by Maurene Goo
How utterly clichéd—excelling at all parts of life but love. Wah-wah.
I looked up at Fiona with bleary eyes. “Thanks. Always a beacon of comfort. Bosom buddy. Buddy ol’ pal. Pal gal. Gal … pal.”
Fiona shook her head grimly. If one was seeking comfort and a cozy embrace from a friend, Fiona Mendoza was not open for business. She was more of the slap-you-silly, back-to-reality type.
She shrugged. “At least he’s just a freshman.” The word freshman made me wail harder into her shoulder. I had let my crush on Max die a swift death when I found out he was in ninth grade, but he was still hot. A hot guy who had been about to ask me out.
My two best friends, for all their good intentions, could never understand why being in a relationship was almost mythical to me. These two came out of the womb with built-in fan clubs.
Wes held up his phone and took a photo of me.
“Give me that!” I screeched, snatching it out of his hands and swiftly deleting the picture.
He whined, “Come on, I’m just adding it to my Famous Desi Flail moments.”
“Do you want to die?” I threatened Wes with death on a daily basis.
My flailures had become so expected, so reliable, that I was even making a joke about them in my college application essay to Stanford. You know, to show actual human flaws. Because even flaws could be spun into something positive. I hoped that my winning combination of humility and humiliation would get me in. That, or my SAT score.
And for the most part, I could laugh about it. I had so much on my plate that it was probably for the best that boys didn’t take up my time, in addition to everything else. There were so many other things that I needed to focus my attention on.
Plus the idea of letting another human see your pores that up close was frightening to me.
* * *
The next week at school, I was on the soccer field battling it out against Eastridge Academy.
I loved soccer; it was like chess and a hundred-yard dash all mixed into one. On a good day, it was like I could see into the future: each pass part of a master plan that ended with a ball in the back of the net.
And today was one of those good days.
It was deep into injury time and we were tied 1–1. Now or never, Des. My teammate Leah Hill and I made split-second eye contact before she passed the ball to me. I leaped above the matching gleaming braids of Eastridge’s defense and powered the ball down into the corner of the net.
The whistle blew and I wheeled away to celebrate our win as the Eastridge players collapsed in a heap of tears and instant recriminations.
After a round of high fives, I said bye to my teammates and headed toward the parking lot.
“Rest up, Lee!” Coach Singh called to me as I reached my dad’s car. I waved limply in the direction of her voice because I was still battling that stupid cold. Now that the adrenaline rush of the game had subsided, I was exhausted.
A lumbering baby-blue American-auto masterpiece was waiting for me. Even though my dad was a mechanic who could fix up any classic car to perfection, he drove a very unsexy 1980 Buick LeSabre the size of a houseboat. I swore my dad’s eccentricities grew exponentially every year.
And yes, my father was picking me up from school. Last year, I had crashed my birthday present from my dad—a restored hunter-green Saab convertible which I’d had all of twenty minutes—into a street lamp ten feet away from our house. A rabbit had jumped out in front of me and instead of braking, my immediate reaction was to steer the car wildly away from it.
After that, my dad was convinced that I couldn’t be trusted to have my own car, but he did let me drive his uncrushable boat short distances and I never asked him to replace the Saab. At the top of my life goals was to never worry my dad.
He was reading a newspaper in the driver’s seat when I walked up and heaved the car door open.
“Oh! There she is!” he said with a wide smile, folding the newspaper and tossing it on the dash. His smile lit up his broad, round face. Laugh lines crinkled the corners of his eyes and his tan skin. He still had a shock of thick black hair, his only vanity. My dad spent every morning carefully combing and fluffing that head of hair, only to pull on a grease-stained shirt and cargo shorts afterward.
“Hi, Appa.” I tossed my backpack and duffel into the backseat and then dropped into the passenger seat with a relieved groan, every part of me aching.
My dad’s rough palm was immediately on my forehead and he tsked disapprovingly. “Oh my gah. You have a fever!” Oh my gah killed me every time.
I leaned back and closed my eyes. “I’m fine, I just need some juk and a superhot shower.” Juk was Korean porridge, and my dad made a mean one, with mushrooms and shredded bits of salty seaweed.
“Ch, who you think you’re kidding? You shouldn’t go to school tomorrow. No homework tonight, only fun things,” my dad said as we drove home.
“No, no fun things!” I said with a laugh, only half joking. I had to drop off some of the senior class’s donated canned goods at a nearby church and finish up an AP English lit paper.
“Hey! If Appa says fun things, then only fun things!”
My dad always referred to himself in the third person, and it was always Appa, the Korean word for Dad. It would be embarrassing if it wasn’t, you know, endearing. My dad’s kinda bad English had the most perfect comedic touch, and sometimes I wondered if he wasn’t just faking it to crack me up. We spoke both Korean and English at home, more often than not a wonky fusion of my bad Korean and his bad English.
When we got home I took a quick shower, slathered lotion onto my tan face (Country skin, like me! my dad proudly claimed all the time), then ran downstairs to the pantry. I was counting the canned goods in the pile when I heard the familiar sound of Korean people yelling from the next room.
“APPA! In the name of all that is holy, turn the volume down!” I hollered. The volume went down a minuscule notch, and I dragged the box of cans into the living room, where my dad was sitting in his favorite recliner watching his beloved Korean dramas. Only the top of his head was visible above the worn-out forest-green upholstery.
He paused the show on a classic Korean drama moment: a hotheaded stud carrying a very drunk mousy girl home on his back.
“Haven’t you watched this one already?” I teased. Wait for it …
My dad straightened up and bellowed, “This is different one. They’re not all the same!”
I cackled. I loved making fun of my dad’s obsession with K dramas. He spent every single evening watching them, come rain or shine. (The only other TV love of his life was I Love Lucy. Yup, I was named after Desi Arnaz. Don’t ask.) Nothing got between my dad and his dramas.
One time I had called them Korean soap operas and my face almost melted off from his fury—“They are not the same as that junk!” I had to give him that much. For one thing, they were in a miniseries format, so they had a predetermined number of episodes rather than endless decades of the same couples dealing with evil twins and such. Also, unlike soaps, they were wildly varied in genre, like movies—romantic comedy, fantasy, suspense, or your classic romantic melodrama. And my dad loved every single one of them. I watched bits and pieces with him on occasion, but they were never really my thing.
I pointed at the screen. “Let me guess. That drunk girl is an orphan.”
My dad paused the TV and turned his nose up haughtily. “Not orphan. But very poor.”
“And that guy is the son of a department store CEO.”
“Ya!”
“Ya yourself. Have fun. Can I borrow your car to drop off these cans?”
He looked at me with concern. “Are you sure you don’t want Appa to drive you? You’re sick.”
“I’m fine, the church is only five minutes away. Thank you, though.”
He got up and walked me to the door, handing me his keys. “Okay, but come right back. The juk will be ready and you need to rest.”
“Okay, Appa, see you in a bit.”
>
I pulled on my shoes and was loading the box of cans into the car when I heard my dad yell from the doorway, “Ya! Desi! Put on socks! You always get sick because you don’t wear socks!”
Oh my God, my dad and socks. Seriously. I hollered back, “It’s a common misconception that people get sick from being cold! Go back to your dramas!”
But I still ran inside and pulled on a pair before leaving the house again.
CHAPTER 3
“Discuss why Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales was social criticism for its time. And lay off the fart jokes! We all know how bawdy the wanker was.”
Ah, Ms. Lyman, an actual English English teacher being forced to teach Chaucer to a bunch of California brats. It was Friday and I was sitting in AP English when we started shifting desks around to get into our discussion groups. Mine was made up of the usual brainiacs—Shelly Wang, Michael Diaz, and Wes.
“Okay, so maybe we could start by discussing what problems ailed society during Chaucer’s time?” Michael said, already writing furiously in his notebook. He always had to be first.
Not to be outdone, Shelly piped up, “Well, the oppressive Catholic Church for starters?”
Wes nodded in agreement. “Yeah, dude was ahead of his time with that observation.”
I furrowed my brow and racked my brain for other fourteenth-century societal ills in England. While deep in thought, I doodled absentmindedly in the margins of my notebook. I was sketching out a dress I’d been Internet-creeping on for the past few weeks—short, strapless, dove gray with a sweetheart neckline and floral embroidery on the bottom. Maybe for prom, which felt like a million years away.
“Holy shit.”
I looked up at Shelly, aghast. Miss Cardigans and Glitter Pens never cursed. Then I followed her gaze. Half the classroom’s gaze, actually.
Standing in the doorway was some guy. Scratch that—some insanely perfect specimen of a guy.
Tall but not lanky, he had messy black hair partially tucked into a gray beanie, and was wearing dark jeans and a long-sleeved shirt under a puffy navy-blue vest. And good gracious, his face. Olive skin, angular jaw that could cut through glass, dark eyes framed by a pair of serious eyebrows, and a wide mouth that was smiling tentatively as he peered into the classroom.
My pencil fell out of my hand, clattering onto the floor.
“And you are?” Ms. Lyman asked.
“Luca Drakos. I’m new.”
Luca. Who the hell was actually named Luca? At the sound of his low, quiet voice there was audible twittering from the female portion of the class.
“Well, Luca, we’re in the middle of discussion groups about The Canterbury Tales. Why don’t you go join that group over there,” she said, pointing to us. “Guys? Fill him in, please.”
I scrambled to pick my pencil off the ground and when I looked up, everything moved in slow-motion as Luca made his way over to us. I swear a breeze whipped through the classroom just to lift the thick mop of hair away from his eyes so that he stared directly into mine. Hooooly cuh-rap.
“Hey,” he said when he finally reached us.
I felt Shelly flutter next to me. She squeaked out, “Hi!,” then got up quickly to pull an empty desk over. “Have a seat!”
He smiled at her. “Thanks.” Luca sat down a mere three feet away from me. I lost the ability to speak while everyone else politely introduced themselves. He finally looked at me expectantly.
“I’m Desi,” I said, but it came out raspy and quiet. I cleared my throat. “Desi,” I repeated stupidly. Why oh why did I choose today of all days to wear my “fashion” sweatpants.
“Hey,” he said, his voice all handsome. He had a handsome voice.
“Where are you from?” Shelly asked him.
“Ojai,” he answered. “It’s about an hour east of Santa Barbara.”
Shelly nodded vigorously. “Oh yeah, I know where that is, my mom goes there on yoga retreats. So, um, we’re discussing social criticism in The Canterbury Tales,” Shelly said, holding up the book. “Have you read it?”
Luca shook his head. “Nope.” His disinterest was palpable.
I frowned. Way to make an impression, new kid. Shelly, however, didn’t seem deterred, batting her eyelashes and staring openly at him. I rolled my eyes. Good luck there, Shells. I continued to doodle, knowing to stay far, far away from anyone this ridiculous looking. I didn’t feel like repeating Phlegmgate. The pain was still fresh.
But I snuck a glance at him anyway.
Someone kicked my chair and I looked up to see Wes shaking his head. I glared at him and mouthed, Die. He laughed and waggled his eyebrows suggestively at Luca. I kicked his chair back, and he lowered his head, hiding his laughter.
Then, suddenly, as everyone else was mired in some discussion about Chaucer’s disdain for chivalry, Luca was scooting his desk closer to me. I froze. Why was he getting closer?! Noooooo.
A mental checklist of everything that could be gross about me popped up like a Tom Cruise–movie hologram: Dry, chapped lips. Check. That one weird long eyebrow hair I kept forgetting to trim. Check. Potential eye crust leftover from this morning. Check. Joyous new upper-lip hair growth. Check. Smattering of small yet offensive zits on my forehead. Check. Not to mention my sweatpants. No, this was not the day to talk to a new cute boy.
I looked at Wes in panic, and he pressed his lips together regretfully, knowing that I was headed to Flailureville.
Mere inches away, Luca gave my notebook a sidelong glance. “Nice drawing.” He kept his eyes straight ahead, his voice so low that I wondered if he had actually said what I thought he said.
My eyes flew down to the bad doodle of my dress. “Um, thanks, it’s just … a doodle.” I casually moved my arm over it.
“Do you take AP art?”
I let out a snort of laughter and immediately flushed. Gather thyself. “Um, no,” I finally managed to respond. “Are you taking it?”
He nodded, then whispered, “So, hey. Tell me the truth. Somehow I’ve landed in a subgroup of nerds where you guys are the alpha-nerds. Am I right?”
I resisted the urge to laugh lest another snort be released. Instead I bit back a smile. “What gave it away? Our zeal for Middle English?”
He laughed then. Whoa, I just made a cute guy laugh. Okay, I needed to stop while I was ahead. Yet …
“We, like, thrive on fourteenth-century fart jokes,” I said before I could even stop myself. O-M-G whyyyy.
But again, Luca laughed. And it made me laugh—a snortless one.
I could feel the heat of Wes’s eyeballs on me. He was now sending me dire telepathic messages to stop talking.
I was about to lean over and make a crack about Chaucer’s proclivity for lusty milkmaids when I noticed that Luca’s hand was casually trailing over to my desk. Inching closer to mine. What the—?
All signals in my body were going berserk—red lights, honking horns, wailing sirens. I thought maybe I was dying. My heart flew out of my chest with a final, triumphant Adios, muchachos!
But I didn’t die. Instead I watched as Luca gently took my pencil from me. I was so startled that my hand just stayed in that awkward pencil-holding position, empty and curled around nothing. Then, ever-so-slightly, Luca tilted my notebook toward himself and slid it down my desk so that it was within his reach.
Without ever looking at me, he started to trace over my drawing. With swift, assured strokes. His lines moved on top, over, around my own. Until the dress was transformed from a childish shape into layers and layers of dark lace. Fit snugly over a slim yet curved body. The front of the dress was short but there was a long bustled skirt covered with feathers cascading down the back, puddled at the bottom. Then he made the imaginary girl a pair of truly killer heels, strappy and towering. She wore black lace gloves that ended at her wrists, and her hair was a long tangled mass pulled to one side. The other side exposed a delicate ear pierced to oblivion with geometric studs and long chains and jewels that reached past her shoulders.
> Discussions of Chaucer turned into white noise in the background as I watched the drawing come to life. Luca paused for a moment and I glanced up at him, impatient, wanting to see what was next. His face was bent close to the paper, brow furrowed in concentration, but I could have sworn he was smiling.
He filled in her face. Thick, straight eyebrows. Dark, wide-set eyes with long lashes. Broad cheekbones and a small mouth with a bigger upper lip than bottom. The hint of an overbite.
Me.
I stared at it, physically unable to look at Luca. My cheeks were hot and my heart was pounding in my ears—so loud that I couldn’t believe it wasn’t being heard by everyone on planet Earth. When I finally looked up, I stared directly into his eyes and a zap of electricity shot between us.
Before I could react, before I could say one thing, the bell rang.
Everyone moved their desks back to their original positions, metal scraping across the floor. Luca left my notebook and pencil on my desk before moving his desk back, too, grabbing his things without a word to me.
I opened my mouth and closed it again. I picked up my pencil gingerly. I swear it was still warm from his touch.
“If you need help finding your classes and stuff, I can walk with you,” I heard Shelly purr to Luca.
A small smile hovered over Luca’s lips. “Uh, thanks, but I’ve got it.” He swung his backpack around to his chest, and it looked like he was pretending to fish something out.
Wes thumped my arm with his bag. “Hey, you ready?”
I blinked. “Oh yeah, uh-huh.” We headed out of class together, and I glanced backward at Luca one last time. Was he going to say anything? Apparently not, he was so engrossed in the thrills of backpack rummaging.
“So what were you giggling about with John Stamos over there?” Wes asked as we stepped outside.
“Ha-ha. I wasn’t giggling.” I started giggling as I said it.
Wes raised his eyebrows at me. “Shiiiit.”
“Shut up,” I said with another involuntary giggle. But when I turned around, Luca was walking toward me, backpack on correctly now. I froze. And apparently, whenever Luca walked toward me, the world moved in slow-motion. He pushed the beanie out of his eyes with glacial speed. By the time he finally reached me, we had already dated, married, and sent our two daughters off to college tearfully. Giggles immediately dissipated.