by Pintip Dunn
“I want to. But for now . . .” I rip open the bag of chips and offer her one.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Having lunch,” I say. “Ash is hurting, but you’re right. It’s not so important that I can’t eat. What do you think?” I gesture to the tray. The apple’s the healthiest item on our table. “You want to eat some junk food with me?”
She beams, and for a moment, she looks completely beautiful. In spite of the scar. Maybe because of the scar. “I’d love to.”
Chapter 12
Shelly and I are nearly inseparable for the rest of the week. We drive to and from school together. We meet up at lunch and sit at our own table, eating identical meals that Khun Yai prepares for us. And, after I work for a few hours at Miss Patsy’s studio, we talk and giggle and eat granola bars late into the night.
As I lie in her bed, my cheek snuggled against her pillow, I feel a cocoon weaving around us, protecting me, protecting us from the world outside. From Walt’s continued nastiness at school, from Ethan’s interest in another girl. Each conversation adds more threads; every laugh pulls those threads more tightly. It’s us against the world, and no one—not Khun Yai, not one of my friends at school, not one of the bullying boys—can poke a hole through our shield.
I no longer find Ash after every class. I start escorting her every other class and then twice a day. After a few days, I stop altogether. It’s not that I don’t care about my friend. I do. But she always has so many people around her—girls willing to drop everything and fetch her lunch, carry her books, surprise her with stuffed animals and balloons—that my efforts begin to feel irrelevant. I’m not sure she even notices me. She sure as hell doesn’t need me.
Not like Shelly. She laps up and appreciates my every word and gesture. She makes me feel valued, important, needed. She makes me feel the way I used to in the early years of my friendship with Ash.
I still haven’t asked her about the matching scar on her mother’s cheek. I’m not sure why. Maybe I don’t want to upset her. Maybe I’m scared to disrupt our fragile new friendship. It’s always on the tip of my tongue, and always, I squash down the words before they can form.
There’s no rush, I tell myself. Maybe, when you become better friends, you won’t even have to ask. Maybe she’ll tell you herself.
On Friday, I head to Miss Patsy’s, but I’m a lot later than usual. Shelly wanted me to work in the studio over the garage, so that she could hang out with me. When I explained to her why I couldn’t—Khun Yai would be suspicious if I stopped going to the dance studio—she was so hurt that I had to get a soda with her at the ice cream parlor in order to reassure her that I still love her, that our friendship still means a lot to me.
Hours passed before I was able to extricate myself, and I didn’t even tell her the real reason I wanted to go to Miss Patsy’s. Because, well . . . because Ethan is also there every night. Every night, he waits for me to leave, holding the door open for me, sitting in his car until I turn on my ignition and drive away. Every night, he follows me out of the parking lot, flashing his lights twice to say good-bye.
He never actually talks to me, and with each day that passes—each hour, each minute—my skin heats a little more and my nerves vibrate a little faster. Today, I’m determined. If he won’t make the first move, then I’ll approach him. I’ll sidle up to him after one of his classes and make a joke about the little girls’ dancing prowess. Hell, I’ll even discuss the weather if I have to. Beautiful day, isn’t it?/Oh, yes, not a drop of rain./ I like the rain. Especially when there’s a hot guy holding an umbrella over my head.
I’ll talk to him today. I swear it. Otherwise, I’ll have to live through the weekend before I get another chance.
When I walk inside the studio, I hear shrieks coming from the classroom. Business as usual. Weaving through a crowd of chatting parents, I stop outside the door. Someone’s moved the potted plant, despite Miss Patsy’s wishes, and I can see clearly into the room. It’s almost the end of class, and they look like they’re playing a game. Ethan stands in the center, and the little girls hop around him as though he is their mother hen. Nothing new. And then he pumps his fists in the air and wildly shakes his butt. I raise my eyebrows. Very interesting.
He’s telling a story. Two giraffes, a brother and sister named Luca and Lucy, are fighting over the bathroom. Lucy knocks on the door, jumps up and down, and crosses her legs. She has to pee in the worst way, but Luca refuses to come out. He’s very busy doing important things, he claims. Such as shaking his butt.
The girls squeal with laughter and surge closer to Ethan. Some of them are mimicking his actions, and the others are begging him to please, please, please do it again. He complies, waggling his eyebrows, adding some theme music as he swings his butt back and forth. “Doo doo doo . . . shaking my butt . . . doo doo doo . . .”
The girls double over, clutching their stomachs, tears rolling down their faces.
I’m grinning, too. I can’t help it. He looks ridiculous. Not at all smooth. Not at all suave. With more than a passing resemblance to Donald Duck.
Finally, the story ends.
“All right, girls, that’s it for today,” Ethan says, and I smile even harder. He’s actually breathless from the storytelling. “I’ll see you next week.”
“Will you tell us another Luca and Lucy story then?” one of the girls asks.
“It’s my favorite part of class!” another one chimes in.
“I tell all my friends the stories during recess,” boasts Shirley, a redhead with lustrous spiral curls. “Now I’m the most popular girl in school.”
This touches him, I can tell. He lays a hand gently on each of their heads. “We’ll see. Now you’re all duck, duck. When I get to goose, I want you to run outside where your parents are waiting, okay? Duck, duck, goose!”
The girls aren’t prepared. I’m not prepared. As they stumble and dash for the door, I attempt to back away from the door. Not quickly enough.
“Oh! Miss Kan!” Shirley almost plows over me. “Were you watching us the whole time? Don’t you just love that story?” she chirps.
Busted. I try to smile, but heavy weights pull down on my lips. Especially because I see Ethan out of the corner of my eye. Listening to every word. Crap, crap, crap.
“Yes, it was wonderful,” I say to Shirley. Maybe I’m only imagining the warmth engulfing my cheeks? “I, uh, wanted to see how the dance was coming along. The costumes are almost done.”
“I can’t wait to see them!” She gives me a big hug and runs to her mom.
For the next few minutes, there’s a flurry of activity as the girls peel off tights and the parents locate water bottles. I look for an opportunity to slink away, but several of the moms approach me, to ask about the progress of the recital dresses or to say that little Annabelle really prefers purple to pink—is there any way to change the fabric?
So, I’m still standing in the same spot, inches from the doorjamb, when the last mom-and-daughter pair say good-bye. And when they leave, it’s just the two of us. Me . . . and Ethan.
I peek at him, expecting him to be packing up his iPod or practicing his dance moves or, hell, studying for his chemistry test. There must be a million things he could be doing. Instead, he’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Looking at me.
Damn. My cheeks heat up instantly, like one of those induction cooktops.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to spy on you,” I blurt out. He doesn’t respond—surprise, surprise—but he pushes off the wall and begins to walk toward me. “I was checking on the girls. Wanted to see how far they’ve come.” He keeps walking. My words keep spewing. “You know they’ll want to try on the costumes as soon as they’ve learned the routine.”
He’s ten feet away now. Five feet. Dear lord, is he going to walk all the way up to me? “You were telling the story, and I probably should’ve stopped watching, but I couldn’t help it. You were so cute—” I break off, horrified. “Not you. I mean,
the story was cute.” Sweat pops out on my forehead. “I know it was for the kids, but I adore those types of stories. Like Junie B. Jones.” He’s right in front of me now, inches away. Oh god. I talk even faster. “You wouldn’t believe it, but in one of the books, she took a fish stick to school for pet day. . . .”
He puts both hands on my shoulders. “Kan,” he says. It’s the first time he’s said my name. Every single one of my nerves lights up.
“I don’t mean to be presumptuous,” he continues, “but would you mind if I kissed you right now?”
Chapter 13
My brain short-circuits. “Um—yes—please—if you want—” I manage to stutter.
I must make some sort of sense because he smiles. And then he brushes his lips to mine.
Holy moly macaroni. He’s kissing me. He’s actually kissing me.
My heart stops. My thoughts go up in smoke. He tastes like cinnamon. Big Red chewing gum. The kind I used to chew as a kid. The flavor of my toothpaste. Oh, geez, I’ll never brush my teeth the same way again.
His arms wind around me, and we stagger to the sofa. The one filled with cracker crumbs, the one on which the moms were all sitting just a few minutes ago. We fall onto the couch, kissing. His hands cradle my head, and my arms . . . hang by my side. I need to move them. But where? How?
Hesitantly, I bring my hands to his chest. Nice. Then up to touch his face. Even nicer. His cheeks—so smooth; his ears—so warm; his hair—silky and bristly at the same time.
I’m drowning here. Emotions I’ve never felt swirl around my stomach, and my skin feels tingly all over, like I’m moments away from exploding. Oh god, I hope I’m doing this right. I hope he feels one-tenth of the tsunami he’s creating in me.
One of his hands moves to cup my face, holding me like I’m the most precious thing in the world. The other slides down my back, leaving a trail of lightning and stopping at the inch of bare torso where my shirt has come untucked. I almost come apart. The only way to hold myself together is to pour everything I have into the kiss.
I don’t know how long this goes on. A few seconds, an eternity. I’d gladly stay where I am for the rest of the night—the rest of the year—but then, the door rattles, and we spring apart. It’s Miss Patsy’s husband, who doubles as the janitor, here to mop the floors and pick up any trash the kids left behind.
“Hi, Mr. G.!” Ethan says, his voice a little hoarse. Is that how he always sounds—or is the scratchy quality from kissing me? Honestly, I haven’t heard him speak often enough to know.
I don’t think I can talk yet, not so soon after this full assault on my senses, so I just lift my fingers and wave hello.
“Hi, kids.” Mr. G. looks at us curiously, and I flush. He probably thinks I’m not talking because I’m struggling with the language. When I first started working at Miss Patsy’s, he complimented me on my English, like he was a proud grandfather, and I didn’t have the heart to explain that I was born and raised in America.
Oh, please. Don’t mention my English now, in front of Ethan. Don’t ask how I speak it so well, or recommend ESL conversation groups offered through the community college, the ones that Khun Yai takes. I will just die.
But instead of looking at us, sitting in the dark now that the sun has ducked behind the trees, the older man peers at the floors. “Not too bad. You should’ve seen the mess those little girls left last week.”
“They had a quick lesson on picking up after themselves today,” Ethan says. How he’s doing this is beyond me. I doubt I could string a sentence together, and he’s sitting here having a full-blown conversation.
“Thanks, son. I appreciate that.” Mr. G. pushes his cart into the bathroom, his keys jangling with every step. Judging from previous nights, we have a good twenty minutes before he comes back out.
Ethan turns to me and grins. “Why are you so far away? Come here.” He tugs me over, until my legs are draped over his lap. If possible, I flush even more. I’m not sure what just happened. I don’t know what we did or what it means, but I’m pretty sure right here is exactly where I want to be.
He lowers his head and nuzzles my neck. I shiver, and little zips of awareness pop all over my skin. “My name is Ethan,” he says.
I giggle. “I guess we’ve never been properly introduced. I’m Kan.”
“I know. It’s a beautiful name.”
“It’s not a beautiful name.” I wince. “It sounds like a metal can of food. I’ve been made fun of for my name my entire life.”
He lifts his head and looks right into my eyes. “What is it short for?”
I blink. Other than Shelly, no one’s asked me that question for years. My friends don’t ask because they’ve always known it. Everyone else, because they don’t bother to think of it. Kan is just a weird name for that weird girl from that weird country. End of story. No need to dig any further.
“Kanchana,” I whisper, breaking the name into its distinct syllables. Kan-cha-na.
“Like I said. Beautiful. Interesting. Unique. Just like you.” His mouth is right there, hovering above mine. I can’t resist. Like a magnet, I’m pulled, pulled, pulled into his lips. I feel like I could kiss him forever. I want to kiss him forever.
But I don’t even know him. I’ve waited forever to have a conversation with him. I can’t let this moment pass because I’m too distracted by kissing. Right?
I wrench my mouth away, breaking the force fusing us together. It’s almost painful.
“Oh my god.” He takes a shaky breath and leans his forehead against mine. We stay like that, inhaling and exhaling, and I feel like we’re sharing something more intimate than air.
“I’ve been dreaming about kissing you forever.” He pulls back, but he’s still close enough that I can count his lashes.
“You have?” I wrinkle my forehead. “Since I straightened my hair?”
He picks up a strand of my hair and lets it slide through his fingers. “Since way before then.”
“What about the girl you have a crush on? The one you went to Derek’s party to meet?”
His brows rise, and I realize what I’ve just said. “I was here last Friday, and I, uh, I guess I overheard you talking to your dance partner,” I say haltingly and then groan. “Oh, geez, I know how this looks, but I swear to god I’m not stalking you. Much.”
He bursts out laughing. “I think it might be the other way around. I went to the party hoping to run into you. All your friends were going. I assumed you would be with them.”
“Really?” My veins flow with honey, and I smile so big it might permanently bisect my face. Me! He went to the party to talk to me! “But why did you have to wait for the party? You’ve had plenty of other chances.”
He ducks his head, and I feel his warm breath against my neck. “You’re kinda intimidating, you know that?” he asks.
“I am not. I’m the least intimidating person I know.”
“No, you are. You’re always so focused. When I walk you to your car, your eyes are dreamy, like you’re still thinking about your work. I didn’t want to interrupt your profound thoughts with something totally boring.”
“My eyes were dreamy because I was thinking about you!” I say foolishly. But snuggled in his arms, with him smiling down at me, I don’t feel foolish at all. “So you kissed me instead? Very creative. You know what they say. A picture is worth a thousand words. Which would make a kiss . . .”
He catches my lips between his teeth. Minutes later, he lifts his head. “What was that?”
“I think we may have had a lifetime of conversations already,” I say weakly.
Chapter 14
We leave. There’s nothing else we can do, really, with Mr. G. jangling his keys and rattling his cart. In fact, he seems to be making even more noise than usual, as if to give us adequate warning. Which makes me blush all the way to my toes.
Ethan drives toward the park on the edge of town, the one with picnic tables and a rusty but functional playground. He glances at me across
the darkened interior of the car. “If we turn right, we’ll be heading to the reservoir. That’s where all the kids go to make out.”
I swallow hard. “Is that . . . where we’re going?”
“What do you want?”
I’m going to be stabbing myself with a needle later. I know I am, but . . . “I want to talk.”
He turns left. “Done. Don’t get me wrong. I’d like nothing better than getting you in the backseat . . . or the front seat . . . or hell, even the hood of the car would do.” He gives me a fake leer, and I giggle. “But I’d like to get to know you, too.”
He pulls into a parking space, and we walk to the swings, hand in hand. The playground is deserted, and the air is tinged with the leftover scents of someone’s barbecued dinner. The moon hangs above us, a round, white orb to hold the blanket of stars in place.
We sit down on adjacent swings.
“Dare you,” he says, the hint of a dimple in his left cheek. My breath catches. I’ve never noticed his dimple before. I want to reach out, to touch his cheek, but the game is on. “Whoever touches the moon first wins.”
It’s a ridiculous dare, like one of his Luca and Lucy stories. And just like the stories, it sucks me right in.
“You’ve got it.” I pump my legs, harder and faster. My swing climbs higher and higher. I laugh. The wind flows through my hair, and I feel like a butterfly, riding on the breeze. I can’t remember the last time I felt so free.
I’m about to declare myself the winner when he kicks his foot into the sky, his shoe slicing through the middle of the orb.
“I won! I touched the moon.” He leaps out of the swing and pumps his fist. I wouldn’t be surprised if he started shaking his butt.
“Cheater.” I jump onto the ground next to him.
“It’s my game; I get to make the rules.”
“Does that actually work?” I ask incredulously.
“Not when I was a kid. I never understood why girls didn’t fall all over me when I dipped their hair in glue.” He tangles his hand in my hair and holds it up to the moonlight. “My plan was to glue tissue-paper flowers to the ends of their braids. It would’ve been epic. But not a single one let me finish.” He shakes his head sadly, and I burst out laughing.