God, I want to.
I pull the photo behind it out of the prongs.
“Nice dress,” I say. It’s a photo of Paloma and that douche from the party. It’s him. It’s Martin. She’s wearing a white, floral dress. He’s in white shorts, dock shoes, and a button-up that’s half-open and cuffed at the sleeves.
Paloma plucks the photo from my fingers. “It wasn’t mine. I borrowed it from his sister. I dared to show up in shorts, you know how that goes.”
I don’t know, actually.
“Strict dress codes for parties when you’re on the arm of the heir to the political dynasty.” She laughs, but it’s forced.
“You look happy,” I say. And it’s true. Which I fucking hate.
“This was after.”
“After?”
“Well, after his dad got drunk and told the table that Martin tying himself to me would be good for his political future. That he’d be able to sway the Democrats in an election if we married because I could carry the Hispanic vote.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. I hate that guy. I hate his entire family for making Paloma feel like she isn’t worthy of love and every other good thing on this Earth.
Paloma shrugs. “It’s okay. I excused myself from the table and grabbed a bottle of Chardonnay that probably cost more than I make in a summer. So, yeah. This picture was … after.” She says the last word in a whisper.
There’s one more photo in the frame. A younger Paloma with two adults. They have to be her parents. The woman has the same delicate features, the man, the same fearless smile.
“I remember this day,” I say. I recognize the thin-strapped purple dress Paloma is wearing. “This was our eighth-grade graduation.”
“Yes!” she says. “God, that seems like a lifetime ago.”
“It was,” I say.
“My mom,” she says, running her index finger over the picture. “She said I looked cheap in that dress. What she didn’t realize is that she was off on some lady-vacation the week before and Dad took me dress shopping. I must’ve tried on sixty dresses before deciding on that one.”
“You looked beautiful,” I say.
“And you!” she says. I swear she swipes at her eyes like she’d teared up for a second. “You got an award, right? What was it for again?”
“Paloma,” I say. “It was citizenship. How in the world did you remember that?”
She swats at my arm. “How could I forget, Oliver? They called you up on stage to accept it, and the first words you uttered into the microphone were, “Holy crap, there’s a lot of people here.”
“I did,” I say, before breaking into laughter. God, that feels good.
I glance across the room to the far wall where there’s a matted display of several drawings.
“Did you draw all of these?”
“Yep,” she says.
I turn to face her, and she gives a quick grin, but the tips of her ears are pink.
“This is really cool.” I motion to one of the drawings of a flower.
Paloma shrugs, like she’s trying to deflect the attention, but still offers, “I drew that one of the hydrangeas outside of my bolita’s nursing home. We sat with her in the courtyard for hours the last time we saw her, letting her enjoy the sunshine on her face.”
“Bolita? That’s your grandmother?” I ask.
Paloma gives a soft nod. “She’s been in a nursing home for years. She only really gets out when Dad and I make the drive to see her and sit with her outside.”
I scratch the back of my neck. “My grandmother doesn’t live close by,” I say, and it’s stupid, but it’s all I’ve got. “But she’s in China.” Not a nursing home.
“I think it’s probably one of those things you can never get enough of. Like sleep. Soaking in enough sunshine and cool breezes when you know you’re at the end of your life must be strange. It must be the saddest kind of happiness to enjoy something so basic, knowing that any day in the near future could be your last.” Paloma shakes her head, like she just realized she wasn’t alone in her room. “Sorry, that was morbid.”
“It’s fine,” I insist. I step closer to the drawing. “It almost looks real. All of them. They’re really good.”
“Thanks,” Paloma says, but she sounds a little edgy.
Like maybe she feels too exposed. Like she wants to know that she can trust me, but trust requires risk, and sometimes you only lose too much. Or maybe that’s just how I feel.
“Do you have any more?”
She purses her lips but doesn’t answer.
“Like the ones you sketch at the museum?” I press. I swear she jumps back a little. Like I’ve just asked the one thing she’d hoped I wouldn’t.
Paloma nibbles on her bottom lip, then says, “I left that sketch book in my dad’s car. Here, come sit over here.”
Lie. Deflect.
I’m recognizing all the things I’ve been doing lately in Paloma’s behavior. But what could she possibly be hiding?
She pushes the large casement window open and sits on the padded bench on the windowsill, scooting to one side so there’s plenty of room for me to sit, too.
Instead, I run my hands down the front of my jeans, feeling uneasy. Feeling like I maybe would’ve preferred this tour of her room as a quick stop over. Feeling like I shouldn’t get too close. Feeling like maybe I’m ready to go.
“My parents aren’t going to come home,” she says. “I promise it’s all right that you’re here.”
“That’s not it.”
“So what is it?”
Paloma twists her hair back behind her head, and then lets it swing loose, over her shoulders and a little in front of her face.
I finally take the empty spot next to her and rub my hand over the back of my neck.
“This is nice, I’m just…” I can feel the tendons in my neck strain when I swallow. “I’m waiting for you to ask about her.”
It was the one thing we didn’t cover in the lengthy text message session earlier.
She’d thanked me for bringing her coat by. I’d said it was my job. She’d told me she’d overreacted. I’d told her that she didn’t and that I understood. But I guess we both took the ignorance-is-bliss approach when it came to asking about the brunette at the museum.
“It’s not my business,” she says.
“You were pretty upset, and I’d like the chance to explain,” I say, my voice choppy. “If I can. I mean, it’s a mess. But she isn’t—she’s not like my girlfriend or anything. Nothing like that. At all.”
“Okay,” she says. There’s a long pause before she adds, “You can be friends with whoever you—”
“She’s not my friend,” I say sharply. “She’s not anything to me. Just someone I know.”
“Right.” She says the word like she half-believes me. At best. “Well, whatever. I’m glad you finally gave me your phone number. So something good came out of today, right? And we’re okay, right?”
Whatever we are.
“We’re good,” I say, swallowing hard and nodding. “I’m sorry you were upset. I’m sorry I upset you.”
“It’s nothing. It was stupid.” She cracks a small smile that I return for a moment before I let it fall and my face turns serious again.
My fingers shake a little as I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. I clear my throat and look Paloma dead in the eye.
“I have a confession.”
25.
I suck in a breath and watch her eyes grow wide.
Paloma’s eyebrows pull together, and she frowns. “What is it?”
“I’m not Japanese. I’m Chinese,” I deadpan. “Well, half-Chinese. Don’t let these gorgeous almond-shaped eyes fool you. But you’ve met my parents, though, so I guess you already knew the half-part.”
Paloma laughs, and it’s a fucking beautiful sound. I did that.
“Oliver,” she says, clapping her hands together. “What in the world does that have to do with anything? What does it matter?”
&nb
sp; “It matters because I don’t have the answer to your question.”
She gets quiet. We both get quiet, and the walls of her room suddenly feel like they’re closing in on me.
“What question? What are you talking about?”
I was trying to make things lighter, but I may have dug a nice, big, fat hole for myself. Does she even remember?
“The postcard. I don’t know the Japanese word for a heart skipping a beat.” I stare down at my hands. “And I wish I did.”
“That’s okay,” she says, looking up at me with soft eyes. “I didn’t really expect an answer at all.”
“Oh.” I straighten up, trying not to show how I wish I knew all the things. How I wish that I had all the answers to all the questions she’s ever wondered.
A strand of hair falls in her face, and, without thinking, I reach over and tuck it back behind her ear. Because I want to see her face. All of her.
“Mi corazón saltó un latido,” she says. Her tongue curls around each syllable in a magical way. It feels like the first time I ever heard her voice. I want to hear her say it over and over. “I guess I could’ve just gone with that in the first place.”
“What does that mean?” I ask. I close my eyes and say a quick, silent prayer that my mediocre understanding of Spanish is accurate.
“You make my heart skip a beat, Oliver.”
26.
Who am I? By Oliver Wu.
I was born on March 24, in Bellflower, California. My mother said that she was going in for her regular check-up, and that throughout the appointment, the doctor kept insisting that I wasn’t going to be born any time soon. She delivered me with the help of some strangers in the parking lot down the street.
No. That’s exactly what Mrs. Driscoll said she didn’t want the essays to be about. She wants us to dig deeper. The problem is, I don’t want to dig deep right now.
I’m fucking scared of what I’ll find.
27.
“How long have you worked here?” Paloma asks.
It’s been a few days since I showed up on her doorstep. I really hoped we’d get over our awkward hump completely, but we didn’t. Not exactly.
It’s not all awkward. There have been some really good texts. And some boring ones. There have been some conversations that feel like they’re going to lead somewhere awesome. Then they kind of fizzle. But it’s okay. It’s just...slow. That’s not a bad thing. I just hope Paloma is okay with that. As much as I’m holding back from her, I feel like she’s got her own secrets, too.
I can sum everything she and I have going on right now in three words: figuring things out. That’s what I’ve been trying to do all along. Honestly, it just feels good to have someone else bumbling along with me, even if we’re not really getting very far.
She stabs at the steamed rice and chicken with a chopstick, and even though she’s not very good at using them, she insisted. The museum cafeteria is packed, and loud enough that we have to lean forward a little to hear each other. I like when she’s this close. Even if it means she’s close enough that there’s a chance she could really see me.
“Close to two years.” I tighten the band that holds my hair back, then slide my napkin across the plastic table top with the cutlery still wrapped inside it. “And don’t feel like you have to use those on my account. I was never any good with them.”
She sets the chopsticks to the left of her bowl, unrolls the napkin and plucks the fork from it happily.
“Thank you,” she says. “And wow, two years. See, now I wish I would’ve started coming here sooner,” she says. She finally takes her first real bite of food and smiles like she’s savoring it. “Why this place? Are you interested in art?”
I shake my head and say, “Not really.”
I know I’ve disappointed her when I see the way her smile falters and clear my throat before saying, “I mean, I wasn’t at all when I got the job. I appreciate it a lot more now. Mostly I just heard they were hiring, and when I interviewed, I really dug the vibe.”
“How so? I mean, if you aren’t into art?”
I reach across the table and take the napkin that I just passed to her back, so I can wipe the barbeque sauce from my fingertips. I keep my attention focused on that simple task while I talk.
“It’s just… I don’t know, it’s this place—there’s something about it. Something that makes you feel—“
“Calm?”
I snap my head up and nod.
“Same,” she says.
“My mom,” I start. “She sort of went through something after my brother was born.”
I may not be able to give Paloma my whole truth, but I can offer her something.
“Yeah?” Paloma asks. She moves the food around on her plate.
“It took a while before she was diagnosed and got help, but she went through a pretty serious depression. The house…Our house was just crazy for a few years.”
Paloma doesn’t say a word.
“But this place, it just felt orderly. I liked how everything had a place. I liked the quiet.”
And I liked seeing you.
She swallows hard and says, “I understand.”
And I know she does.
We both take a few bites of our lunch before one of us is brave enough to speak again.
“So, I’ve got to ask something,” I say. I glance around the cafeteria, and then shift in the plastic chair.
“Sure, anything,” she says. Her voice is calm and sure, but her eyes are wide.
I think of all of the things I want to ask her, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I know what it’s like to have something you don’t want to share.
“Where are you going to college?” I finally ask.
A relieved, shaky laugh bubbles up out of her throat, but it’s short-lived. “I don’t have a single clue what I’m doing after high school.”
“Yeah?” I ask. And I’m smiling.
“You’re amazing, Oliver.” It slips fast and she sets her fork down and clamps her hand over her mouth exactly like I did that time I uttered a curse during catechism.
I want to kiss her.
But I want to rewind time and kiss her two weeks ago. Standing on her doorstep. I want to kiss her before Tarryn came into my life and ruined everything. Ruined the way I look at Paloma. The girl I’ve wanted for so damn long, but now everything is muddled and wrong.
“You’re amazing, too!” I stand up, sliding the chair away from me. The couple sitting next to us in the cafeteria gawks a little at my loud proclamation, but I don’t give a crap.
Except really, I just smile, swallowing the suck-filled reality that what I wanted for so long can probably never be. Because the closer I get to Paloma, the harder it hits me that I’m not the same Oliver I was two weeks ago, and leaving the old one behind is my only option.
I wanted to know where she was going to college because I hoped that someday maybe we’d run into each other again.
Because after graduation, I’m long gone. Putting distance between me and Old Oliver is the only thing that might save me.
(Written in the museum café after Oliver went back to work.) (Undelivered)
28.
“What are you working on?” Paloma asks over the coat check counter.
I close the notebook with my pen still inside before she can see my unwritten essay. I’ve officially started (and torn up) the essay eight times now. This ninth draft isn’t even started yet, but I already know it’s not going to be any better than the previous ones.
“Hey, I didn’t see you come in,” I say. It’s been a dead day at work and most of it has been spent staring at the door, waiting for her to make an appearance—and my day.
“Are you writing a new song?”
Her lips are glossier than they usually are, and, when she presses up onto her tiptoes to talk to me, I don’t catch a whiff of her usually overwhelming breath-minty smell. Which makes me wonder if she’s been drinking at all since we’ve been hanging out.
>
Part of me wants to ask her, but the other part says that’s intrusive. I don’t care if Paloma wants to drink—as long as she’s careful, I mean. But I think there’s no good way to bring it up without sounding judgy.
So I let it go and just smile back. Her thick hair is down in loose waves around her face. Yesterday, we rode indoor go-karts, and she kept it pulled back tight the whole time. She looks gorgeous no matter what, but it was a harsher look, especially because she has such a delicate face. The waves are soft, way more Paloma.
“Nah,” I say. “Just some English homework.”
I’ve been staring at that blank page for days. I’d tried sitting at my computer, thinking if I typed it out instead that the words would come, but so far, they haven’t.
“When’s your next show, by the way?” Paloma asks.
I pinch the space between my eyes. “Ah, I’m not really sure.”
“You haven’t mentioned the guys or the band since ... God, I can’t even think of the last time. Probably since that night at the party. Is everything okay?”
No, they all still hate me. Ryan stares me down when he passes me in the hall at school. Prom decorations and posters are going up all over campus, and every time I see another flyer or hear an announcement, it makes me think of Tarryn, which makes me sick to my stomach.
It’s an odd feeling, to have your entire life completely shifted, but not be able to remember the event that had forced all the chaos into motion.
“Yeah, everyone is just busy,” I say, then rush on to avoid more questions. “How about you? How’s your day going?”
“Good,” Paloma says. She opens her mouth to say something else, but I notice a customer and groan.
“One second, I promise. Let me help this person.”
The man in line is here with a small kid—probably my brother’s age, so around four. The father is currently trying to pry him off the floor. I glance over at Paloma, who has stepped aside, and expect her to be rolling her eyes.
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