Parachutes

by Kelly Yang

  As I open my locker, a small box falls out. When I open it, I find a pair of earrings.

  My breath hitches in my throat.

  It’s the drop-diamond earrings I tried on at the store for Jay.

  I open up the note.

  Thought these looked good on you.

  —Jay

  Thirty-Eight

  Dani

  It eats at me the way Zach said no when Claire asked if he was my boyfriend. The face he made, like it was preposterous, something that could only be possible in the land of make-believe. This, juxtaposed with the way his eyes lit up when Claire walked into the room, practically purring, “It’s you!”

  What does it mean that she and Zach know each other? I tell myself to forget it. Who cares? I used to pride myself on not giving a shit what guys think, not wanting to be just another pretty face.

  And yet, when Claire walked through that door in her skintight jeans and crop top, silky black hair flowing down her back, and Zach’s eyes turned into walnuts, I would have killed to be her.

  I look at Claire the next day in the cafeteria while Ming talks about her new host family.

  “They’re so much nicer than Underwear Kevin,” she says, pouring a packet of sesame oil on her noodles. “I’m thinking of making an app that allows parachutes to rate their hosts. Wouldn’t that be cool? Florence says she might be able to help, she’s good at coding.”

  Mr. Connelly walks into the cafeteria. He still hasn’t replied to my email. In debate training, he avoids eye contact when I’m speaking. Occasionally, he offers a comment but never anything substantive. Not like before.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell Ming.

  I walk over to Mr. Connelly. He looks up at me from the granola-bar stand.

  “Hey, Mr. Connelly,” I say to him. “I was just wondering . . . did you ever get my email?”

  Mr. Connelly frowns. “Not here,” he says. He turns and leads the way out of the cafeteria. I follow him to an empty staircase.

  “Did you read my email?” I ask again.

  “Yes,” he says. His voice is ice. He puts his thumb and index finger to his forehead, like the very mention of the email is bringing on a migraine. He takes a deep breath. “Why would you do that? Why would you write that to me?”

  I look up at him, confused.

  “After everything I’ve done for you, I can’t believe you’d put that in an email!” he says, raising his voice. He struggles to stay calm. “If you were mad, you should’ve come talk to me. You should’ve called me.” He stares at me, letting the full extent of his disappointment sink in. “You don’t do this.”

  Tears threaten in my eyes as I nod.

  He walks out.

  Thirty-Nine

  Claire

  Jay’s in the parking lot, getting into his Lamborghini. I run up to him with the jewelry box in my hands. It’s so sweet, but I can’t accept them.

  His face falls when I hand him back the earrings. “But they looked so good on you!”

  “They’re way too expensive,” I say.

  “That’s for me to decide, not you,” he says. He points to his car. “Get in. I’ll give you a ride home.”

  The passenger-side door opens up, and I slide in. I’ve been inside luxury sports cars before, but never a Lamborghini. They’re rare in Shanghai, and my dad, for all his love of luxury goods, never really got into sports cars. “Who am I trying to impress? The other people on the road?” he’d cackle.

  Jay, though, is really into his car. As the Lamborghini roars to life, Jay backs out of the parking lot. It’s an incredibly loud car, and Jay shouts over the noise.

  “So do you have a boyfriend?” he asks as he switches between lanes, finding any opportunity to accelerate, even on local streets.

  “No.” I return the question, “Do you?”

  He laughs.

  I point to Dani’s street ahead and tell him to turn right. He nods but then ignores me and keeps going straight.

  “Hey, you’re going the wrong way,” I tell him. “My host’s house is back that way.”

  “I know,” he says as he steps on the gas.

  “So where are we going?” I ask. “I thought you’re taking me home.”

  He looks over at me and grins. “I am . . . eventually,” he says.

  I feel the outline of my phone in the front pouch of my backpack and clutch it tightly. I remind myself there’s nothing to be nervous about. He was a gentleman back at Florence’s party. Ten minutes later, we arrive at his house. It looks more like a country club than a private residence, with tennis courts, a huge pool, and a Jacuzzi.

  “Is this your host’s house?” I ask, eyes widening, as I get out of the car.

  Jay shakes his head.

  I look around the driveway. There are no other cars. “You live here? By yourself?”

  He click-locks his Lamborghini. “My mom comes and visits sometimes,” he says. I follow him inside.

  The inside of the house looks even more immaculate than the outside. The floors are white marble. The furniture is sleek and modern, and light pours in from the two-story glass windows.

  Jay throws his backpack onto the couch and goes into the kitchen. He comes back with two bottles of Pellegrino. He tosses me one. As I drink, he gazes at me.

  “You wanna go for a swim?” he asks.

  “I . . . I didn’t bring my swimsuit,” I tell him.

  He runs up the spiral staircase. “Hang on.”

  He comes back with a brand-new navy-blue Stella McCartney swimsuit, which he swears his mom ordered but has a million of and won’t care if I take it. He himself is shirtless and in trunks. He has such a nice body, and I try not to stare.

  I take the swimsuit and change in the upstairs bathroom.

  He’s already in the pool waiting for me when I come out. The afternoon sun stretches across the sky, and beads of water glisten off his chest. Jay smiles when he sees me.

  I jump in. The water is warm and soothing. I close my eyes, thinking about how the past week has turned around. Mrs. Wallace is gone, I have a new English teacher, and now I’m swimming with Jay Li. I let the happiness wash over me as I enjoy the first minute underwater. My toes and fingers stretch.

  I do laps, back and forth. Jay tries to catch up with me, but I’m too fast.

  “You’re a good swimmer,” he says when I finally catch my breath.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I used to train until . . .”

  “Until?”

  “Until my mom said I should quit,” I tell him. “She said swimming doesn’t look good on girls. Gives them broad shoulders.”

  “She’s right. It does,” he says, pretending to examine my shoulders. “But you don’t look too bad.” He swims up close to me and playfully splashes me with water. “I wouldn’t have invited you here if you did.”

  I laugh.

  Later, we get out of the pool.

  “Hey, you hungry? I know a great place in Santa Monica, right on the beach,” Jay says, tossing me a towel.

  “Santa Monica? We won’t make it back till ten!” I follow him into the kitchen.

  “Who said anything about making it back?” he says with a grin. “There are some great hotels on the Westside. Have you stayed at Shutters?”

  I stare at him. He’s kidding, right?

  “We can get separate rooms,” Jay says, rolling his eyes. “C’mon, you deserve it. You’re a hero for what you did to Wallace!”

  He walks over to the fridge, pulls out a bottle of white, uncorks it, and pours two glasses. He hands me a glass. “What do you say?”

  I hold the glass up to my nose. I can tell he’s one of those guys who are not used to hearing the word “no.” And it would be so easy to just say yes, to sip chenin blanc all day, get in his Lambo, and drive to the beach. But then what about school tomorrow? What about Ms. Jones’s assignment?

  “Another time,” I say, putting the glass down.

  Jay drops his head and nods.

  “I’l
l drive you back,” he says. He grabs his keys, like he wants to go now. I look down. I’m standing in his kitchen still in my bathing suit, dripping wet.

  “No it’s okay. I can get an Uber,” I offer. Quickly, I unlock my phone, open the app, and order myself a car.

  He puts his glass down and turns and walks away without another word, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

  I head upstairs to change. As I’m leaving, I peek inside one of the bedrooms. Jay is sitting on his bed, playing video games. There are Pocky boxes and half-eaten bags of Fritos on the floor. A pair of dumbbells sits in the corner.

  “Hey. My car’s here. I’m gonna go,” I say gently.

  He doesn’t look up.

  I wait a minute, and when he still doesn’t say anything, I turn around.

  As I’m walking out, he calls after me, “Close the door on your way out . . .” No Goodbye. No I’ll see you at school.

  I shake my head as I get into the Uber. What’s wrong with him? I throw my head back on the leather seat and sigh. As I reach for my water bottle in my backpack, a box falls out. It’s the box with the earrings, along with a note.

  Sorry, I’m unreturnable, just like these earrings.

  —Jay

  Forty

  Dani

  Today’s the day. Mr. Connelly is going to announce who’s going to Snider. I hold my breath at training as he reads the names from the piece of paper in his hands.

  “Josh Williams . . . Risha Laghari . . . Audrey Anderson . . .”

  Josh, Risha, and Audrey whoop in excitement. Mr. Connelly calls out two more names, until he gets down to the final one.

  Please . . . please . . . I need this.

  “And the final person is . . . Heather McLean,” he says.

  I race down the hall, wiping my sweaty, humiliated fingers on my pants, as I try to catch up with Mr. Connelly after practice. I fly straight into Zach. My books drop out of my arms, and Zach kneels to pick them up.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks. “You okay?”

  I shake my head. As he hands me back my books, I tell him quietly I didn’t get picked for Snider.

  “Because of Heather?” he asks. He scans the hallway for her, and I press my fingers into my books, too embarrassed to tell him, no, it’s because Mr. Connelly hit on me.

  Zach shakes his head. “But she cheated! That’s so messed up,” he says.

  Ming runs over to us from the band room.

  “Dani! Guess what? Mr. Rufus just told me he managed to get the school to pay for my parents to come to the concert!” Ming announces, lugging her violin case behind her. Her happy news is absorbed by the fog on my face.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  Ming puts her violin case down. “Is it Mr. Connelly?” she asks.

  I nod, my chin quivering.

  She takes me by the arm and leads me over to a quiet corner so we can talk as Zach calls out, “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  Later that day, I go to see my college counselor, Mr. Matthews. It’s time I tell someone. I’m always saying to Ming and Claire to fight back. I can’t let Mr. Connelly take this from me. Mr. Matthews looks up at me from his desk, confused.

  “I’m sorry, when did this happen?” he asks, massaging his neck. Mr. Matthews is a tall, thin man with an unusually veiny neck that he likes to hold, like a hand warmer, when he talks to people.

  “A week and a half ago, in Seattle,” I say.

  Mr. Matthews frowns. “And you’re saying Mr. Connelly came on to you?” he asks. “Where? At the tournament?”

  “At a bar.”

  Mr. Matthews takes his hands off his neck and scolds me, “Dani, you know you’re not supposed to be going into bars.”

  “Mr. Connelly dragged me there,” I tell him.

  “He dragged you,” Mr. Matthews repeated, like he didn’t believe me.

  I nodded.

  Mr. Matthews gives me a serious look. “Dani, these are serious allegations you’re making. If Mr. Connelly really did what you say he did, you’ll need to tell Mrs. Mandalay, and there would be a formal investigation.”

  I gaze down at my lap, wavering. I think about what Mr. Connelly said to me in the stairway. I’m silent for long enough that Mr. Matthews lowers his tone.

  “Look, I know you’re upset about not making it to Snider. But just because you didn’t get picked . . . ,” he starts to say. His voice trails off.

  Wow.

  I walk out of his office.

  Forty-One

  Claire

  It’s a little after midnight and I’m working on my English paper for Ms. Jones, due tomorrow. I’ve read through it six times already when my phone dings.

  Hi, my dad texts.

  I tap Pause on Spotify. We haven’t spoken since he walked out on me at the restaurant.

  Your grandmother says she likes your fish oil, he types.

  I roll my eyes. Why can’t he just say I’m sorry like a normal person, instead of using fish oil to bait me into talking to him?

  That’s good, I text back.

  How’s school? he writes.

  Good, I write back. I’m liking my new English class.

  He doesn’t even know about the email or Mrs. Wallace getting replaced. So much happens when we’re busy being mad at each other . . . what’s the point of recapping afterward? But then if I don’t recap, an entire lifetime can pass by, it’ll just be “Oh, hi, yeah, I lived and then I died.”

  Do you need anything? Any new books? my dad writes.

  This is my dad’s way of saying he cares about me.

  Sure, I write back. Not because I actually need his help getting me books—we both know I’m capable of using Amazon, but because it’s my way of saying, Fine, care about me.

  I need more books by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

  Done! I’ll get my secretary to order them for you! A box set!

  I put away my phone and turn back to my paper. I remind myself that there are five languages of love. My parents’ just happen to be financial.

  My phone dings again. This time, it’s an iMessage from Jay.

  You’re up late, Jay texts.

  I smile. You too, I write.

  A few seconds later, he writes back: Come over.

  I stare at the text. Three dots appear.

  We don’t have to do anything. We can just sleep, he adds.

  Yeah. RIGHT.

  Admit it, you’re thinking about it right now. Us sleeping together, he writes.

  I let out a laugh. He’s such a player.

  You’re so busted, he types.

  I type back, I can come over tomorrow after school again and we can go for a swim?

  Can’t tomorrow. Mom’s in town, he writes.

  Aww.

  Then three dots appear.

  You should meet her.

  Maybe I was wrong about Jay, I muse with Jess over FaceTime as I’m getting ready for school. I thought he just wanted to fool around. But now he wants me to meet his mom. Jess makes me pull out every single thing in my closet and show her so we can decide on what I’m going to wear. In the end, I go with my white Rag & Bone pants, a blue lace-trimmed linen Chloé top, and Phillip Lim suede mules. I fidget in class, rocking my leg as Ms. Jones collects our papers.

  “I can’t wait to read yours, Claire,” Ms. Jones says.

  I smile. “I worked really hard on it.”

  “Good,” she says. “You can only get out of life what you put into it.”

  After school, Jay’s mom comes to pick up Jay in a white Escalade.

  “Mom, this is Claire Wang,” Jay introduces me to his mom.

  His mom holds out a hand. She’s in head-to-toe Chanel—she’s what my mom would call a Chanel whore. I note the rock on her hand, at least five carats, too big for my taste, but my mother would be impressed.

  “So wonderful to meet you, Claire,” Mrs. Li says. “We’re going into the city tonight. Won’t you join us? Do you like sushi?”

  “Sure,” I s
ay, glancing over at Jay, who flashes me a smile. I’m still not sure what this is. A date?

  “Great,” Mrs. Li says. “It’s settled, then.”

  At half past five, Jay and his mom come to pick me up. As I climb into the back of the Escalade, Mrs. Li gives the driver directions to Matsuhisa in Beverly Hills.

  “You’ve been to Nobu, right?” Mrs. Li asks me.

  “Nobu, yes, of course,” I say. My mom has taken me to the one in Hong Kong on our many shopping trips to the city.

  “Well this is actually his original restaurant,” she says. “In my opinion, it’s better than Nobu. Nobu’s gotten so touristy.”

  I nod in agreement, and Jay smiles at me, amused. He’s wearing a button-down blue shirt and slacks, and he looks so damn fine.

  Mrs. Li takes a compact out of her purse and powders her nose. “Actually, there used to be a really great little sushi place at the Santa Monica airport. What was it called?” she turns to Jay and asks.

  Jay shrugs.

  “Anyway, it was closed a few years ago. The owner got sentenced for serving whale meat. Can you believe it?” She shakes her head and sighs. “Such a pity, because you could just land your plane and eat, you know? It was right there. Tell me, does your family fly private or commercial?”

  It takes me a while to realize she’s asking me a question. I put a hand to my chest. “Me?”

  She nods.

  “We fly commercial,” I tell her. “Always Cathay or Singapore Airlines.”

  She seems a little disappointed by my answer.

  “But only business or first,” I quickly add.

  She sits with the answer, pursing her lips in such a way that I almost wonder whether the whole monologue about the sushi place was just a long-winded way to ask if we also had a private plane. Is that what this dinner’s about? Her trying to figure out where exactly on the social ladder we are? If that’s the game . . . I sit up straight. My mom invented this game.

  We talk about Mrs. Wallace’s email. Jay’s mom says when she saw it, she was appalled and called Mrs. Mandalay right away. Huh. Maybe Mrs. Mandalay listened to her, not me.