A Postcard Would Be Nice

by Steph Campbell

  She fixes my collar.

  “Um, yeah. It’s my last year and I’d like to…” Tarryn raises a dark eyebrow at me. “Is that a no?”

  “I can’t. I told you that. I have to get back to work.”

  “Right, but, Oliver, we had fun, I thought? I don’t get you at all. You were into it, and now you’re blowing me off—”

  I want to tell her exactly all the ways that night was the opposite of fun, except I can’t remember any of them. So I just stare back at her.

  “Listen.” She takes a step in, and everything in me catches fire. I can’t step away because I’ve combusted and melted into the ground.

  “People are saying things, you know,” Tarryn says.

  “Yeah, I know. Everyone knows,” I say. Thanks a lot.

  “No, I mean, not just that. There’s other stuff going around. It’s all bullshit, right?” She steps in even closer. “I mean, you aren’t starting those rumors are you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “They’re saying there was something going around the party—that maybe—you know what? Forget it.” She looks a little more than confused. She looks almost panicked.

  “What’s going around?” My voice is firm and sounds like the Oliver Wu I want to be. Because I have to know.

  “People are just ... talking. About you and me.”

  “What are they saying?” Fake Oliver Wu asks.

  Tarryn’s cheeks turn a bright shade of pink, and she looks around the room instead of at me.

  “Just that maybe you weren’t … Never mind,” she says. Tarryn smooths the front of her dress. “I don’t have to beg for a prom date, Oliver. Believe me, I have plenty of options. I thought I was doing something nice, but if you don’t want to go with me, that’s fine. I have to get home.”

  “Wait.” I try to reach for her, even though touching her is the exact thing I don’t want to do, but I feel like maybe if I touch her she’ll come back and finish saying what she started.

  But she shrugs me off, and I let her go.

  I watch her walk away and know that any shot at getting to the truth is gone with her. Guys like me don’t shoot down girls like Tarryn Alridge.

  I take the long way back to the coat check desk.

  “Yo, you all right, bro?” Colm asks.

  “Yep,” is all I offer.

  “Ah, what’s the matter, Oliver Wu, did the dojo close down?”

  I don’t laugh. I don’t have a witty retort comparing Colm to a leprechaun or asking him about his potato crop like I normally would. I barely open my mouth to mutter, “I’m fine.”

  “Right.” He runs his hand across his scruffy cheek. “I don’t know how else to say this, Ol, so I’ll just be straight with you here. ‘Fine’ is a planet you left a long ass time ago. What’s going on with you?”

  I flinch at the way he says my name. A nickname, not the formal-yet-somehow-playful “Oliver Wu” he always uses. This “Ol” is laced with pity and confusion, and I can’t believe how much I hate a single syllable.

  I run my palm over the countertop and avoid his eyes.

  “You know—”

  “I have to go check the lost and found in the gift shop,” I interrupt.

  “Hold up,” Colm says. He tugs on my shoulder, and I wish I was brave enough to pull away. But Oliver Wu is the opposite of brave. “Do you remember the day we met?”

  “Yeah. You were pissed because you signed up for a tutor, and you purposely picked me from the list of math tutors based on my last name. Then you weren’t positive based on the look of me that I was ‘Asian enough’ to get you to pass trig, you racist prick.”

  The laugh at that ridiculous memory slips out before I can stop it, and then it’s quashed by the guilt that indulging in it brings up.

  “And what did I tell you the first time I met you?”

  “That if you didn’t pass, you were going to get the Sons of Anarchy, Ireland charter after me,” I say.

  “Right, but after that.” Colm scratches his beard, like he’s an old wise man about to unleash some holy wisdom.

  “Dude, that’s nasty. You’re littering the counter with fecal matter,” I say.

  “What?” Colm stops what he’s doing, and glares at me with his eyebrows pulled in tight.

  “I read an article that said about sixty-five-percent of beards contain fecal matter.”

  “Yeah, if you’re wiping your ass with your face. You know what, never mind. I’m tired of talking about my beard with someone who’ll never even be able to grow one.” Colm puts his hands in his pockets anyway, and I can’t help the tiny bit of victory I feel. “And you’re stalling.”

  “Fine. I don’t remember what you said that day.”

  “What I told you when we were debating whether or not you should stick it out with that girl, Cora, was that you should never go to bed with someone who’s got more problems than you do. And I see the way you look at that girl—”

  “Which one?” I tense up.

  “Paloma, you half-wit.” Because he doesn’t know Tarryn just stormed in here and ruined everything for me. Again.

  “So what if I look at her?”

  “It’s not just the way you look at her. It’s the ways she looks at you.”

  “So?”

  “So, I’m telling you now, she’s got … more.”

  “More what?”

  Colm shakes his head. “I don’t know, man, but if you’re thinking about starting something with her, you may want to consider that there’s more there than you’ve seen. Trust me.”

  It doesn’t matter. I blew any shot I had anyway.

  “Says the guy who wipes his ass with his face.”

  “Funny. Real funny. And Oliver Wu?” he says, his voice suddenly so serious I lean in to make sure I don’t miss his next words.

  “Yeah?”

  “Get back to work.”

  “I have to find her. Paloma,” I qualify, even though it’s not a question.

  He looks up and shakes his head. “Dude, she bolted.”

  I look over my shoulder. “Her coat is still here.”

  Colm shrugs. I reach over and grip his shoulders. The way the imaginary Oliver Wu would. Firm and full of authority. And a hefty dose of desperation.

  “I swear I won’t ask again, but can you cover for me? I’ve got to go.”

  (Undelivered)

  22.

  I run up Paloma’s front steps, and I knock. It’s a polite knock. A loose fist and a slight tap of my knuckles. The knock I do when I show up at Clara’s house for practice.

  I wait a minute, and then I knock again. It’s firmer. The knock I’d give Ryan’s door when he’s not outside like he said he’d be, and we’re late to the Social D. show we’ve basically been waiting our entire lives to see.

  It isn’t until I obnoxiously press the doorbell three times in a row that it hits me.

  Her parents might be home. I may not get Paloma at the door. I may be meeting her dad.

  I should go.

  My eyes dart around the neighborhood, fully aware that Tarryn’s house is just a couple of streets away. It’s surreal standing in this spot. The spot where I’d waited for Paloma, wondering if I should kiss her goodnight.

  People are talking, Tarryn had said.

  Would their whispers make it back to Paloma? Would she know what I’d done that night? Would she figure it out?

  That the drink had been meant for her?

  Should I confess everything? Warn her to stay away from Martin?

  What if Colm is right? What if there’s more going on with Paloma than I assumed? What if she can’t take that kind of destruction in her life?

  I have to talk to her.

  I knock again, not caring if her father answers or I wake her mother from a nap. I knock until the side of my hand is raw.

  Then I switch hands.

  Who am I?

  I’m Oliver Wu. I’m bold when I need to be.

  “Paloma!” I
call through the door, the only thing that stands between me and the girl I’ve thought about for years. This stupid door. The thing preventing me from explaining things the best I can. The only thing standing in the way of saying what I need to say.

  “I have your coat!” I yell.

  Nothing. No response.

  I reach inside the pocket of my own and pull out the postcard.

  I take the Sharpie from my keychain and scribble my phone number in the space where a stamp would go. Part of me doesn’t want to because I may never get it back, but I shove the card into the pocket of her coat, then fold it neatly and set it on the doorstep.

  Who am I?

  I’m Oliver Wu.

  The guy who can take a hint.

  23.

  I have a rule of thumb. If I ever want anything apart from the basics—food, clothes, gas in my car—I always revert to asking the non-Asian parent. Maybe it’s cliché to think that way, but it’s smart and necessary for my freedom.

  Dad can’t help that he’s a hard ass. It’s a trait firmly fixed in his life. It’s his culture, he can’t control it. Mom, on the other hand, is more lax. Plus she has a pile of brothers she thinks the world of, but who were total hellions growing up, at least according to the stories they tell when we all get together for Super Bowl Sunday. Anyway, they turned out okay, so I think she takes it easy on me because of her experience with them.

  So right now, when I’m aching to get out the door at ten o’clock on a school night, I track down my mom.

  I lean my head into the open door of the laundry room and ask, “Can I go out?”

  I watch her eyes drift up to the last remaining analog clock on the planet to check the time. Dad and Kevin are already in bed, and I haven’t left my room for hours before now.

  But then Paloma texted me, just “Hi,” no big deal, but I texted back right away. We’ve been texting back and forth for almost an hour, but there’s only so much you can say over text. I’m not okay with going back to awkward silence, which means I need to see her in person. I need to fix things. Tonight.

  “Oliver, it’s late,” Mom sighs.

  “I know. I won’t be long, I swear.”

  Mom hangs one of the sixty-five identical blue button-up shirts that my dad wears every day and frowns.

  “Where do you need to go that can’t wait until tomorrow?”

  I spin my bracelet around my wrist. I shouldn’t lie. I have no reason to lie. But I just want to get out of the house. I don’t want to spend the next thirty minutes explaining who Paloma is to me to my mother before she’ll let me leave.

  “Just to Ryan’s. He wrote a new song he wants me to help him tweak a little while he’s still on a roll.” The lie slides out so smoothly that I immediately feel a swarm-of-locust level guilt rain down over me.

  “Ryan?” Mom asks. “Haven’t seen him around much lately.”

  “Yeah, just busy I guess.”

  “Did he ever pick a college?”

  I don’t know. He can’t stand me. “Nope, still undecided.”

  “His parents must be getting nervous. I’m so glad you picked a school early on. Your dad and I would be climbing the walls not knowing where you were going, and what we needed to set aside for you tuition-wise. I know Micah was dead set on him going to USC, but Ryan always talked about Boston or UCSD. Wonder what he’s going to do?”

  I can’t decide if this is small talk, or if my mom is trying to figure out if I’m lying.

  “Not sure. I can ask him tonight.”

  “Okay,” she says. Mom folds one of Dad’s starched undershirts and sets it neatly on top of the dryer. “Just be careful, Oliver. You haven’t been yourself lately. I want you to go and have a good time, but please be careful.”

  “Easy, Ma, it’s ten o’clock, not three AM,” I joke.

  “Be home by midnight. If you’re not— I may make you cut that hair,” she says, only half-joking back.

  “That’s not funny,” I say. I pull the ponytail holder that’s holding the bun on the back of my head in place and let my hair swing free because I know it drives her crazy.

  “Oliver,” she says, shaking her head, but smiling widely.

  “See you at twelve.” I lean over and kiss her on the cheek before I go.

  I type Paloma’s address into my phone’s GPS app and trace each of the blue lines with my finger. Nope. No matter which route I choose, I can’t avoid driving right past Tarryn’s house.

  I get in the car and start the engine, pulling out of the driveway before hesitation turns into something more permanent, and I’m stuck in one more rut I can’t pull myself from. I only have two hours as it is, so wasting time isn’t an option.

  It’s just a house, practically identical to every other house in this neighborhood. I’m not going in it, so there’s no reason to freak out. It’s just a damn house.

  No matter how logically I think it all through, my body won’t listen to my brain. My heart hammers behind my ribcage, sweat pools under my armpits, and it feels like my chest is bricked over. I swallow back the bile that stings low in my throat. Even though I keep my eyes straight ahead, I can’t help but grit my teeth and steel myself as I drive past it.

  I am Oliver Wu.

  The guy who can block out things when necessary.

  I grip the steering wheel tighter.

  24.

  “Wow,” Paloma says. She pulls open the door, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve seen the inside of her house. “I wondered if you’d actually come.”

  Which is weird, since I had zero doubt at all. From the moment the last text from her showed up on my phone.

  I wish you could come over.

  There wasn’t a single thing in this world that would’ve stopped me from seeing Paloma tonight, and asking Mom was pretty much a courtesy to try to keep my ass out of trouble. I needed to see Paloma tonight—to make sure things were okay with us face-to-face. Because right now, she’s one of the only friends I have in the world.

  And the only one I want.

  She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and tilts her head a little. Like maybe she’s checking me out. Or maybe she just caught me doing it to her.

  “I wondered if you’d actually answer the door,” I joke, then try to smooth it over in case it wasn’t funny. “But you were quick.”

  Paloma smiles and says, “I sort of figured I owed you that much after all the knocking you did earlier.”

  I look down at the oversized shirt she’s wearing with these barely-there shorts and silently beg her not to send me away. Ever.

  I clear my throat. “You sure it’s okay that I’m here?”

  “Yeah, of course. Come in.” Paloma opens the door wide and steps back so that I can come inside, but I don’t move.

  “Are you sure? Do you want to just talk outside?” I’m more than double checking. I’m nervous.

  “My parents aren’t home, Oliver. My dad works nights, and my mom is out with friends. Come on in. It’s okay, really.”

  I hesitate, but only for another second before stepping inside.

  “Can I get you anything?” she asks. It sounds all formal and stiff.

  “I’m good, thanks,” I answer, shifting from one foot to the other.

  This is awkward, and that’s incredibly disappointing. That’s not what I wanted from tonight. I wanted us to get past the weirdness, not create even more.

  “All right, cool.”

  “Is it just you and your parents?” I ask. I pull the band from my hair, and then tie it back again. “No scary older brother I have to worry about while I’m over here late at night?”

  “No, it’s just the three of us. We’re our own volatile little bubble,” she says. The last bit trails off a bit like maybe she regrets saying it as the words are coming out.

  I don’t know how to respond.

  “How long have you guys lived in this house?” I ask. What I really want to know is: why are there no photos on the walls? Why does it look like you
just moved in? Why is there a basket behind the sofa with a blanket and a bed pillow? The townhouse feels cold and unlived in, which is just amping up the awkwardness.

  “Since I changed schools.”

  “Right.” I nod. “That makes sense. You’ve got a way easier commute to school from this end of town.”

  “Exactly,” she says.

  I stand there in the foyer with my hands in my pockets, staring at a plain, white wall, wondering how she felt when she walked into my house the other day.

  “Come on, my room is this way.” She motions toward the stairs with a look of hope in her dark eyes.

  “Your room?” I wonder if it’s as stark and white as this living space.

  “Yeah, you showed me yours; I figured I could show you mine,” she says with a laugh.

  I nearly choke.

  Paloma walks slowly up the short flight of stairs and I follow behind. Her hands dangle at her sides, and I wish I had the courage to reach out and hold one of them.

  “So this is your room,” I say, once she cracks open the door.

  “It doesn’t always look like this,” she spouts out. “My mom made me clean.”

  I chuckle because I know that feeling very well.

  On top of her dresser there’s a wire picture frame. The center has a gray circle with the words, “Smile Often!” and a half-dozen prongs that jut out so you can clip pictures around it.

  It has a couple of shots of Paloma and what looks like the girl from the party that night. One is of Paloma and her with massive smiles stretched across their faces, tossing the contents of their binders into the air.

  “When was this?” I ask.

  Paloma smiles at the memory. “Last day of freshman year. That’s my best friend, Lex.”

  “Cute,” I say.

  “Yeah, what that picture doesn’t show is the vice principal making us pick up every last sheet of paper after that photo was taken.”

  “Ouch.”

  There’s another photo of her and Lex on the beach at sunset. They’re wearing hoodies and their cheeks are pressed together, their foreheads peeling from sun exposure and smiles too wide to fit into the frame. I don’t know this side of Paloma.