Chapter 2

I slink from the locker room into the gymnasium with the grand-prize plaque clamped in my hands. It’s moist from the paper towels discarded in the trash can. Leslie is nowhere to be seen, and the people who deign to notice my presence either smile politely or offer enthusiastic congratulations. I mutter the bare minimum of acceptable platitudes, suspicious that they know what happened in the locker room and approve.

Haji intercepts me at a side exit from the gym. I give him my leave-me-the-hell-alone stare with no effect. Smiling, he waves my dad over, calling that he found me. I almost make a break for the exit, but I don’t because then they’ll know that I’m upset.

“What’s wrong?” Haji asks.

“Nothing,” I say.

“If we hurry, we can make the 7:05 bus,” Haji says.

Narrowing my eyes, I look at him quizzically. Haji’s eyes widen.

“You forgot.” He gives me a concerned smile. “We’re meeting Dalia at Noodle House. You still want to go, right? She’ll want to congratulate you in person for winning the award. Congratulations, by the way. Your picture is totally lit. Just like I said.”

“Ummm…yeah, of course, I’m coming.” Haji says something to me, but I’m busy plastering a fake smile on my face. “Hi, Dad. I’m thrilled you made it.”

It’s not that hard to pull that off because I’m glad he made it, although thrilled might be an overstatement. Jason being here, on the other hand, would be thrilling. If only…

“Congratulations, Allison,” Dad says and embraces me. “I’m so proud of you.”

My cheeks flush. “Thanks, Dad. Haji and I have to catch the bus. We’re heading to Noodle House for dinner.”

“Just wait until we tell your granddad. He’s quite the photographer too, you know,” Dad says, squeezing me even tighter.

“Don’t you have to teach that evening class tonight?” I squirm in his arms.

“I do.” Dad breaks the embrace. He glances at his watch. “Let me call you a car. You said Noodle House? In the University District?”

“That’s okay, Dad. We’re going to catch the bus,” I say.

“It’s dark out and raining.” Dad takes out his phone and opens the vehicle hailing app. “A car will drop you at the front door.”

I notice the glint of his wedding ring, and annoyance sparks through me. I don’t know why he still wears it. She abandoned us nearly sixteen years ago after cursing me with her genetics. If it wasn’t for her, people like Leslie wouldn’t target me for how I look. For all we know, my mother is dead or back in China. I don’t really care which.

Stifling my irritation, I glance at Haji, who nods his head in approval and gives me the thumbs-up.

“Okay. Sure, Daddy, we’ll take a car this one time,” I say.

“There. The car is on its way. It will pick you up in front of the school.” Dad’s expression turns serious. “Listen up, you two. There have been some assaults on the university campus and the surrounding area this week. Be careful.”

“If someone assaults me, I’ll bludgeon them with this.” I heft the grand-prize plaque.

“Allison,” Dad says, “I’m not joking. You could get hurt.”

“I’m not joking either.” I want to take a practice swing with the plaque, but the gym is too crowded.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Lee. We’ll look out for each other,” Haji says.

Five minutes later, we’re in the pleasantly warm backseat of a well-kept-up sedan. The driver is all business and seems to know his way around Seattle. The vehicle is a hybrid, making me feel a little better about not taking the bus. As a rule, I prefer public transportation. Dalia is one of the organizers for the local climate marches, so I’m super aware of human civilization’s environmental impact. You know, like how the typical passenger car emits 4.6 metric tons of carbon dioxide per year. 4.6 tons! Multiply that number by 1.2 billion cars worldwide, and you begin to understand why the planet is warming.

“What’s bothering you?” Haji says. “You’ve been uptight since coming out of the bathroom.”

I sigh. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Come on, Allison. It’s me, Haji. I’m in your corner.”

“I said, I don’t want to talk about it.” Especially not in front of the driver.

“Fine, be that way.”

In my peripheral vision, Haji’s fingers dance over his phone’s glowing screen.

“Do you have to do that?” I ask.

“Do what?” Haji says without looking up.

“Text Dalia.”

“Who says I’m texting Dalia?”

Sighing, I stare out the window at the bright lights of the city. A motorcycle making a distinctive thump, thump, thump rolls by. In my pocket, my ancient flip phone buzzes. I fish it out and flip it open.

“How sweet, you did text Dalia.”

“It’s not my fault you won’t talk to me,” Haji says. “Now you’ll have to talk to her.”

I read the text twice, my lips curling into a smile. My dream boy is joining us for dinner.

A few minutes later, the car pulls up in front of the noodle joint. We thank the driver and pile out into the pouring rain. By the time we reach the restaurant’s door, my hair feels like it’s matted down. Haji pulls open the door to allow me inside. The place is crowded with college students armed with large spoons slurping soup from big bowls. The scent of cooking ramen from the kitchen is mouthwatering. I spot Dalia by her wicked neon-pink hair. She waves to us from a long wooden bench at an equally long wooden table. Standing on my tiptoes, I do a quick survey of the crowd and frown. Jason isn’t here yet.

I follow Haji to the bench and sit down next to Dalia. Haji sits across from us.

“Congratulations, Allison,” Dalia says, all smiles. Even in the dim light, her golden nose ring gleams. “Is that your award? Let me see.”

I set my plaque on the table.

“That’s so cool.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“I really should have skipped cross-country practice to come,” Dalia says.

“No, no. It’s okay.” Dalia is training extra hard to make varsity this year.

“So,” Dalia says and rotates her torso so she faces me. “Haji told me something is bothering you.”

“Spill the tea,” Haji says.

I shut my eyes, racking my brain for a viable excuse not to discuss this right now. I need time to process what happened. Opening my eyes, I spot Jason by the front door.

“Jason,” I call and wave to him. I whisper to my friends. “I can’t talk in front of him. Not about this.”

Jason lopes over, dodging a waitress carrying a steaming bowl of ramen. With a broad smile, he greets us and sits down next to Haji. I try not to stare too longingly at Jason, but it’s hard. Just being in his presence sets my heart thrumming like a plucked guitar string.

“Allison, can I see your award?” Jason asks.

I slide the plaque across the table to him, and our fingers brush together as he takes the award. My fingers erupt with electric sparks at the contact.

“Your photo is so dope. You deserve the grand prize,” Jason says and passes the plaque back to me.

My hands become clammy, and I will myself to not blush.

“Should we order?” Dalia asks.

“I know what I’m ordering,” Jason says.

Haji nods in agreement.

“Spicy ramen every time,” I say.

“Oh, you like it hot and spicy,” Jason says.

Dalia waves over a harried waitress to take our order. I ask for two bowls of spicy ramen, one to eat in and one to go.

“For Joe?” Haji asks after the waitress moves on.

“Yeah, he loves the ramen, and I want to talk to him about the photo contest,” I say.

We talk about school until the waitress arriving with our food puts the conversation on pause. As we slurp ramen, Dalia guides the discussion to the upcoming homecoming dance. My knees clatter together in a frantic rhythm. Will Jason ask me to the dance, or should I ask him?

“Is everyone going?” Dalia asks.

“I’m attending as a reporter,” Haji says between mouthfuls of soup.

I notice Haji staring at me. I meet his look and flash him a saucy smile. His gaze darts back to the soup bowl.

“I am,” Jason says.

I swallow the spicy concoction in my mouth and choke. My hand goes to my chest as I cough on the gob of noodles lodged in my throat.

“Are you okay?” Dalia asks, voice shrill.

She raises her hand, ready to pound on my back. The boys jump up. I hold up a hand to keep everyone at bay. With a final heave that makes my chest throb, I manage to dislodge and swallow the noodles.

“I’m okay,” I gasp. God, I’m such a klutz. Why did I ever think Jason would want to go to the dance with me?

The boys sit down, and Dalia lowers her hand.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” Dalia asks.

I nod and pick up my soup spoon. There is an awkward silence as we recover from me nearly choking to death and get back to eating.

“So, Jason, you have a date?” Dalia asks.

“I do.” Jason sets his spoon in the bowl. “She asked me today.”

“She asked you?” I ask.

I hold the oversized soup spoon in my hand like it’s a club. Jason smiles, his gaze dropping to the table.

“I was going to ask someone else, but then she asked me. I couldn’t say no.”

“Just tell us who it is already,” Dalia says.

“Leslie Chapman.”

The spoon falls from my hand and plops into my bowl of half-eaten ramen. Soup splatters across the table. My eyes feel like they’re bugging out of my head.

Leslie Chapman asked Jason to the dance?

He said yes?

Oh my God.

Blinking, I rub a hand across my brow. “Wow.”

I look around the table, searching for a sign that what Jason said was my imagination. Dalia’s face is ashen. Jason looks apologetic, maybe, I don’t know. Haji continues slurping soup.

I stand, grabbing my jacket and plaque. “I think my to-go order is ready.”

I rush to the front of the establishment, retrieve my order in a brown paper sack, and pay the cashier in cash. I turn to leave to find Haji by the door.

“Can I tag along?” he asks.

“I just want to be alone right now.”

I push open the door, and cold air blasts my face. Rain pelts my coat, and a gust of howling wind blows back my hood. I pull my hood up and hold it in place. Cars whizz by on University Way, headlights highlighting the heavy rainfall.

My tears intermix with the rain while I wait for the light to change at the intersection of 42nd and Little Tahoma Avenue. Why am I crying? Over Jason? If he is dumb enough to date Leslie, he isn’t worth my time or tears. Doesn’t he realize she is a racist mean girl? Maybe that’s too harsh. How could he know? I should’ve asked him out sooner.

I’m such an idiot.

The wind dies down. I release my hood and wipe the tears, not wanting Joe to see me crying. A big truck roars by just before the light changes, leaving the stench of diesel exhaust in its wake. I cross the intersection and scramble up the low retaining wall separating Tahoma University’s grounds from the sidewalk. I march across the dark swath of wet grass interspersed with towering Douglas fir toward the lamplight in the distance.

Obscured by the surrounding shrubbery next to the base of a conifer is a blue tarp. I press my free hand against the brown bag, feeling the warmth radiating from the container of broth. Good. I’d hate for the soup to be cold.

A gust of wind pushes me sideways. From somewhere overhead comes a loud crack like the bone of some gargantuan creature snapping. A widowmaker thumps to the earth. Gasping, I nearly drop the soup and freeze in place. Overhead, the trees sway in the wind, branches creaking and groaning. I scamper toward the encampment.

About half a dozen tents surround the base of the tall conifer. A wide man with hunched shoulders moves around the camp. I smile. It’s Joe.

I’m about to call out to him when I smell a strange mixture of eucalyptus and menthol and sweat on the wind. It’s the kind of odor I’d expect to roll off guys at a crowded dance club. I scan my surroundings for the source of the scent.

A figure stands behind me in the gloom.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

The stalker strides toward me, raising something about a foot long overhead. A club?

My muscles tense like springs under immense pressure. Dad warned me about attacks on campus. I back away, a scream rising up my throat. The club whirls through the air too fast to avoid.