Page 26 of This Time It's Real
She blinks at me, all innocent. “Nothing.”
“Come on.” I shoot her a look. “We both know what yourhmms mean. Out with it.”
She snorts. Shakes her head. “I just think it’s funny, that’s all.”
“Funny?”
“Yeah. I mean, if you’d just gone and written somethingreal, you wouldn’t have to go through all this trouble.”
“It’s too late to say that now,” I protest, fighting against the pinch of dread in my stomach. Yet it’s sharper now than ever. I still remember the first time Zoe read one of my English pieces in class, before we were even best friends. She’d looked up at the end, eyes wide, and said—and I’ve memorized every exact word:Have you ever thought about being a writer? You’re so freak- ing good at this.She was the first person to really believe in me, and in some ways, this is precisely what she’d wanted for me, for my life. In other ways, this is the total opposite of that. I swallow the lump in my throat and press on, “The essay’s already out, and for better or worse, everyone believes it.”
“But maybe, if you told the truth—”
I force out a small snort. “Are you kidding? Have you seen those people on Twitter get torn apart just because people suspected they made up a fake funny text exchange? If the truth gets out, I’ll probably be fending off hate comments and death threats for the rest of my life—”
Before I can complete my little monologue of doom, an unfamiliar voice calls down the hall on her end:
“Hey, can I grab the salt-and-vinegar chips?”
It’s a girl’s voice. Someone our age.
“Help yourself,” Zoe calls back, twisting around in her chair, and I’m suddenly struck by a memory of us at our last sleepover, me raiding her snack cupboard while she blow-dried her hair and worried aloud about the usual things: that email the teacher hasn’t replied to yet, the grades for tomorrow’s quiz, the committee she signed up for but wants to quit. “Just don’t touch the barbecue ones.”
“Got it,” the voice responds with a giggle.
“Who is that?” I ask as Zoe turns to me again.
“Oh, that’s just Divya,” she says. Like she expects me to recognize the name. Then she seems to remember I’m halfway across the world now, an entire ocean away. “Right, sorry, you wouldn’t know her; she’s new. Her parents are out of town, so she’s crashing at my house for a few days.”
“Right,” I hear myself say. There’s a dull, unreasonable stabbing sensation in the pit of my stomach, a sick feeling that tells me nothing except: I should go. “Um, cool.”
“Do you want to say hi?” Zoe offers.
“No, no, it’s fine,” I say quickly, sitting up. “I’ll just—You two hang out. Have fun. I need to write up something for my internship anyway, so . . .”
“Okay.” She’s already nodding, looking elsewhere, distracted. I can hear the pad of footsteps moving closer, the crinkle of the chip packet. “Okay, then. We’ll talk soon, yeah? Just text whenever.”
“Of course.” I do my best to smile, even though the movement strains my lips. “I miss you.”
She blows me a quick, perfunctory kiss. “Miss you too.”
Then the screen goes black, and it’s just me, staring at my own reflection in the following silence. My eyes look dark and heavy. Sad.
I slam my laptop shut.
Since Caz has upheld his end of the deal so far, it’s only fair that I uphold mine as well.
Which is why I agree to meet with him the following Saturday afternoon at Chaoyang Park to help him write his essays. We both decided that a casual public setting would be best, since going over to each other’s apartments would raise far too many questions from our families.
Still, as I finalize the time and location with Caz, I can’t shake the odd, jittery feeling that I’m preparing to go on a date.
It’s the kind of rare, blue-skied day that draws all the families out of their apartments, eager for a chance to breathe in some fresh air. On my way there, I pass at least a dozen smiling couples and young parents, toddlers waddling behind them on stumpy legs and stony-faced tweens texting as they walk feet ahead, squinting down at their screens in the bright, natural light.
The sun is everywhere, a hot palm on the back of my bare neck. I’m wearing a thin cotton dress with cherry blossom patterns printed over the front. It’s not until I reach the park and catch sight of my reflection in a tinted shop window that I realize how ridiculously short my dress is; every time a breeze blows past me, the skirt flutters high up my thighs.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, slowing to a stop. Using the window as a mirror, I attempt to pull the dress down to a more conservative length, but that only makes thetoppart way too revealing instead.
Desperate, I snap a quick photo of my reflection and text it to Zoe.
