It’s none of my business. It’s not my fault she got kicked out. Even as my heart thunders a sickening beat and I feel like ripping my skin off, I keep myself busy unpacking. But in the silence of my room, I can hear Sophie’s animal shrieks, and guilt churns in my gut, as though I were the one who expelled her. Finally, I put my earphones in and dive into arranging all my stuff around the room until it feels less like Sophie’s old room and a little more like mine.
By the time I’m done, I’m starving. I comb my hair and look for my student ID, so I can go grab some dinner, but it’s nowhere to be found.
I can’t possibly tell Beth I’ve lost the card right after she told me not to. She’ll think I’m a giant flake. Welp. I’ll just starve until I can get a replacement card. Food is overrated anyway.
Later that evening, I stand outside of the main building and peer through the windows like one of those sad newspaper boys in old movies. The school has the fanciest dining hall ever, complete with a seven-foot fireplace. A board outside announces that tonight’s dinner is roasted, free-range chicken with thyme jus accompanied by winter vegetables. I have no idea what “thyme jus” is, but I know I want to put it in my face. I wander to the side of the entrance, kicking at the grass despondently.
I haven’t eaten much the past two days, because the very thought of leaving everything behind and coming here made my insides clench up and go, Nope. And now I’m stuck out here, with my stomach telling me I’m a complete idiot. Tears prick my eyes.
Do not cry. Don’t you dare cry.
But I can’t help it. Everything’s coming down in a sudden crush, and it’s just. So much. I’m a thousand miles away from Ibu. Okay, more like eighty-seven miles, but it’s as good as a thousand. I want my mommy, dammit.
I sink to the ground and hug my knees to my chest. “God, I’d kill for some of that pisang goreng,” I moan. Why did I throw it away? My stomach grumbles again. “Shut up,” I say to it.
“Um…sorry. Was I thinking too loud?”
I look up, and whoa. It’s the most beautiful guy I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Everything about him is positively edible, and I swear I’m not just saying that because I’m so freaking hungry. His hair is a carefully crafted mess, his gaze steady in a non-creepy way, and he has that classic, masculine superhero jaw. There’s even a hint of a cleft in it. I’ve never met anyone in real life with an actual butt chin. It’s indescribably, ridiculously cute. Would it be completely awful if I say I fall in love then? Just a little bit of falling. More of a trip, really. People have fallen in love for far stupider reasons, right? Well, I definitely fell in lust, anyway.
Quick, must say something mind-blowing. Something so hilarious and brilliant that he’ll immediately fall in love with me. I open my mouth. “Bwuh?”
Damn it, self!
He smiles. “I said, ‘Was I thinking too loudly?’”
“No.” I stand up, busying myself with brushing invisible lint off my jeans so I don’t have to look at his ridiculously perfect face. “I was just talking to myself. It’s a thing I do sometimes. It helps me think. And stuff.” He’s smirking. He’s smirking at me. I end the sentence in a mumble.
“Sorry, I wasn’t laughing at you. I talk to myself too. Not because it helps me think. More because, you know, I’m pretty charming, so I can’t resist myself.”
I can’t help laughing.
He holds out his hand. “Danny. Danny Wijaya.”
“Wijaya? No way. Are you Indonesian?”
His eyes widen. “Wow, you’re like the first person to get it right. I’m Chinese-Indonesian.”
“Me too!” I cry. “Uh, I mean, I’m native Indonesian. Not Chinese. Well, I’m half-Indonesian. My mom is Indonesian. My dad’s Chinese-Indonesian.” Could I possibly say Indonesian more? But seriously, what are the odds that I’d meet another Indo here?
“Waduh, ngga sangka bisa ketemu orang Indo disini,” Danny says.
“Right? I was just thinking the same thing! What are the chances?”
We both laugh. Then there’s a moment of silence as we both grin widely at each other.
“Sorry, my Bahasa is terrible,” I say. “I can understand it, but when I try to speak it, the accent’s all wrong, and…yeah.”
“Sounds like how I am when it comes to Mandarin. You never told me your name, by the way.”
“Oh. Right. Lia. Setiawan.”
“Did I hear you say something about pisang goreng?”
My instinct is to deny it, but he’s Indo. He’s even pronouncing it right, rolling the r in goreng with the tip of his tongue tickling the back of his teeth so it comes out sharp and thin, not at all like an American r. It reminds me so much of Ibu that my heart squeezes painfully, just for a second. “Yeah, my mom makes the best pisang goreng. She even drizzles homemade caramel sauce and grates some cheese over it—”
“Okay, I need this pisgor right now. You have some, right?”
It makes me grin to hear him do what Indos do all the time—combine two or more words into one short one. “Um, actually, I kind of freaked out a little and threw it away. Sorry,” I mumble.
“Coming here does weird things to people. The first week I was here, I was so homesick, I cried myself to sleep every night.”
“Aww.”
Danny puffs out his chest. “I mean, I cried in a very manly way. Real masculine tears.”
“Oh, I’m sure.”
“I even tried to grow a beard to show my grief.”
“A beard of sadness?”
“Exactly. But I hadn’t really started growing facial hair yet, so the beard didn’t happen.”
“To be fair, you’d probably still struggle now.”
“Ouch.” He mimes a dagger stabbing into his chest. “But yes, you’re right. It’s a curse on us Asians.”
“Speak for yourself, I grow beards just fine.”
By this time, we’re both grinning so hard, my face is actually hurting.
“How come you’re not having dinner?”
“Oh.” This is awkward. “Uh.” Quick, think of a good reason that doesn’t involve me losing my ID on my first day. “I already ate,” I say, just as my stomach gives a growl so loud, it sounds like it’s right next to our heads. Damn you, stomach. Read the room!
Danny raises his eyebrows.
“I lost my student ID.”
“Oh, pfft. Come on, I’ll swipe you through.”
I’m so hungry by now that I’m contemplating eating my own foot. “Thanks. I’ll buy you your next meal,” I say, as we walk into the bustling warmth of the dining hall.
“Nah, don’t worry about it, it’s no big deal,” he says, and the last three words drop like sizzling coals all the way into my hollow stomach. I’m in a place full of kids whose parents are paying upward of sixty grand a year in school fees alone. Of course, paying for a meal is small change to him. It makes me feel tiny. And stupid. And really, really poor.
I’m about to tell him to forget it when he takes out his phone.
“Sorry, gotta take this call,” he says. I didn’t even hear it ring. “Hey, Uncle. What’s up? Gah, did I do that? Thanks for checking. I’ll be there.” He hangs up and turns to me. “I gotta go. I left my laptop in my uncle’s car.”
Probably the randomest reason anyone has ever used for flaking out, which means it must be true.
Before I can tell him it’s fine and that I don’t need him to pay for my meal, he leans toward me—holy shit, we’re standing so close, I can see the freckles on his cheeks, aaaah—and swipes his card across the machine. The little gate swings open and Danny ushers me through. “I’ll see you around, Lia.”
“Wait—” I don’t want your stupid handout! (Just make out with me!)
But he’s gone, jogging out of the dining hall with the kind of athletic grace that pulls the eye to his butt. I mean, really now. You can’t not look.
“Checking out Danny’s butt?”
I start, my cheeks bursting into flames. Beth’s right behind me. Jesus, the girl prowls as noiselessly as a leopard.
She laughs, shaking her head. “Don’t look so guilty. We’ve all done it. Danny Wijaya’s butt is a gift to Draycott. C’mon, you’re super late. We’re all on our entrees already.” With that, she leads me to her table, where a Black girl and a white girl are eating. They wave at me with friendly smiles. The Black girl is Samantha—“But you can call me Sam”—the white girl is called Grace, and they’re both very pretty and intensely likable.
“Saw you checking out Danny Wijaya back there,” Sam says, winking.
My cheeks burst into flames. “I wasn’t—”
“Hey, there’s no shame in that. That boy is too hot for his own good,” Grace says.
“Uh-oh,” Sam says, “should I be worried?”
“Shut up, you know you’ll always be my bae,” Grace says, rolling her eyes. She turns back to face me. “Tell us about yourself, Lia. What’s your origin story?”
Cute butts and friendly people. Maybe I can get used to boarding school.
***
First thing on the agenda the next morning is to get a new student ID. Luckily, all it takes is a harried explanation and one super judgmental eyebrow arch from the admin lady, and less than a minute later, I’m walking out of the admin building—sorry, Castor—with a shiny, new card.
Outside, I run into Beth and quickly stuff the card inside my bag.
“I’m on my way to sketch the roses in the Eastern Gardens. Wanna come with?” she says.
“Sure.” I’ve never known anyone in real life who actually sketches flowers in the gardens, and I want to hug Beth because gosh, could anyone be more wholesome?
The sun is out in typical Californian glory, spilling over the grounds like liquid gold, making every color jump. The rolling grounds are crossed with small, undulating paths lined with pink peonies and deep-purple hydrangeas. It’s the kind of place that makes you want to be a better person, just so you don’t spoil the scenery.
Beth chooses a spot and sits on the grass. I sit next to her and watch as she takes out a drawing pad and several pencils. “How’re you liking Draycott?”
“This place is unreal.”
“Unreal in a good way or in a Jordan Peele girl-get-outta-here way?”
I laugh. “Definitely not the Jordan Peele way. It’s just—look at you!” I gesture at Beth, who’s sitting there in a pristine, knee-length dress, her feet tucked underneath her, drawing pad on her lap. “You look like an Insta model. Except you’re not even posing for a picture, you’re naturally Insta-ready.”
“Ha! Well, I’m definitely far from perfect,” she says, starting her sketch, her hand moving in sure, strong strokes across the page.
Something about the way she says it reminds me of what Sophie wrote on the wall of my dorm room. I’m about to tell her about the graffiti when her phone boops.
“Ooh, new Dirt!” She puts down her pencil and slips her phone out of her pocket.
“New dirt?”
“Did I not tell you about Draycott Dirt? Okay, you need to download it ASAP.”
Less than a minute later, Draycott Dirt has been downloaded onto my phone and Beth is walking me through it. Which is good, because the app is overwhelming.
“It’s basically like a PostSecret app,” Beth says. “You create a username, then you post new ‘Dirt’ and people can upvote or downvote and make comments or whatever. The only rule is that it’s all got to stay anonymous.”
My head swims as we scroll through what seems like hundreds of thousands of posts revealing all sorts of nasty little secrets. So-and-so’s a junkie, so-and-so’s self-harming, so-and-so is smashing so-and-so’s boyfriend. I can almost hear the kids behind each post, whispering, their voices layering on top of one another until it becomes a cacophony that threatens to drown me. And yet, somehow, I’m unable to tear my eyes away from the app. I want to know every piece of dirt there is to know.
“You can sort through the posts using the different categories or by date. Here are the latest posts—oh.” Her mouth sets into a grim line as she reads.
Posted by: @MagicHands
Anyone seen the Sophie replacement yet? Bangable—yes, no? #askingforafriend
Reply from: @SoDafferent
Eh. Bangable with beer goggles. A downgrade from Sophie for sure, even if she’s not batshit insane. #meh
Reply from: @Scribofile
Y’alls are forgetting the most important thing, which is that she’s not here to replace Soph. She’s here on a track scholarship, which means she’s here to replace @TrackQueen, LOL.
Reply from: @TrackQueen
I would love to see the bitch try. #whatever
There’s a moment of thick silence. Beth clears her throat and pats my shoulder gently. “People tend to be idiots on DD.”
I manage a small smile. “Do you know who’s who on there?” As in, who the hell is @TrackQueen and why am I here to replace her?
“I have my suspicions, but don’t try to figure out who’s who on DD, because there are plenty of trolls and it’ll just drive you crazy.”
I want to tell her that not knowing who’s talking shit about me is going to drive me crazy, but Beth’s already turned her attention back to her painting, and not wanting to irritate the first friend I’ve made here, I press my mouth shut and swallow the knot of unease. Staying out here in the garden makes me feel even more exposed, and not for the first time since I arrived at Draycott, I get the feeling of being watched and scrutinized. A coil of dread stirs deep in my gut. What if they find me lacking? Would I be the next Sophie?