by Misa Sugiura
The meet lifts the heaviness a little. I can feel my adrenaline pick up even as I get on the bus with my teammates. Seeing Jamie always helps, of course. And during the race I get to run, breathe, and feel pain that I can define and understand. I get to talk—oh, let’s be honest, I’m flirting—with Jamie, gossip a little with Janet, and focus on something besides Dad and the dumb thing I’m about to do.
As we gather our things and head to the bus back to school, Jamie trots up to me and says, “Hey, my mom said she’d take Ariella tonight. Wanna chill for a while after we get back? I’ll take the six forty-five bus back home instead of the six fifteen—I can say the meet ran late.”
Come. On. All week I’ve been missing Jamie, and now that I finally get a chance to be alone with her, I have to tell her that I’m going to spend the next two or three hours alone in a car with Caleb?
We climb onto the bus and I pick a seat at the front, away from everyone else. Jamie sits next to me. We sit with our backpacks on our laps, our arms draped over them and touching a little at the elbows.
“So?” says Jamie.
“Um, so this is gonna sound weird, but I have to . . . Caleb Miller is picking me up after we get back. We have this . . . project we have to do.”
“Oh.” Jamie straightens up and shifts away from me. “What project? I thought you said you only had trig with him. Trig doesn’t have projects.”
Cringing inside, I say, “I know. It’s for something else.”
“Something else like a date?” She’s smiling, but only with her mouth. Her voice is light, but brittle.
“No! It’s not like that.”
“I thought you said you liked someone else.”
“I do.”
“Then what—”
I have no choice if I want her to believe me. I have to tell the truth. “My dad’s having an affair,” I mumble.
“Your—what?”
“I mean, I think my dad’s having an affair, and Caleb has a car, so he’s driving me to my dad’s office to spy on him because I think he’s going to meet her this evening after work.”
“Holy shit.”
“I know.” My throat starts to close up at the thought, and I have to stop and clear it. “So anyway,” I continue, trying to sound casual, “I’m not into Caleb. I’m just. I’m worried about my dad.” My voice breaks, and it’s as if the words have cracked something inside me on their way out, and one tear rolls down my cheek, followed by another, and I’m staring hard out the window, hoping no one notices me wiping away tear after tear after tear, thinking, Please no one see me, please stop, please stop.
“I’m sorry.” Jamie moves back toward me. “Hey, I’m sorry,” she repeats. “That sucks.”
I’m sniffling and wiping my eyes like mad, and the tears keep coming.
“It’s okay. I’m fine,” I whisper.
“Hey, Sana, what’s wrong?” Janet asks from three seats back, and suddenly I’m in a sea of concerned faces all saying, “Sana, are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“Her cousin died. She just found out,” says Jamie, without missing a beat. Then she adds, “Back off for a minute. Give her some space.”
She follows her own advice and leaves me alone for a while.
Coach Kieran gets on the bus and takes attendance, and the bus lurches out of the parking lot and heads back to school. Once we get on the highway, traffic is crawling due to an accident somewhere, and finally I stop crying. I take a few steadying breaths and turn to Jamie. “Thanks.”
“You okay? I mean, considering.”
“Yeah, I think so.” We sit in silence for a minute as the bus trundles along the road with a thousand other cars, a thousand other lives. I look out the window at them and wonder if any of the people in those cars are having affairs.
“My dad left us when I was eight,” says Jamie quietly, “for another woman.”
“Oh. God.” I imagine Jamie at eight, with sweet ringlets and big brown eyes, abandoned by her cheating father.
A horrified expression crosses Jamie’s face and she gasps. “Oh, shit. I didn’t mean that your dad was going to leave you and your mom. Crap, I’m sorry.” She leans forward onto her backpack and buries her head in her arms. “Sorry. Me and my big mouth. You probably hate me right now.”
“No, I don’t hate you. It’s okay.”
Jamie peeks at me with one eye. “Really?” She looks so contrite like that, so hopeful.
“Really.”
“I guess I meant to say that I know how it feels, you know?”
“I know.”
She sits back up and smiles at me. That secret just-for-you smile that’s been keeping me up at night, that gives me goose bumps and makes me forget about everything else. Then I feel her hand clasp my hand, and her fingers intertwine with mine, and just like that, we’re holding hands, and for the rest of the ride home, that’s all that matters.
When we get off the bus, Janet and the other girls take turns hugging me and saying, “I’m so sorry,” and “Call me if you need to talk,” and even Jimmy gives me a few awkward pats on the back. Jamie hovers in the background, and then as the crowd disperses, she comes over and puts her arms around me. I can feel her breath in my hair, feel her cheek next to mine.
“I’m feeling a little bit bad about the cousin thing,” she whispers.
“Yeah.”
“Do you even have any cousins?”
“No.” I start to giggle, and she does, too, her arms still wrapped around me.
“Can we hang out next week?” she asks, and I nod. I wish we could stay like this forever. But Jamie lets go and says, “Your boyfriend’s here. Sweet ride.” She points, and I see Caleb leaning on a battered, dark gray Honda hatchback in the parking lot. He does the chin-up nod then puts his head down and starts playing with his phone.
“Oooh, Sana, is that your ride home?” says Janet in a stage whisper. “I thought you said you weren’t into him.” Suddenly, all the girls are waving at Caleb and calling, “Hi!”
“Omigod, stop! We’re. Just. Friends,” I say, wishing I had told Caleb to meet me at six thirty instead of six. What was I thinking? On the other hand, maybe this is easier than the entire cross-country team knowing I’m into Jamie. “We have to finish a project,” I say.
“Does this project involve . . . kissing?” says Janet.
“Shut up.”
I pick up my stuff and charge grimly out into the parking lot to a rousing chorus of good-byes and “good luck on your project!”
“Nice friends,” says Caleb as I approach the car.
“They are nice,” I retort, feeling a little defensive, never mind the fact that I was wishing them all evil just a few seconds ago. I get in and sit down gingerly—the passenger seat looks like it has definitely seen better days, what with its fraying cover and what I hope is an old coffee stain right in the front.
“So your mom’s okay with this?” he says.
“I told her that I had this last-minute Spanish project to do that involved recording stuff around town, and that I’d finish the rest of my homework at the house where we’re going to edit the video.” A derisive snort escapes Caleb as he starts the car and backs out of the parking space. “Well, it’s kind of true,” I say.
“Yeah. Kinda.”
“Oh, yeah. And I, um, kinda gave her your cell number and said it was my Spanish classmate’s home phone.”
“And you want me to, what, pretend I’m your friend’s dad? You’re asking me to lie for you, is that it?”
I shrug. “Please?” Jeez, he’s not making this easy.
But then he flashes me a half grin and says in a deep voice, “Yes, Sana’s right here. She and Caleb are working very hard on their Spanish project. Would you like to speak with her?” He adds, “Hey, which way? Where are we going?” I pull up the address on my phone. He regards the map for a few seconds, then nods and pulls into traffic. His iPod is playing on a set of speakers he’s attached to the dashboard—some song about how everybody wants to live ho
w they wanna live, and everybody wants to be closer to free. It’s a catchy tune, kind of bouncy and fun.
“Who is this? Doesn’t sound like a goth song.”
“What, you were expecting Slipknot? Don’t stereotype. It’s the BoDeans. You should know them—they’re from Wisconsin.”
“Never heard of them.”
“It’s an old song, from like, the nineties.”
We listen to the BoDeans a while, and then Caleb asks, “So, really. Like this is kinda cool and all, but seriously, what’s going on? Are you like a private eye in your free time or something? Who are we stalking and why?”
“I’m not a private eye and we’re not stalking anyone.”
“Waiting outside someone’s work and then following them around is stalking.” He has a point. I look out the window and say nothing. I don’t want to tell him the truth. But what I can say that won’t make me sound like an actual stalker? “Is this guy a criminal?”
“No.”
“An undercover secret agent?”
“Yeah, right.”
“Some older dude you’re into?”
“No! God, Caleb, yuck!”
“Okay, okay!” He pauses. “An older chick?”
“Omigod. No.”
“Well, who is it? I’m driving, and I have a right to know.” I stare out the window some more, as if the discount furniture stores and Vietnamese phô restaurants we’re passing will have a good answer posted in their windows. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll just drive you right home.”
“No, no. Okay. I just. Just, it’s stupid and crazy and I don’t want you to like, think . . . I don’t know. Think badly of me, or like I’m some kind of freak, or—plus it’s kind of private. I don’t want people to know.”
“Okay.” We wait through three cycles at an intersection at Winchester Avenue and I-280 and Caleb swears under his breath at the traffic. I begin to feel bad that I’m making him do this.
“I’ll probably tell you at some point. Just not yet,” I offer.
“You know, I would never think badly of you,” he replies. “That’s one of my best qualities—I don’t judge people.”
“Hah!” Now this I can talk about. “That’s all you do—judge people! Student government kids are tools. Animé Club kids are hopeless nerds. Everyone but you and your friends are mindless robots. The heck you don’t judge people.”
“Yeah, well—”
“Yeah, whatever.” I give him the hand. “You so judge people.”
We’ve finally made it onto the freeway, and Caleb sets his jaw a little and lapses into silence.
“Well, they judge me,” he says finally.
“I don’t think they do.”
“Oh, they do. When you have a single mom who’s only seventeen years older than you, and you live in a shitty little apartment and you have to go to school with holes in your shoes and eat the crappy free lunch that the state gives you, and in seventh grade you wear a T-shirt that your mom got for you at Salvation Army and it turns out it used to belong to Andy Chin’s brother and he tells everyone at school? Trust me, Sana. They judge you.”
My heart drops. Nice one, Sana. Now I feel like a jerk. “Oh,” I say, “I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head and drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “No, it’s okay. I’m sorry I laid all my shit on you like that. That wasn’t cool.”
“’S’alright.”
He’s quiet for a while, and then says, “Anyway, it’s not so bad now. My mom graduated from nursing school the same year I graduated eighth grade, so she has a decent job, plus she’s not paying for school anymore.”
“That’s good.”
“I just get pissed at all the kids who, like, think they’re cooler than everybody else because of shit they own, or sports they play, you know? And it’s always the rich kids and the jocks.”
“Not cross-country runners.”
“Well, duh. No one gives a shit about cross-country.” His face is serious, but after a moment I can see his mouth twitch.
“Omigod. Whatever.” We fall back into silence for a minute, then I say, “It’s my dad.”
“What? Where?”
“No, dummy. My dad is the guy we’re going to follow.”
He digests this for a moment. “Okay. Um, why?” I tell him the story of Dad’s late nights at work and the suspicious texts, and how it sounds like he’s supposed to meet this woman this evening. “Does your mom know?”
“No. I told her I’m working on a Spanish project, remember?”
“I mean, does she know about your dad? Like, don’t you think she’d have seen some of these texts herself?”
“I don’t see why. I mean, if she knew, why would she stay married to him?” But even as I ask the question, I know the answer: because she’s Japanese, and she wouldn’t want the shame of having to divorce her husband because he was cheating on her. Forget changing her life for the better, or taking a stand. Because she’s all about gaman. You can’t change things. Just do your best. I’ve heard her grouse about American women and their high divorce rate: “Americans say, ‘I am unhappy, so I get divorce.’ Getting divorce to be happy is so selfish thing to do. Marriage is not about one person’s happiness; it’s about doing right thing for your family.”
But Caleb, who doesn’t know my mom and her Japanese countryside ways, nods. “Good point,” he says.
But really. Maybe Mom does know. Caleb is right—it seems like she’d have had plenty of opportunities to find out, the way Emoji Woman keeps texting Dad. On the other hand, I’ve only seen three texts in the last four years. I’ve never seen Mom with Dad’s phone—she’s got her own. And they don’t fight or anything. She never complains about him staying out late, or about anything except how he doesn’t brush his teeth properly or take his blood pressure meds when he’s supposed to. You’d think that if she knew, she’d be at least a little bit grumpy about it.
I turn these thoughts over and over in my mind until we reach the exit and turn right onto Stevens Creek Boulevard. We grab a couple of slices of pizza and some soda at a place called Gumba’s, and five minutes later we’re parked on the street across from GoBotX, eating dinner.
“This is sick,” says Caleb through a mouthful of pepperoni pizza. “We shoulda got, like, donuts and chips and Red Bull, like in the movies.”
“We don’t need caffeine. It’s not like it’s the middle of the night.”
“Why you gotta be such a wet blanket? I was just saying. It would make this even cooler.”
“There’s nothing cool about waiting around to find out who my dad is cheating on my mom with.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Sorry.” He looks abashed.
“Actually, maybe it’s a little bit cool.” In fact, it is kind of exciting, sitting in a car waiting to track someone. I’m not sure what we’ll do when we see where he goes. I figure I can decide later—I don’t want to think about it now, and luckily, Caleb hasn’t asked.
The next two hours pass quietly, with Caleb and me taking turns doing homework and keeping watch. They also pass very . . . very . . . slowly. Especially when it’s my turn to be lookout. I keep checking my phone to see how many minutes have passed, and it’s always only seven or eight. At eight thirty I call Mom from Caleb’s phone and tell her we’re hard at work, but the editing process is taking longer than we expected.
“When will you be finished?” she asks.
“Um, it’s hard to say.”
“No later than nine thirty. Even if it’s not finished,” she says in Japanese. “I will come and pick you up. What is the address?”
“No! No, no, Mom, um, Caleb’s um, Caleb’s dad is going to drive us all home, so it’s okay,” I say in a rush.
I hear her sigh, and I can see her face, impatient and irritated.
“I promise, it’s fine, Mom.”
“Hmph. Be home at nine thirty,” she says, and hangs up.
Argh. What now? I put the phone down and groan.
“Wha
t?” says Caleb.
“My mom doesn’t trust me.”
“With good reason.”
I glare at Caleb. He sounds just like Reggie. “She’s going to call you and demand an address if I’m not home by nine thirty.”
Caleb shrugs. “I’m sure your dad’ll leave soon. Don’t worry. Then we’ll follow him and go home. By nine thirty. Easy.”
I’m about to say he can’t make predictions like that when I see Dad’s silver Avalon pull out of the driveway.
17
I PRACTICALLY SCREAM AT CALEB, “THAT’S HIM! That’s him! Hurry, start the car!”
Caleb shoves his laptop at me and turns the key. The engine starts to turn over, groaning and coughing for what seems like an eternity. Caleb releases the key.
“What—don’t tell me the car is broken!”
“No, it just does this sometimes. It always starts up eventually, though.”
“We don’t have time for ‘eventually’! Why didn’t you tell me this before? Why didn’t you just keep the car running if you knew it wasn’t going to start?” Oh-god-oh-god-oh-god. Dad is getting away.
“Jeez, just shut up for a sec! I’m doing you a favor, remember? Lemme try again.” The engine complains for a few more excruciating seconds, during which I stare daggers at the steering wheel as if somehow that will help. Thankfully, the car comes to life this time, and I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“Okay, go, go, go!”
After carefully checking over his shoulder for oncoming traffic (aagh, really?), Caleb pulls into the street and heads in the direction Dad took, toward Stevens Creek Boulevard. The intersection comes into sight two blocks down just as Dad turns right.
“See? You didn’t have to scream at me. We haven’t lost him,” Caleb grumbles, but he speeds up and makes it onto Stevens Creek about four cars behind Dad. Not yet, I think. I keep my eyes on Dad’s car. I’m almost afraid to blink, lest he vanish into some magical cheating husbands’ portal. Luckily, at eight thirty the traffic is pretty light and Caleb is able to maneuver our car to just two cars back from Dad. We follow Dad over Highway 85, then south on I-280, back toward San Jose. My initial panic has subsided, and I relax a little.