I’m not surprised he decided he wants to take pictures for a living. When we were kids, Jamie was always playing with his dad’s camera. I think one of the reasons we always got along so well was because we both saw the world as a series of moments that needed to be captured—we just captured them in different ways.
The flash of his camera startles me.
Jamie laughs from behind the lens. “That’s what you get for zoning out. What were you thinking about?”
I reach for the camera. “Please delete that. I wasn’t ready for a picture.”
“Those are the best kind,” he says simply.
I don’t want him to have a stupid picture of me. What if he looks at it when he gets home and realizes what a weird face I have?
“Please delete it.”
“If I show you the picture and you absolutely and truthfully think it’s terrible, then I will delete it. But if there’s even a part of you that recognizes what a good picture it is, I get to keep it. Fair?”
I nod, and he steps so close to me, I’m breathing in the cologne on his neck. He’s so handsome. Like a European model and one of Tolkien’s elves all molded together. It makes it so hard to concentrate.
Because he’s not just good-looking—he’s nerdy, and funny, and nice, and he actually seems to enjoy talking to me. And I’m just—
I look at the picture. My almost-black hair is flat against my head, and the tips of my ears poke through all the heavy straightness. My eyes—something between Mom’s and Dad’s—are staring past the lens and straight into Jamie’s soul. They’re dark, too, like my hair, and I’m so pale I look like a vampire. My nose—my grandma’s nose—is too round, and my face is too round. My lips are full, except they’re always crooked, as if my face never knows whether it’s serious or smiling or about to speak. Oh my God, no wonder Mom has been telling me I’ve been going through a “funky stage” since I was ten. There are a million things wrong with my face.
“Please delete it.” My voice is a whisper now.
Jamie is looking at me like he doesn’t understand. He must not have looked at the picture well enough. Either that or he’s so used to my weird face that a photograph of it doesn’t even faze him.
His mouth starts to move. He wants to argue. He wants to ask if I’m kidding, if I really can’t see what he sees. He wants to change my mind.
But I look at him with hard eyes, partly to hide how embarrassed I am, but also to remind him of our deal.
We had a deal.
He lets out a very small sigh. I hear his camera beep twice. “There. It’s gone.”
We walk toward the funnel cake stand. Jamie takes photographs of lots of things—kids eating cotton candy, a toddler crying when her shoe falls off, a couple hugging next to the fence. He doesn’t show me any more of his pictures, but I have a feeling they’re good. I can see the way Jamie’s eyes move across the crowd. It’s like the world is clay and he’s shaping them within his mental frames.
As I’m watching him, I realize he’s not talking to me. My chest starts to pound—not because I’m a needy person, but because I’m worried I’ve upset him. This is the problem with telling people “no”—I always feel bad about it immediately afterward.
“Are you mad at me?” I ask softly.
His camera drops to his waist. “Why would I be mad at you?”
“Because I made you delete that picture.”
I see his jaw clenching. “That would be a ridiculous thing to get mad over. You know that, right?”
I shrug.
“Well, I’m not mad. I wish you didn’t get so embarrassed over a photo—that was a really good one, by the way—but I’m not angry. It’s just a picture, and if it bothers you, I can respect that. You don’t have to feel guilty just because you didn’t do what I would have liked.”
I feel like he’s telling me it’s okay to disagree with him. It’s a completely foreign concept to me.
“Can I ask you something?” Jamie reaches his hand across his chest and scratches his neck. When I nod, he asks, “What do you see when you look at pictures of yourself?”
I swallow. Someone who looks too Asian to be pretty. Because being Asian means I can never be as pretty as the other girls at school—the girls like Mom. I know this because people like Henry and Adam and Mom keep telling me I don’t have the right face. I know this because when I look in the mirror, I see what they see—a girl who doesn’t belong here. A girl who isn’t good enough.
But I can’t tell him that—he wouldn’t understand.
“Okay. Well, what do you wish you saw?” He tries again when I remain quiet for so long.
Someone with bigger eyes. Lighter hair. A smaller nose. “Someone who looks more like everyone else,” I say at last.
Jamie runs his thumb over the edge of his camera. “Do you know how many people would love to have your face? Yeah, you don’t look like everyone else in this town, but that’s special. You stand out because you’re unique, and people literally never stop trying to be unique.”
I twist my mouth. “But I don’t want to stand out—not at all. I want to be normal. I want to feel like I belong in the same world as everyone else.” If I looked like everyone else, it would probably be easier to make friends. I might even have a mom who cared.
That last part really stings.
“You might feel that way now, but it isn’t like that forever. Wait until you see what the world has to offer besides this small town and your high school. People are different out there.”
I’m assuming he means California. I’m not sure if I believe him. I can’t imagine feeling like I’ll ever belong anywhere. I’m either too white, or too Asian, but never enough of either.
And I’m weird. People don’t react well to weird.
“Besides,” he adds, “if you’re worried you’re not pretty or something, don’t be.”
He catches my eye. What does he mean by that? Does he think . . . ?
“My mom always said you were the prettiest girl in the neighborhood,” he says. Why does it feel like clarification?
I roll my eyes. “Your mom hasn’t seen me since I was nine. And I feel like you’re making that up.”
“Nope,” he says triumphantly. “I’m not. Lying isn’t my thing.”
“Is it anyone’s thing?”
“Probably. Everyone has a thing.”
“I don’t.”
“Yeah, you do.”
I go stiff. What does he think it is?
Jamie smiles without his teeth, but it’s still the warmest, kindest smile I’ve ever seen. “You want to make everyone happy. Even if it’s sometimes at the expense of your own happiness.”
“Oh my God, I’m a people pleaser? That’s the worst.”
“I think compulsive liar is a lot worse.”
“Or sociopath.”
“Or serial killer.”
“Or cannibal.”
Jamie laughs and holds his camera back up to his face. “Yeah, any of those.”
I stare into the lens. “Are you taking my picture again?”
“Can I?” he asks.
I wait. I think. And I nod.
• • •
I paint a carousel of mirrors and dragons, and inside one of the mirrors is the happiest girl alive, desperate to break free.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It’s hard not to be irritated about Uncle Max moving in. Besides the fact that deep down he’s a terrible person, he listens to the worst music—nineties heavy metal. And he never closes his bedroom door, so I have to listen to the screams of an electric guitar from across the hall when I’m trying to paint. It’s like creative cyanide.
I set my tools down, roll my chair toward my desk, and rummage through the top drawer for a set of headphones. I have a small pair that I almost always use, but Dad gave me a set of noise-canceling ones for my birthday years ago. It was around the time he and Mom were fighting a lot. Just before Dad’s affair. Just before the divorce.
The h
eadphones make me look like the generic alternative to an X-Wing fighter pilot, so I only wear them when I’m in my room. I connect the headphones to my iPod and roll back to my painting.
I’m at least four songs into my favorite playlist and a good hour away from finishing the piece when someone grabs my shoulder.
I jump, snap my eyes over my shoulder, and find Uncle Max standing there. He hasn’t shaved in days, and his eyes are bloodshot, like he hasn’t slept all night.
He probably didn’t. I’m not sure he was even home last night.
My chest tightens like there’s a monster trying to stuff its hand between my ribs and squeeze my heart until it bursts. I feel like I’m sinking lower and lower into the ground, but there’s nothing below my feet to keep me steady. I just keep falling, and something sick and weightless fills my stomach.
I slide the headphones off shakily. “What?” I manage to get out. I want to tell him he’s not allowed in my room. I want to tell him I don’t want him anywhere near me. But “what?” is the only word that escapes me. Because anything else will lead to confrontation. Anything else will give me a panic attack.
He runs his tongue along his molars like he has food stuck there. “You’re going to blow out your eardrums like that, kiddo.” He nods to my painting. “What are you making?”
My instinct is to cover the almost-finished canvas with my body. I don’t want him looking at it—it’s personal, and he doesn’t get to be a part of what’s personal to me.
But I don’t move. I sit in my chair, frozen, with one hand still hovering over the painting and the other gripping the edge of the table.
There’s cotton in my throat again. I swallow. “Did you want something?”
Uncle Max leans back like he doesn’t understand why I’m so short with him. Of course he would pretend like nothing ever happened.
I mean, he denied it. And he may have fooled Mom and maybe even Dad—we’ve never talked about it, so I don’t really know—but he will never make me think I imagined it. I remember. I don’t want to, but I remember.
“You know, you should try to be nicer to your mom.” He folds his arms across his chest and leans back. His skin always looks like he rubs oil into it, but today it looks especially greasy. I wonder if I’m just noticing all the things about him that irritate me more than usual.
“I am nice to my mom,” I say tersely.
He lets out a weak hum. “She says you’ve been giving her a hard time lately.”
Of course she’d say that. The only way she gets out of being the bad guy for letting Uncle Max stay is if she makes me the bad guy instead.
He ignores the hurt in my eyes. “She feels underappreciated. And, you know, after everything that happened with your dad, you should really cut her some slack.”
My shoulders twitch because I can’t sit still. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I’m terrible at sticking up for myself, but I can’t help but defend Dad. Especially when Uncle Max is the one talking about him.
He shrugs like it’s not that big of a deal. “I mean everything she had to put up with.” His blue eyes are stained with yellow, like they’ve been poisoned over the years.
I don’t stare at him for very long, and pretty soon my gaze is back at my hands. I just can’t do it. It’s intimidating. And I know who he’s trying to blame—it’s my fault that my parents split up. They started fighting because of what I told Mom. Uncle Max moved out because it got too uncomfortable, and then Dad moved out because he wanted a new family.
It’s my fault that our family broke apart in the first place, and Uncle Max knows it, just like everyone else in this house.
His hand rushes up like he’s trying to catch a lightning bug. He clasps my shoulder too hard. “I’m right across the hall if you ever want to talk, kiddo. We used to be pals when you were younger. There’s no reason we can’t get back to that now that we’re roomies again.”
How does he do that? How does he sneer and speak to me like nothing happened? Like he thinks I don’t remember? Like he thinks my parents don’t know?
The monster squeezes tighter. I feel like I’m going to vomit.
I know nobody else ever talks about it because it’s uncomfortable. It’s the family secret everyone would rather have buried and forgotten about. Sometimes even I want that.
But pretending with me is a lot different from when I pretend with my parents.
Because it happened to me.
I don’t realize how violently I’m shaking until Uncle Max pulls his hand away and stares at me like I’m an animal left out in the cold.
I sweep a small brush into a blob of cerulean gray and pin my gaze to the corner of the canvas until his footsteps leave the room.
• • •
I paint a monster with poisoned eyes swallowing up the sun so the whole world goes dark.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Itell Emery all about Jamie, because if I keep talking about the things that make me happy I can trick myself into forgetting about the things that don’t. She’s happy for me, but she’s also overwhelmed with school. I have to remind myself not to text her too often—it’s hard breaking the habit, but I know she’s busy starting her new life. She’s on a scholarship—her future depends on her getting good grades, and I can hear in her voice it’s not as easy as it was in Mr. Miller’s classes.
And even though I know I miss her, sometimes I forget I do at all because I’ve been too excited about being friends with Jamie again.
It feels so familiar. It feels like it did all those years ago, when I had such a clear understanding of happiness. It wasn’t muddied and confusing like it is now. Maybe that’s just part of growing up—things aren’t black and white, hot and cold, happy and sad. They’re complicated. Feelings are complicated.
With Jamie, everything feels simple. I need simple. I need a friend.
I text him: Lucky Charms or Cap’n Crunch?
He texts back: Cap’n Crunch, if it’s peanut butter.
I write: I’d pick Cap’n Crunch no matter what.
He writes: Want to come over?
I write back: Okay.
I feel like I need to bring something with me, so I rummage through the kitchen cupboard. I find a package of chocolate chip cookies that have been there for months and a bottle of kiwi-flavored water that Mom hates.
Jamie texts me his cousin’s address.
When I show up with the water and cookies, he shakes his head in the doorway.
“Who brings flavored water to a house party?” His hair is a deep toffee color under the porch light, but his eyes are still the brightest blue I’ve ever seen.
The skin on my forearms buzz with nerves. “House party?” I repeat.
The girl from the party appears behind Jamie. The one with all the lip gloss. “Hey, stranger.” She’s wearing a pale orange crop top and a leather miniskirt, and the bulk of her hair is swept to one side.
I take a step backward automatically. “Sorry. I didn’t know you had company. I can come back another time.”
Jamie scrunches his eyebrows. “What’s wrong with now?”
The girl moves away from the door. I think she’s trying not to make me feel more uncomfortable, but it’s not her fault. I live my life in the small space between “uncomfortable” and “awkward.”
I’m still walking backward without even realizing it. “I should go home.” I look at my hands, and suddenly I’m moving toward him. Thrusting the water and cookies into his chest, I say, “Here. You can keep these for your party.”
When I reach my car door, I realize Jamie’s followed me. He looks confused, and of course he is. Normal people don’t need to prepare for social interactions. Normal people don’t panic at the sight of strangers. Normal people don’t want to cry because the plan they’ve processed in their head is suddenly not the plan that’s going to happen.
I’m not normal. I know this. And now Jamie is going to figure it out too.
Because I’m not the girl who wears
crop tops and short skirts and looks like one of Taylor Swift’s best friends.
I’m the girl who brings kiwi-flavored water to a house party.
“I don’t understand. Why won’t you come inside?”
“I’m not really good at parties. Or people,” I say squeamishly.
“We ran into each other at a party.”
I shut my eyes as tight as I can. “That was different. Emery wanted me to go, and then I couldn’t stay at home because of—well, it doesn’t matter; I just needed to get out of my house. But then your girlfriend—” Oh my God, I’m talking way too much. I peel my eyes open.
Jamie’s lips are pressed together and his eyes are wide—the biggest I’ve ever seen them. “So you’ll go to a party full of strangers when you’re distressed, but you won’t when a friend asks you to hang out?” He studies me for a moment. “Kiko, that doesn’t make any sense.”
I shrug because what else am I supposed to do? Of course it doesn’t make sense—feeling this way doesn’t make sense. But if I could fix myself and turn off the anxiety long enough to feel normal, I would have a long time ago.
He looks flustered. I feel flustered.
“Look, I was exaggerating when I called it a house party. It’s just Sarah, her sister Missy, and this guy Alfie I used to play soccer with when I was a kid.” He pauses. “You see more strangers every time you’re at work.”
“But they don’t expect me to talk beyond showing them where things are sometimes. At work I’m just a cashier. They don’t expect me to be—” I let out a breath.
“A human being?” Jamie blinks at me.
I feel my entire body getting hot. I feel like I’m being interrogated. I feel offended.
“I’ll talk to you some other time,” I say stiffly.
Jamie’s hand catches my arm. “Hang on. You’re angry—why are you angry?”
I bite my lip because I’m worried I’m going to start crying like a weirdo. I’m not used to having to vocalize how social anxiety makes me feel. Emery was used to it—she didn’t make me explain myself.
I think of what she’d say if she were here.
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