by Kelly Yang
“Who’s Jimmy Choos?” I look up at Jay. “You name girls based on what they’re wearing?”
His face turns red as he mumbles a response. “I meet a lot of girls. It’s so I don’t forget what they look like.”
“What am I in here as?” I ask. I start searching my number. Jay reaches to grab his phone out of my hand but it’s too late. I find my number listed under “Claire. Cute smile. Virgin.”
“What the fuck?” I yell at him.
“I’m sorry! I’m just really organized,” he says.
“You’re organized? This is insane,” I tell him. I continue scrolling through the many, many girls in his contacts, and they’re all tagged “meis.” Mei means “hot girl” in Chinese.
“What the hell? Bubble butt? Button nose? Dimple cheeks?” I read from his phone. A few shoppers turn and stare at us. “And why are we all tagged meis?”
Jay plunges his face in his hands.
“It just helps me find the contact faster. It’s more efficient!”
“More efficient?” I put up my hands. I can’t believe this. “For what? When you text them for a booty call?” I meant it as a joke, but when he doesn’t respond, my eyes go wide. “Oh my God! That’s exactly what you do!”
I throw the phone back at him and pull my own out to get an Uber. I have zero interest in being with someone who labels girls based on the shape of their ass. I don’t care how nice he is to my friends at hot pot.
“Stop! What are you doing?” he asks as I walk away.
“You can find yourself another mei,” I yell as I head toward the parking lot.
As I’m walking out, Jay runs toward me and pulls me aside.
“Fine, you know what,” he says. He grabs his phone and holds it up so I can see. I watch as he does a quick search all for meis. There are 129 entries. 129! He highlights them all, and before I can say a word, he presses Delete.
“There,” he says. “All gone.”
I put my hand to my mouth.
The soft ocean breeze blows loose strands of my hair in my face as Jay pulls me close and wraps his arms around me.
“I don’t want those girls anymore.” He looks into my eyes and says, “I want you.”
Forty-Six
Dani
I hustle across the field to Mrs. Mandalay’s office. She sent me an urgent email to meet; I’m assuming it’s to talk about Snider. Zach calls me as I’m walking.
“Hey,” I say. “Did you read it?” I posted my anonymous piece on xomegan.com last night and sent him the link, figuring my writing can finally fill him in on what my mouth can’t seem to.
“Where is it?” he asks. “The link doesn’t work. I’ve been looking for it all day and I can’t find it.”
I stop walking. “What do you mean it doesn’t work?” I ask. I look down at my phone and try to load the link myself, but the page comes back with “Error—We Couldn’t Find the Page You Requested.” I must have sent the wrong link, because it was there when I checked it last night.
I glance at the time. I’m late. I tell Zach I’ll call him back later and hurry the rest of the way to Mrs. Mandalay’s office.
As soon as I walk inside, Mr. Connelly is standing there. Shit.
“What were you thinking?” Mr. Connelly asks me. I look down at the piece of paper in his hand and see the familiar logo on the top—Xomegan.
“How did you get that?” I ask.
Mrs. Mandalay informs me that one of the investors of xomegan.com is friends with the school. A private equity fund. My mind trips over itself, a traffic crash of information. How’s that possible? Mrs. Mandalay takes the essay from Mr. Connelly and reads.
“‘He took advantage of my admiration and respect for him, exploited my trust,’” Mrs. Mandalay reads my words. She shakes her head at me. “Do you know how much trouble you could have caused for the school if they hadn’t taken this down?”
“You’re lucky we don’t sue you for slander!” Mr. Connelly adds.
“It’s not slander if I’m telling the truth,” I reply, defiant eyes staring up at him. He should know, he taught it to us in debate.
Mrs. Mandalay frowns. “I thought we gave you what you wanted. You’re back on the team. You get to go to Snider. Haven’t we been good to you?”
I feel myself shrinking in the chair, as they both lay on the guilt. I think of all the things they’ve both done for me in years past—big and small—and a knot forms in my throat I can’t dissolve.
“All that time. All that energy I poured into you. And this is how you repay me?” Mr. Connelly asks.
“What about my time?” I ask. “I trusted you. I believed you.”
It’s the first time I’ve confronted him since the incident. I stare at him, as the anger burns in my eyes.
Mrs. Mandalay stands up and holds open her door, telling me to go back to class. As I get up to leave, she takes my essay, rips it up, and warns, “I better not find this on another website.”
Forty-Seven
Claire
I text Jess as Jay and I drive up and down Balboa Island, a tiny island in Newport Beach with waterfront houses, sailboats, and idyllic streets. Jay leans over and kisses my cheek, and I want so desperately to forget what happened, to lose myself in this picture-perfect postcard. But the question nags at my brain, who are those other girls?
They’re probably just his exes, big deal! Jess texts back. He deleted them for you! That’s so good!
But 129?! How does he have that many?! I text back.
He probably didn’t sleep with them all!
Three dots appear.
If he did, she texts, then DAMN. He probably has great technique!
I peer over at Jay. He flashes me a smile, and I feel my anger soften. It’s difficult staying mad at him when I’m in a place this beautiful and I’m cruising down the street with a guy this gorgeous. Who just deleted all his exes for me. Jay pulls over the Lamborghini.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He unbuckles his seat belt and mine. “Get up. We’re switching seats,” he says with a grin. “I’m teaching you how to drive.”
My hands grip my seat belt. “What? Now? Here?”
He pushes up his car door, comes over to my side, and pulls me out of my seat.
“Sure, why not,” he says. “You couldn’t ask for more peaceful streets.”
Reluctantly, I walk over to the other side and slide into the driver’s seat. As the engine revs, I beg Jay with my eyes.
“Please, I’ve never done this before,” I tell him.
He grins. “You’ve never done a lot of things before. Time to start changing that,” he says with a wink. He pushes a button on the center console to put the car into automatic.
As I release the break and step lightly on the gas, the car flies down the road. I scream and turn to Jay. I really don’t want to crash his car.
“Slow down. You’re doing fine,” Jay says. He puts his hands over mine and helps me steer.
The whole time, I’m looking at the road and I’m trying not to freak out. “I don’t think learning to drive in a Lamborghini is a good idea!” I tell him.
“Maybe not, but we’re doing it,” he says.
He commands me to stop, slow down, and speed up, and turns the steering wheel with his hands over mine. After a while, I start to get it. I drive the car up and down empty streets, learning to control the speed, which isn’t easy, given how forceful the engine is. Slowly, Jay lifts his hands off mine. And I’m doing it! I’m driving!
I laugh.
“You’re a fast learner,” he says. He sits back in his seat and grins. “I know what I’m getting you for your birthday.”
I turn to him and say, “No. No. No. Please don’t.”
“Keep your eyes on the road at all times!” he barks at me.
“Sorry!” I force my eyes straight ahead. As I make my way down the street, I notice a beautiful house up the road. There’s a For Sale sign on the lawn.
“Stop
here for a second,” he says.
I pull up in front of the house and we both get out. The Cape Cod–style blue-and-white house sits in front of the water. Jay and I hold hands as we walk across the lush green lawn.
“Hey! There’s an open house right now,” I say, noticing the sign on the door.
We walk inside. The house is stunning, with gleaming hardwood floors and sunlight pouring in from the windows. The real estate agent glances at us, but is too busy talking to someone else to come over to say hello. Jay and I show ourselves around the house. He runs his fingers along the walls and the wood, pointing out to me the Dutch door entry, the handcrafted French oak cabinets.
He studies every corner and angle mechanically, scientifically. This is obviously not his first open house. As we walk, I offer random possibilities for remodeling, trying to sound like the real estate expert I’m not. But I’ve picked up enough from watching my mother redecorate our villa.
“You could put a window seat right there,” I say, pointing to a quiet spot in the corner with lots of sunlight. “And you could store things under it.”
Jay’s impressed. “You’re good at this,” he says. He pulls out his phone and starts taking pictures of the house. When we get to the master suite, I hop onto the bed and stretch out my legs. Jay calls his dad, and I listen to him go through the specs of the mall as I text with Jess on my own phone.
What are you guys doing now? Jess texts.
Looking at real estate, I text back.
OMG #goals, she texts.
I smile.
“Oh, and there’s a house we found, Dad, right on the water,” Jay says to his father on the phone. “It’s beautiful.”
He snaps his fingers for the flyer, and I hand it to him.
“Built in 2016,” he says. “Four bedrooms, five baths; 4.2 million US dollars. Excellent foundation.” He walks over to the window, glances at the direction of the house, and adds, “And good feng shui.”
As he’s talking, it’s hard not to be taken with him. Dashing young scion, charming and boyish. No wonder he has so many girls chasing him. Maybe I should just let that go. I close my eyes and imagine our future together, driving around, looking at real estate.
Jay grins at me. “Claire already has some ideas for remodeling,” he adds with a wink.
There’s a long pause, during which I worry his dad’s pissed that I’m here. But then Jay’s face relaxes into a smile.
“Sure, I’ll send you the pics right now,” he says. He gets off the phone, runs toward me, and jumps on the bed. “Guess what? We’re buying it!”
“What?” I exclaim. “Just like that?”
“Just like that,” Jay says. A dreamy look crosses his face. He kisses me, and he whispers, “Can you see us living in a place like this?”
The door bangs open and the real estate agent walks in. He sees us making out on the bed.
“What the hell are you two doing in here?” he barks at us. “This is Newport Beach, not Chinatown! Get off my bed!”
Jay turns to face the real estate agent and says, “Actually, it’s my bed. I just bought the place.”
“Did you see the way he looked at us?” Jay fumes as he drives. We’re in the car heading over to the Ritz-Carlton Laguna. I can feel his anger in the way he grips my hand. “No matter how fucking rich we are, they still treat us like second-class citizens.”
I’ve never seen him get mad like this before. He takes a water bottle and crushes it against the seat. I put my hand on Jay’s lap, trying to calm him.
“Take it easy,” I say.
“No!” he yells, flinging my hand away. He steps on the gas, and the car goes vroooom. “I hate this country sometimes! America’s the only place in the world that can make me feel like a shoe polisher.”
I laugh, trying to defuse the anger. “Well, that was pretty baller for a shoe polisher! Did you see the look on his face when you told him you’re buying the place?” I ask. Jay’s tense face dissolves into a grin.
“It was pretty fucking baller!” His shoulders relax, and my heartbeat comes back to normal as he takes my hand and kisses it.
We arrive at the Ritz-Carlton, where Jay checks us in to the ocean-view executive suite. It comes with a couch in the living room, which Jay swears up and down he’s going to sleep on; I can take the bed.
We order room service. While we wait for the food to arrive, I take out my history books from my backpack. I try to read, but it’s hard to concentrate. I’m still thinking about Jay’s fit in the car. He was so angry. I thought he was going to crash the car.
Jay pats the spot next to him in bed. He’s more peaceful now as he lies there, feet crossed, gazing at me. “I’m the only homework you should be concerned about,” he says. “Come here.”
I put my textbooks down and go to him.
As I climb into bed, he starts kissing me. I kiss him back and nibble his ears. Then, ever so gently, he starts pushing my head down. I know where this is going, and I stop.
He throws his hands up at me in frustration. “What do you want, a proposal?” he asks.
“I thought we were going to take it slow,” I remind him. I get up and walk back over to my history books.
He holds his hands out to me. “But I have needs . . . ,” he whines.
I ignore him and try to concentrate on my homework. Five minutes later, he jumps out of bed and announces he’s taking a shower. He strips in front of me, taking off all his clothes. I feel the temperature rising in the room.
“You sure you don’t want to join me?” he asks.
I look longingly at him. He has the most amazing body. But there’s also something delicious about waiting, as I’m starting to discover.
“Yes,” I say. I smile sweetly at him. “I’m good.”
“You’re going to pay for it, you know,” he says, grinning as he walks into the bathroom. “All this making me wait. I haven’t thought of how yet. But you’re going to pay for it.”
I put a pencil in my mouth and bite down gently. “Can’t wait.”
Forty-Eight
Dani
Ming tunes her violin in the band room after school, waiting for Mr. Rufus to approve the changes she’s made to her sheet music, while I research who the xomegan.com mole is on my phone.
“I can’t believe they took it down,” she says, playing G on the strings and adjusting the peg.
“I know! It’s so Big Brother!” I pull up the corporate site for xomegan.com and scroll through the About Us.
Ming closes her eyes and plays a dramatic piece on the violin, her eyebrows rising and falling. When she opens her eyes again, she asks, “And what does a private equity fund care about a teen-chat forum?”
“Or American Prep, for that matter,” I mutter.
Mr. Rufus walks out, hands Ming the sheet music, and gives her a big thumbs-up. Ming puts her violin and bow back in her case. Walking down the hall together, we see Florence with her friends. She’s deep in conversation with Jess.
“Hey!” Ming calls out to her.
“Hi,” Florence says politely, and keeps walking.
Ming shakes her head. “I don’t get it. She introduced me that one time, but she still never lets me hang out with her and her friends.” Ming stops walking and turns to me. “You think it’s because I’m poor?”
“No. That’s not it.”
“We’ve been dating for almost two months! I want to get to know who all her friends are.”
I gaze over at Florence with her squad and sigh. “Well, I know one of them,” I say, eyeing Claire. She’s been gone a lot. I don’t know where she disappeared to this weekend. I hope she’s okay. I turn back to Ming. “Maybe Florence just needs a little more time.”
Later that day, I walk into the auditorium for our usual debate training, only to find it empty.
Where are all my teammates? Snider’s in a month. I look down at my phone. There are no emails in my in-box from Mr. Connelly or any of my teammates.
Did they mov
e practice to Mr. Connelly’s class, since there are only six of us going to Snider?
I grab my backpack from the floor and hustle over to Mr. Connelly’s classroom, but it’s empty too. And his door is locked.
Huh.
I go over to the main office, nearly colliding into Claire and her friends as I’m running.
“Watch it!” Jess yells at me. She throws her backpack down and looks like she wants to get into it with me.
“It was just an accident,” Florence says in my defense.
“Sorry,” I call out as I keep running. At the main office, I ask the assistant if she knows whether the debate practice got moved. I tap my fingers while she checks.
“Looks like debate’s been moved from Wednesdays to Thursdays in the auditorium,” the assistant says. She looks at me. “Did you not get an email about this?”
My face reddens. “Nope, I did not,” I say to her.
If that’s how they’re going to play it.
Forty-Nine
Claire
Every time I close my eyes, it comes to me. Jay’s arm around my waist. Legs twisted together. Waking up in his sheets, feeling so adult, it almost feels like we’re playing house. I stare out the window in class, thinking about our weekend in Newport.
We didn’t have sex. But we did take our clothes off and sleep together, falling asleep in each other’s arms and waking up together. I’m proud of myself for my self-control. And I’m proud of Jay too, the fact that a guy will listen to me. Sometimes I think the only reason Jay listens to me is because I say no to him. What else differentiates me from the other 129 girls? Why delete them and not me?
My lower lip trembles when I think about all the things we could have done . . . if I let myself say yes.
“Claire!” Ms. Jones calls out.
I look up at her, face flushing.
“I said you’re working with Emma on the group project.”
What?
I glance over at Emma, who celebrates our new partnership with a great big middle finger under the table. Wonderful.