Page 34 of This Time It's Real
“When you join my fan club.”
“So: never,” I say flatly.
“Don’t sound so certain” is all he says as he adjusts the screen.
And I don’t know what compels me to do it, what gives me the nerve—whether it’s because I’m still riding the adrenaline high of having just written an essay that I know is really good, or because the persistent heat has subdued the impulse-control section of my brain, or because I want to startle that smug smile off his face—but just when he’s about to take the photo, I stand up tall on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek.
Click.
The camera flashes once, capturing the kiss for eternity, and I pull back. Suddenly uncertain what to do with my mouth, my face, my hands. The aftermath of my one moment of impulsivity.
“And you say you don’t have any experience with this stuff,” Caz remarks after a pause, his tone casual.
“Well, you’re not the only one who can be spontaneous.”
One corner of his crooked mouth lifts higher. “Clearly.”
It should all be over then: the selfie, the essay-writing session, the strange electricity in the air. But as he hands the phone back to me, our wrists brush, bare skin against skin. Immediately, every nerve end in my body ignites as if struck by a match, and I freeze, stunned by my own response.
I expect Caz to move away, but instead he slides his long fingers around my wrist. Runs a thumb over the frayed string bracelet there.
“You always wear this,” he says.
I nod. Swallow. “Yeah. I know.”
He waits for me to say more, but I’m too busy trying to act normal, like I’m not hyperaware of how close we are, how his hand is still moving slowly over my skin, his touch warmer and lighter than the summer air.
CHAPTER NINE
I once heard this theory that when you dread something, time moves faster, as if the universe is determined to conspire against you.
I can now confirm firsthand the theory is true.
It’s Monday night, and my family is gathered around the high kitchen counter, bowls of diced vegetables and light brown loaves of store-bought bread spread between us.
Since we had homemade dumplings for dinner yesterday, we’re making our special sandwich recipe tonight. Ma and I first came up with the idea when we were living in America; it’s like a basic baguette sandwich, except we fry the leftover pork-and-chive dumpling fillings into a golden patty, then add pickled carrots and fresh coriander and red oil chili sauce. The combination tastes so good that sometimes Ma jokes we should sell the idea to one of those modern Asian fusion restaurants in downtown LA.
At least, Ithinkshe’s joking. When it comes to her and potential business opportunities, you never really know.
“So how’s school been?” Ma asks as she slices a loaf of bread in two and passes it down. We’re seated in a kind of factory-line arrangement, Ma in charge of handling the bread, Ba assigned to the meat patties, and Emily and me left to do everything else.
This sudden pivot in the conversation catches me off guard. Up until a few seconds ago, Ma had been talking in elaborate detail about how she patched up that major Kevin-shaped crisis with SYS; apparently, she’d done some stalking, pulled a few strings, reached out in private to the son of the company head (“a very polite young man, and quite easily flattered too; I do hope he ends up taking over the company”) and smoothed the whole situation over.
“Uneventful,” Emily says, reacting much faster than I do, then shoots a meaningful glance my way from across the counter. “What about you, Jie? Anything . . .interestinggoing on in your life?”
I chew the inside of my cheek.
Thisis the part I’ve been dreading: telling my parents and sister that I’m dating Caz Song. Even though I’ve already bought Emily the exact amount of Pocky specified in our previous verbal agreement, I know that no amount of snacks or bribery will stop the word about my new relationship status from spreading and inevitably reaching my family. I mean, I’ve already gained a few thousand more followers from my blog post about our trip around Chaoyang Park: “Let’s Cancel All Our Plans and Kiss at the Park Instead.” I have two more posts in the works for the Love and Relationships section next week, each as ironic as the next: “When You Know, You Know: It’s Love” and “A Little Anecdote on How to Survive Those First-Date Jitters.”
So since them finding outisinevitable, I’d much rather Ma and Ba hear the story from me than yet another impassioned think piece floating around on the internet, or one of our many aunts who browse the gossip articles on WeChat.
All of which sounds great in theory.
In practice, I’m so nervous I keep dropping the pickled carrots.
“Yes, howisschool, Eliza?” Ma asks, turning to me. She wiped off her makeup right before we started cooking, and her eyes still have that dark, smudged quality from leftover eye shadow, making them look even sharper than usual. “Have you made any friends?”
My mom’s evident concern for my social life aside, this seems as effective a conversation opening as any. I might even be able to put a positive spin on my news. After all, a boyfriend is technically a kind of friend, right? Just with more potential physical contact.
