by Kelly Yang
“Hey!” a voice calls out.
The unexpected interruption breaks my floating position. It’s Zach. He jumps into the pool with his blue cap and starts swimming toward me.
“I was hoping I’d find you here,” he says with a smile. “What were you doing?”
“Just floating,” I tell him, face flushing. I still haven’t figured out what the deal is between him and Dani. She’s been so distant lately.
I glance at the clock. It’s six forty-five. I promised my mom I’d Skype with her before school. I start swimming toward the edge of the pool.
“You’re not going to keep swimming?” he calls after me.
I shake my head. “Nah, I’ve already done like twenty-five laps,” I lie, getting out and covering myself with a towel.
Zach turns and starts doing laps back and forth. I linger for a second, watching his toned body tearing through the water, before heading to the locker room.
Later that week, Jay invites me over to his house for dinner. We eat out on the terrace. Jay orders in—scallops with risotto and cauliflower and pomegranate salad. I set the table while Jay gets a bottle of Château d’Yquem Bordeaux Blanc from the wine cellar downstairs.
I raise my eyebrow at the expensive bottle of wine. “You sure your parents are okay with us drinking that?” I ask.
Jay uncorks the bottle and pours some into a glass. He holds the glass up to his nose, closing his eyes and inhaling the smell, just like my dad. On Jay, it’s a far sexier look.
“Yeah, they’re totally cool,” he says. “My dad’s been teaching me to drink wine since I was seven.”
I laugh, thinking it’s a joke, but he looks at me dead serious.
“I was trained in all the grapes and regions, the acidity and the tannins. Most of all, how to hold my alcohol.”
That sounds awful—to be seven years old, plastered with alcohol? Jay shrugs.
“Being drunk is a weakness. My dad doesn’t believe in weaknesses,” he says, handing me a glass.
I take a sip. “Mine does,” I mutter.
Jay peers at me.
“Never mind,” I say. “So what does your dad believe in?”
He ponders this. “Strength and control,” he replies.
After dinner, we curl up in front of the TV. I drift asleep. Maybe it’s the wine or all the late nights of studying finally catching up on me. When I wake up, it’s midnight. I’m lying in bed. I look around, feeling slightly disoriented as I register that I’m in one of the guest bedrooms, down the hall from Jay’s room. I panic, looking down at my clothes. I’m in navy-blue satin pajamas. But my bra’s still on. We didn’t . . . Did we?
I get up out of bed to find Jay. As I walk down the hall, I hear him talking on speaker.
“Sorry, sir. I haven’t had a chance to go to the site yet. I’ll go soon,” Jay says in Chinese.
Who is he talking to?
“Stop screwing around. The future of this family depends on you,” the thick Beijing accented voice booms on speaker. Is that his dad?
“Of course. I understand,” Jay says. “I’ll go tomorrow.”
“Have you been doing your exercises?”
“Yes, Dad,” Jay says.
“I’m going to test you when you’re back. If it turns out you’ve been lazy—”
“I haven’t been lazy.”
Jay’s dad exhales. “Your mother says you’ve been hanging out with a girl,” his dad says.
I freeze at the mention of me and lean against the marble wall.
Jay doesn’t say anything.
“You know I don’t care who you take to bed, but don’t let it get too far,” his dad says. “Women are a weakness.”
“Yes, sir,” Jay says.
I tiptoe back to my room as he ends the call. Crawling back under the covers, I try to close my eyes and go back to sleep, but I can’t. All I can think about are the words, “I don’t care who you take to bed . . .” Who says that to his son? And is that all this is?
Jay wakes me up at the crack of dawn.
“Hey,” he says. “Get up, sleeping beauty.”
I squint at the misty morning light streaming in through the airy white curtains.
“Want to go on a run with me?” he asks. He’s in jogging pants and a T-shirt.
I sit up and look around the room. “What time is it?” I ask.
“It’s nearly six,” he says.
I groan. So early? I put my head back on my pillow. Ever since I stopped Skyping with Teddy, I’ve been sleeping in until seven. Then I suddenly remember. “Did we?” I ask him.
He looks at me, amused. “No, we did not,” he says. “But if you want . . .”
He leans over. His lips open with desire. My body trembles as he climbs on top of me in bed. He kisses my lips . . . my ears . . . my neck. As we kiss, his legs wrap around mine. He presses into me. We both want more, but he stops.
“Get dressed,” he says. “There’s cereal and juice downstairs. I’ll be back in thirty.”
“Hey, who was that on the phone last night?” I ask. I wasn’t going to say anything but it’d been bothering me all night.
“Oh, that’s just my dad,” he says. “He can be a bit . . .” He makes the sign for crazy with his finger. “You know how it is.”
I smile. I do know. After Jay leaves, I stretch my arms and legs in the luxurious sheets. It almost feels like I’m back in Shanghai, and I bask in the familiar comfort. I take a shower, standing in the rain shower for several minutes, the water dripping down my body as I think about Jay and replay our kiss from this morning.
Forty-Four
Dani
Mr. Connelly gathers us after training on Wednesday.
“Hey, guys, I have something important to discuss with you regarding Snider,” he says.
My teammates and I form a circle around him. The Snider people smile smugly, looking at the rest of us like, You can probably sit this one out.
I ignore them and hold my head up high. Please, let Mrs. Mandalay have talked to him.
Mr. Connelly takes a step forward and gazes down at his leather loafers, like he’s sorry for what he’s about to say.
“After a lot of thinking, I’ve decided to make some adjustments to who’s coming to Snider,” Mr. Connelly says. My teammates suck in a sharp breath and hold it. “Dani will be coming with us.”
A smile sneaks out the corners of my mouth before I can stop it, but Mr. Connelly doesn’t look at me. He keeps his gaze glued to my other teammates, his body language says, I so did not want to do this.
“Unfortunately . . . ,” Mr. Connelly adds, “we can only send six, so this means one of you guys cannot go.” Hands fly to my teammates’ mouths. All around me, heads shake. No, no, no, no, no, no. I want to run up to the podium, grab the mic, and yell no too. This is not the way this is supposed to go down!
“Heather,” Mr. Connelly calls. Heather’s head jerks up. The look in her eyes is of pure terror. “I’m so sorry, but you’re not able to go to Snider this year. I know you’re disappointed, but—”
The rest of Mr. Connelly’s words are drowned out by Heather’s rage. “This is bullshit!” she screams.
I reach for my backpack and start walking out of the auditorium. I can’t believe he did it this way. He could have sent an email. He could have written to the organizers and tried to add more people. Instead, he had to turn everyone against me. Heather comes charging after me. She catches up with me in the hallway, grabbing my backpack and pulling me to a stop.
“What the hell did you do?” she demands to know.
“Nothing!” I say. My eyes shift to all my teammates standing behind her.
“Nothing, my ass! He just gave you my spot!” Heather exclaims. She points a finger at me. “My mom’s going to have a word with Mrs. Mandalay about this, and when she finds out—”
“Mrs. Mandalay already knows,” I cry.
“Knows what?” Gloria asks. My teammates’ eyes burrow into me.
I shake my
head, trying to keep it together. Then decide, fuck it. Better they hear it from me than from the headmistress. Slowly, I back up against the wall, my body sliding down to the cold white floor as I tell them what happened in Seattle.
I stare at their shoes, Common Projects and Gucci Aces, as I wait for them to respond. Gloria speaks first.
“You never mentioned anything when we were up there,” she says quietly.
“Yeah, and you debated so well the next day,” Josh adds.
I know where this line of reasoning is going. As I look up at their disbelieving faces against the harsh fluorescent lights, I grab my backpack and run.
My mom is in the kitchen, putting away her groceries, when I get home. I fall face-first onto the couch.
“You want pinakbet tonight? You think Claire would like that?” she calls out.
I can’t think about food right now. I just want to build a fort of sofa cushions and curl up inside.
My mom pokes her head out from the kitchen. “Or how about batchoy? That’s probably easier,” she says.
I close my eyes. For once, I wish she was out cleaning. Anywhere but here.
My mom walks over. “Hey what’s wrong?” she asks.
What’s wrong? My teammates didn’t believe me! They think I made up what happened to me just so I can go to Snider!
She looks into my eyes. “Dani, whatever it is, you can tell me.”
No, I can’t. Because if I tell her, she won’t let me go to Snider with Mr. Connelly. And then I won’t be able to go to Yale. And I won’t be able to change our lives.
“Everything’s fine, Mom,” I say, getting up and going to my room. I hear her walking over, but I close the door before she can come in. I stand against the door, crying silently, listening to her worried breathing on the other side before she finally retreats back to the kitchen.
That weekend, I’m on Chrome, trying to decide whether to forward my teammates the email I wrote to Mr. Connelly. Would that prove anything?
I open a new tab and type in sexual harassment in high schools in California. The first article that comes up is on the Marlborough all-girls school scandal, where a teacher had an inappropriate relationship with a student. I think back to the plane to Seattle when Mr. Connelly told us we were debating Marlborough—and to think that he was going to try to pull something twenty-four hours later just like the Marlborough teacher! And now I’m being punished for my ability to compartmentalize things!
“You debated so well the next day!” Josh had argued. I want to pound my fist onto the keyboard and scream, Because I had to! Because my mom works eighty hours a week cleaning your room! I HAD TO!
I’m so overwhelmed that I pull up Microsoft Word and click on New Document. I write in a trance, the words shooting out of me. It feels good to let it out, to purge and process the pain and humiliation of what happened. My room fills with the sound of a heavy rainstorm as I tap the keys, fingers giving life to the emotions I’ve been bottling up.
When I’m done, I stare at my essay. I move the cursor over to delete it. But it’s too good to delete. It feels wrong. I go back to Chrome and click open a new tab. Heart pounding, I type xomegan.com, an anonymous Reddit-like site for teenagers.
Do I dare?
Forty-Five
Claire
Jay takes me, Jess, Nancy, and Florence, and a bunch of his friends out for hot pot that weekend. He’s a gracious host, picking up pieces of radish and tofu for me and the girls with his chopsticks and setting them on our plates. He even personally mixes our hot-pot sauces for us, saying it’s his grandmother’s secret recipe.
Jess leans over and whispers in my ear, “He’s a keeper!”
I smile. Nancy and Florence stare enviously at us as Jay holds up a piece of shrimp for me and puts it in my mouth. I lick his fingers. Jay smiles. I know he’s craving more. But I want to do things differently this time, after what happened with Teddy. I want to take things slow and savor every moment.
Jay discreetly settles the bill before it even arrives at our table. As we’re leaving the restaurant, I notice Florence texting in the corner.
“Who are you always texting?” I ask her.
She blushes and puts her phone away. “No one,” she says. “Just a friend.”
“You ready?” Jay asks. I wave to my girlfriends and get into his car.
I sleep over that night, and in the morning, Jay wakes me up with a kiss. He’s holding his car keys in his hand.
“Want to go on a trip with me?” he asks.
I sit up in bed and put a sweatshirt on. “Where are we going?” I ask.
“Newport Beach,” he says. “I gotta look at something for my dad. C’mon, it’ll be fun.”
“But I have a history paper due on Monday,” I tell him, gazing over at my backpack in the corner.
He shrugs. “So bring your books,” he says.
I get changed and throw my backpack into the car. As he drives, I ask him about this place we’re going.
“It’s just a place my dad’s thinking of buying,” he says.
I think back to his phone call with his dad the other night.
“He’s very particular,” Jay adds.
I got that. “Has he always been like that?” I ask.
“Yeah.” Jay shifts gears as he drives. “When I was little, he used to make me do my homework in the snow in my underwear,” Jay says.
“What?”
“To make me faster at it,” he says. “Especially the math. Said I was too slow. And if I cried, he’d keep me outside. Even in the dead of winter.”
I remember when he first said that thing about being naked in the cold when we were playing two truths and a lie in English class. At the time, I thought he meant something sexual. Now, looking over at him, I feel so bad he had to go through that.
“How old were you?”
He keeps his eyes glued to the road. “I was eight,” he says quietly.
Eight? Who would do such a thing to an eight-year-old?
“At ten, I had to swim across a ten-mile lake. Sailed a boat solo from Hong Kong to Macao when I was twelve. Anything to make me stronger . . .” His voice lingers. “That’s why he sent me here by myself. To toughen me up.”
He turns onto the highway, and I can feel the engine rumbling behind us as he kicks the car into high gear.
“And what happens if you say no?” I ask him.
Jay glances at me. “My dad’s worth four billion US dollars. He’s not exactly the kind of guy you say no to.”
“So?” I ask. “He’s still your dad . . .”
Jay reaches to turn on the radio. The sound of DJ Khaled fills the car, making it hard to continue the conversation. I look out the window, thinking about my own dad. He had his secretary track down and send me a box of first-edition Fitzgeralds, which my mom told me not to bend or even open, because then I can’t resell them later. A lot of good they’ll do me in English. I peer over at Jay, wondering if he feels similarly stifled sometimes.
“Ms. Jones, my English teacher, asked us a question in class,” I shout to him over the noise. “‘What does it mean to live well? And on what terms?’”
Jay reaches to turn down the radio, but he doesn’t answer the question. Instead, a mischievous look crosses his face as he lifts his hand off the steering wheel. “Hey, you want to drive?” he asks.
“No!” I exclaim, and reach to put his hands back.
He laughs. “I’m going to teach you how to drive,” he says. He turns to me and adds, “Can’t have a girlfriend who doesn’t know how to drive.”
It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him call me that, and our eyes meet. Jess predicted that he would call me his girlfriend within the week. I stretch my legs up onto the dash, feeling the fireworks in my chest. Jay glances at my bare legs, distracted.
“Keep your eyes on the road,” I tell him.
He grins, leans over, and kisses me, nearly swerving over to the next lane because the car’s so wide.
W
e arrive forty-five minutes later, at a shopping mall called Fashion Island.
“We’re here to go shopping?” I ask him, confused.
“I guess you can say that,” he says, eyes twinkling. “We’re shopping for a shopping mall.”
I laugh.
“I’m serious. My dad’s thinking about buying it!” he says. “C’mon, let’s go!”
“This whole thing?” I ask as I run after him. There must be three hundred shops in the open-air mall, plus movie theaters and restaurants.
“Give me your phone,” he says. This mall’s so big, he installs Find My Friends in case we get separated.
As we walk around the complex, Jay’s own phone keeps ringing. Every time, he taps Ignore. “You can answer it if you want,” I say to him. “Maybe it’s your dad calling—”
“It’s not my dad,” he says. He quickly shoves his phone into his pocket. “It’s nobody.”
We poke around the mall for the next hour, checking out bathrooms and elevators. Jay takes pictures of large cracks on the ground and counts the number of people in stores. He tells me the strategic investment team has already gone through all the papers.
“But the reason why my dad’s been so successful is he doesn’t just look on paper,” Jay says, examining the walls for water stains.
Wow, Jay really cares about his family business. I’m impressed.
As he swipes to take another picture of the exterior wall, his phone rings again.
“It’s a girl, isn’t it?” I guess. Only a girl would have the willpower to keep calling after the fifteenth rejection. He doesn’t say anything. I feel a twinge of jealousy and try to shrug it off. “It’s okay. You can take it.”
“I don’t want to take it,” he says.
He throws the phone at me with a grin.
“Here you take it,” he says.
“I don’t want to take it!” I protest. I try to give it back to him, but my finger accidentally taps Answer.
Reluctantly, I lift the phone to my ear. “Hello?” I ask.
Upon hearing my voice, the girl, whoever she is, hangs up. I look down at the name on the screen. The name on the screen reads “Tall. High cheekbones. Jimmy Choos.”