the consequences will be if my story is anything but airtight.
All I know is that I need a proper plan—and soon.
I spend the rest of the afternoon trying to formulate a plan while completing my math homework, and the only things I end up with are a bunch of most definitely incorrect answers and a worsening headache.
So after dinner, I decide to give myself a break and join my family in the living room.
This is our routine: At around nine o’clock every night, the four of us huddle together on the couch with a bowl of cut fruit or roasted sunflower seeds, and watch one episode of a C-drama.
“So,” I say as I get comfortable, draping a thin blanket over my legs. “Whose turn is it to choose?”
