The rest of the weekend is torture, with Mom calling all the relatives to brag and gushing about it at family dinner. Dad keeps kissing me on the top of my head and calling me his shining star. I don’t recognize the girl they’re describing, but then again, there’s a lot I don’t recognize lately. If I was asked to describe myself before, I would have called myself a writer, or at least someone who writes. I would have said I was a good person. But look at me now: no words for months, and permanently operating in the morally gray. Maybe not recognizing myself is just part of growing up, the storm before the rainbow. But I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right.
I feel like I’ve swallowed a golf ball, and it just hangs there in my throat all weekend. I almost come clean just to make it all stop, but I know it’ll feel even worse to see their faces—heartbroken if I’m lucky, pissed if I’m not. The gala isn’t until the week before winter break, and I’ll figure out a way to tell them soon. I mean, I’ll have to. But it’s easier to put that off for future Tessa to deal with.
The bad feelings continue when I see Nico again in Art of the Novel on Monday. He didn’t text all weekend, and I could rationalize that away. But in class . . . I can’t ignore that. He doesn’t ignore me or anything. He sits next to me while he writes and I “write,” and he’s perfectly cordial and friendly like we’re just that: friends. Which is fine. Except, I thought Friday we were moving toward something more than that. I don’t hold hands with my friends or hug them like that. Maybe Poppy changed his mind—again.
It makes me sad and anxious, but there’s also a new feeling there . . . anger. There’s a small part of me that’s pissed off he’s continuing to string me along like this. As if I don’t have any say in the matter.
My face must be stormy, because Sam nudges me with his elbow on the drive home. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.” I study a bus stop ad out the window like it holds the meaning of life.
“Sure . . . yeah.” And I think he’s dropped it. But a minute later: “It’s just that . . . I don’t know. You don’t exactly look fine. You’re really not good at hiding your feelings, you know? They’re always all over your face. Is it, uh . . . anything you want to talk about?”
It would be nice to talk to someone, but that someone is definitely not Sam. The topic of Nico is off-limits with him. I can feel that.
“Nope.”
“Okay.”
The car starts moving again, and I keep staring out the window hard so I can continue to hide whatever my face is giving away . . . and also maybe avoid looking at Sam in the navy Members Only jacket he’s wearing. I don’t know who got him to trade the corduroy blazer he usually prefers for that, but it’s working. And again, it’s confusing.
While I’m looking out the window, though, I notice that it’s not the usual landmarks I always notice on our way home every day: the donut shop with the giant sprinkle donut fixed on top, the mural of sunset-colored kids playing, or the bright pink vintage clothing store with a rainbow flag flying outside.
“Um, where are we going?”
He looks at me like I just asked him why the ocean is blue. “To the spice store . . . I asked you if we could stop there real quick when we first got in the car? You nodded?”
“I did?” I guess I’ve been more present in my thoughts.
“I’m sorry,” Sam says, suddenly looking alarmed and rubbing the side of his face. “I thought it was . . . We can go home.” He flips on his signal immediately and starts trying to merge to the right.
“No, no, slow your roll.” I laugh, putting my hands up. “It’s cool. Sorry, I’m so spacey.”
“Okay, thanks. I’ll be fast. I promise. I just need to get a few things for a recipe I want to start tonight, and I need this specific kind of cinnamon stick.”
“Working on anything special?”
“Not really. Well, I guess kinda. I found out on Friday that I was chosen to present at the gala and—”
“What! Sam! That’s amazing!” I slap his shoulder. “How come you didn’t say anything?”
Now he’s the one avoiding my eyes, but I can see his pink cheeks. “I don’t know. It’s not that big of a deal.”
“Uh-uh. Of course it is. It’s huge! I’m so proud of you.” I almost tell him that I’ll be reading at the gala too, but then I have to remind myself that, no, that’s a lie. It’s easy to forget when I’ve spent the whole weekend submerged in it.
We pull up to a tiny shop squeezed between a bulk party supply store and a Laundromat in the Zaferia neighborhood. Sam rubs his hands together as we get out of the car, his face as excited as a little kid’s on Christmas morning.
“My mom and I have been going to this place for as long as I can remember. Mr. and Mrs. Chen—they’re the owners—they have the best selection of anyone in Long Beach. Everything from saffron to, like . . . borage. It’s really something special!”
It’s . . . cute, how he gets all worked up about spices. It reminds me of the time he let it slip that his stand mixer was named Ethel.
“I could stay here for hours. But of course I won’t stay long! We can be in and out, promise.”
My phone pings, and I’m surprised to see Nico’s name.
“Why don’t you go ahead and get started?” I say, waving Sam away. “I’ll be in in a sec.”
I don’t look up to see him walk away because I’m too transfixed with the texts popping up on my screen.
Sorry if I was weird today
Not if. I know I was
I just dont know what to do
I can feel my heart beating fast, and I send a response before I can think about it.
I can’t make that decision for you, Nico. But I’m here when you do.
Before my brain can spiral too much, I shove my phone into the pocket of my brown teddy coat and follow Sam into the store. I don’t need to be wearing a coat—it’s more for cuteness than to protect me from the pretty much nonexistent cold—and that’s even further apparent when I walk into the warm store, a bell ringing above the doorway when I enter. It’s bigger than it looks from the outside, with rows and rows of powders and seeds and dried plants in bags and jars. At the front is a tiny East Asian woman with white streaks in her black bob, standing in front of a cash register.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“No, I’m okay,” I say, trying to catch sight of Sam down one of the aisles. “But thank you.”
My phone goes off again in my pocket, but I fight the urge to pull it out. Instead I force myself to look at the different products on the shelves. There’s dried lavender in tall plastic baggies. Something especially fragrant called ras el hanout in glass jars. Next to that are tubs of something that looks like a mix of a beautiful flower and a terrifying bug the color of midnight. I sort of feel like I’m walking through a magical shop in a fantasy novel, and I can get why Sam likes this place so much. I want to reach out and touch everything, hold the containers to my nose, but I stick to the way I normally am in stores—hands out where they can be seen, standing at least a foot back.
I know it’s a little silly, because it’s not like I’ve ever stolen anything, but I always feel anxious in stores (well, more anxious than usual). I’m not oblivious to the way salespeople look at me, and I have had too many panicked nightmares about something accidentally falling into my bag and proving them right.
And it seems like I’m not wrong to worry, yet again, because I get that familiar prickly feeling of being watched. I look up to see that the woman has moved from her spot behind the counter and just happens to be rearranging something on the same aisle I’m in.
She smiles at me, but I catch her eyes flicking to my hands. I feel my neck burn red, even though I have no reason to feel embarrassed. I give her a polite smile back and then move on to another aisle.
Where is Sam? If I’m with him, maybe this lady will accept that I have a right to be here and stop giving me her suspicious looks. I go up and down two more rows looking for him, but he’s nowhere in sight. I don’t want to yell for him and make myself even more conspicuous, so I take out my phone and send him a text: Where are you? (I can’t help but notice there’s only a text from my mom asking when I’ll be home. Nothing from Nico.)
I cross my arms and stand in the middle of an aisle, waiting for a text back. Maybe I should just go outside?
“This aisle is for our rarest spices,” the woman says, appearing out of thin air just a few feet away from me again.
“Oh, wow,” I say, slapping on the plastic smile again. I want to yell, I don’t steal! I don’t even know what this stupid stuff is to want to steal it! Instead I mumble, “Uh, have you seen anyone else in the store? A guy?”
Her dark eyes flicker around us nervously, and then she leans in close, like she’s going to tell me a secret. Her breath smells like stale minty gum. “Everything here is very expensive. You sure you’re in the right place?”
Rage shoots through me like a shaken-up Coke bottle exploding, but I grind my teeth together, take a deep breath, and walk past her out of the store. The bell clangs so violently that I think it might fall off. I hope it does.
When Sam comes out five minutes later, I’m still steaming.
“You decided not to come in?” he asks with a dimpled smile, but then his face changes. “Hey, you okay?”
“Mm-hmm. Fine.” I just want to go home.
“No, you’re not,” he huffs. “We don’t need to keep doing this. I can tell.”
“Oh yeah? How?”
“I already told you, your face gives everything away. Like, right now . . . you always do this thing when you’re upset—like a wince? And you clutch your hands together,” he says, imitating me. If I wasn’t so pissed, I would laugh.
“It’s just . . . the lady in there . . . ,” I say slowly. I want to just drop it, because maybe it was just in my head. Maybe I was just being too sensitive. But no—I know that’s not it. “She, um, she kept following me around. Like I was going to steal something. And she made sure to tell me how expensive everything was.”
“What?” Sam asks, looking appropriately outraged. It somehow makes me feel better. “That’s bullshit, treating you like some criminal. I mean, you have a right to be there just like everyone else!”
“Thanks, yeah . . .” I shrug. “It happens.”
“I’m going to go talk to her!” He throws his bag down next to the car and storms off toward the store.
I grab his arm. “Please, Sam, no! It’s not worth it.” A scene is the last thing I want.
“Of course it’s worth it!” he yells, shaking me off, but then he puts his hand on my shoulder more gently. “You’re worth it,” he says, his eyes locked on mine. The spot on my shoulder feels warm, and it spreads to my stomach and my toes.
Before I know it, we’re both in the store again, standing in front of the woman. She’s smiling at first, but then she starts blinking too fast, trying to put us together in her mind.
“Mrs. Chen, my friend Tessa here told me that you treated her in a disrespectful manner and made her feel uncomfortable,” Sam says. He sounds all polite and perfect, like a Boy Scout. But still, my heart is beating too fast, and I have to fight the urge to run away from this confrontation.
“Sorry, Mr. Weiner,” she says, her voice different than it was with me, all syrupy and sweet now. “I didn’t know she was with you.”
Sam’s voice drops an octave. “It shouldn’t matter if she was with me.”
“We just have to be careful, you understand, we have our regulars and she isn’t the typical customer—”
“What’s a typical customer, huh? What do you mean by that? Let’s at least be forthright about this.” He’s not yelling, but his words have the same effect.
“Mr. Weiner, I didn’t mean anything by it,” she says, shaken. “You know, we’re a small business and it affects us when we lose inventory. . . . In the past, well, we’ve had shoplifters that look like . . . We have our policies, you see—”
“Well, fuck your polices.” I gasp. Who is this Sam? He keeps going, his voice icy and strong: “I will never shop in your store with these racist polices again. And I will tell my mom and all her associates to do the same.”
He turns to leave, but then stops and adds, “And fuck you too!”
With that, he’s out the door, and I don’t know what comes over me. Maybe it’s just built-up anger at all the sales associates and shop owners who have made me feel like I didn’t belong, like I had something to apologize for just for taking up space. “Yeah, fuck you!” I yell. It feels good.
We strut to the car and slam the doors shut, and when I turn to Sam, I find myself blinking a few times. And then a few times more, like you do when you first wake up and the world is still coming into focus. Because something’s different. He’s different. Or maybe he’s just who he’s been all along, and the different one is me.
“That was . . . ,” I start. “You didn’t have to do that.”
He hits his steering wheel once and then half laughs, half yelps, shaking his head. “Hey, sometimes you just have to say fuck you.” He rests his arm on the back of my seat. “I’m just sorry you had to put up with that in the first place.”
His hand falls to my shoulder, one finger stroking—slowly, tentatively. Our eyes meet, and I see the question there. A question that both thrills me and terrifies me.
I hear my phone ping, and without thinking about it, I take it out of my pocket. Sam quickly pulls his arm away and turns his key in the ignition. There’s just a one-word response from Nico.
Okay
And looking at Sam again, I’m starting to realize that I’ll be just that, regardless of what Nico decides.