Truth: The simplest explanation is usually the right one.
Truth: Sometimes there is no simple explanation.
Alternative fact: You’re wrong on both counts.
“Can I walk you home?” Richard was at my locker when I arrived after my last class. Not sure how he got there so fast since my classroom was a lot closer, but as Asma would say, he was eager. Eager was good.
“Are you going to hold my books, too? Let me wear your varsity letter jacket, maybe?”
“If you’re cold, sure,” he said, eyes sparkling.
“That was a joke.” I spun my locker combination and grabbed my coat and hat, shoved my journalism and current events class binders into my backpack, and shrugged it over my shoulders. Did I mention that sarcasm was my fallback mode whenever I felt awkward? A disdainful worldview often made excellent armor.
Richard grinned and bent down to whisper in my ear. “I think sarcasm is hot.”
My cheeks flushed. I turned to my locker and pulled my scarf from my coat pocket and wrapped it around my neck, tucking my chin into it. I felt like I’d been caught flat-footed, but I shut my locker, mustered up a little courage, and said, “I think you like saying things that get people all flustered.”
“Not all people, just you.” Richard’s eyes twinkled as he spoke.
Ugh. The perfect lines rolled off his tongue. I shook my head as we started to head out. “You have my vote for Biggest Flirt, but you’re probably a shoo-in anyway.” The yearbook kids organized the senior awards ballots and named the winners of the goofy categories in a two-page spread with caricatures. Not sure which category they could invent for me.
“So my legacy is secure.” He laughed as he pushed open the door.
“Legacy? What high school senior thinks about their legacy?”
“Ah, you haven’t met my dad. Lucky you.” Richard drew a knit navy-blue cap from his pocket and fitted it over his head. “He can’t shut up about it.”
“That’s gotta suck, at least a little,” I said, trying to sound sympathetic. My parents never used words like “legacy”; honestly, it seemed a term solely reserved for wealthy Americans, but maybe it wasn’t that different from wanting to live up to your parents’ expectations, which I definitely understood.
“More than a little. He drones on about all the things I have to do. About the things the family expects of me. That’s basically why I’m captain of lacrosse and swim. One wasn’t good enough for my dad. And it turns out that two wasn’t good enough for Harvard.” Richard looked away, his face twisted in a grimace.
“What do you mean? I thought you wanted to go to Yale.”
“I do. But my dad leaned on me hard to apply to Harvard, and I didn’t get in early action.”
I was floored. Richard had never told me any of this before. And I’d never seen him look so bummed. He was generally the cheerful type, always smiling. “Sorry. I didn’t know about that.”
“Yeah. I didn’t tell anyone. Not even the guys on the team. I wasn’t going to apply, and I think I did a half-ass job on my essays. But, wow, my dad was pissed.”
“Is that where he went?”
“That’s the thing—he went to Michigan, but he’s been obsessed with me getting into Harvard forever. There’s pictures of me in a Harvard onesie as a baby.” He shook his head.
“Gee. No pressure.”
“Right? It’s like he wants to live vicariously through me. He got even more pissed when I told him maybe Harvard didn’t want another rich white kid who played lacrosse at their school.”
I chuckled.
“Look,” Richard said, “I’m not afraid to admit I’m a little vanilla.”
“In fact, vanilla is a much more complex flavor than most people understand.”
“Ha! Tell that to Harvard.”
We continued walking quietly in the direction of my apartment. The midday sun had already started to fade. It would be dark in less than two hours. The gray of winter and the early sunsets always depressed me a little. The wind whipped up a few fallen leaves as we turned the corner onto a quiet street. I shivered and snuggled into my coat. Richard edged closer to me as we walked and then put his arm around my shoulder. I let him pull me closer to him. His arm was warm against my back. I could even feel the heat through the wool of his peacoat and the layers of my army-green parka—a hand-me-down from Asma, barely worn and so cozy. Her generosity never had strings attached, but it sometimes still pinched a little. I didn’t talk much about privilege and money with my friends, not directly, but everyone knows when you’re the scholarship kid.
Richard broke the silence. “You know, when I was in your store the other day and you were talking about working with your parents, I kind of envied it.”
“Believe me, restocking shelves is not as glamorous as it seems.” I nudged him a little.
“No. I mean, you seem to get along with your parents. Like you enjoy each other’s company.”
“I think that’s called being a family,” I said, but instantly regretted it when I saw the tight smile on Richard’s face. “I mean… yeah, basically, we get along. And they’re pretty cool about not pressuring me about school stuff, but I’m a kid of immigrants. I still feel the pressure to do well, to help them out.”
Richard paused and turned to me as I stopped next to him. “God, I’m a jerk. Listen to me. Poor little rich kid with a bunch of first world problems.”
“It’s cool,” I said. “You feel your problems how you feel your problems, you know? Like, I know it was hard to decide between a Benz and Beemer. I feel your pain.”
Richard raised an eyebrow and then chuckled. “Touché.”
I gazed up at him as we continued walking. My scholarship status and beat-up Docs didn’t seem to matter to him, not like they did to so many of the other kids. And it felt good that he could confide in me, share a secret that was a little painful. More and more Richard surprised me, in a good way.
“So… um… I have a question.” Richard paused, stretching out his syllables.
I pulled away so I could turn to look at him. “Go on.” I bit my lower lip, unsure what to expect. I generally lived by an “expect the worst, hope for something not the worst” motto. But secretly I was hoping for more. Secretly I was optimistic.
“I know you were all hard pass on Winter Ball. But would you consider, uh, reconsider going?”
“Going?”
“With me, I mean. To the dance. Would you like to go with me?”
What my heart was saying: YES!
What my mind was saying: Be cool. Don’t be a dork.
What my body was saying: Don’t worry, upper lip sweat in winter is totally normal.
What my mouth said: “I don’t really dance.…”
Wait. What? No. My brain said be cool, not icy.
“Well… I would very much be into not dancing. With you.” A smile spread across Richard’s face and made his eyes twinkle. “I’m sure we could find something better to keep us occupied,” he added.
My jaw dropped. “Uh, excuuuuse me?” I said, pretending to be scandalized.
“I meant… um… I didn’t mean it like that! We could, like, hang, talk, or take a stupid number of goofy selfies. You know, senior year, last hurrahs.” I didn’t know Richard that well, but I did know he rarely stumbled over his words. It was sort of cute.
“Sure, that could be fun.” I rushed my words so I wouldn’t chicken out, and quickened my pace. I tried to sneakily sponge away the sweat from my glistening face with the back of my mitten, but the truth was, I needed to take off my hat, my coat, my scarf.… My entire body felt overheated. Richard took a couple long strides to catch up to me and then followed in lockstep.
I was going to a dance. Winter Ball. Me. The girl who didn’t like to dance and whose only fancy shoes were the khussa slippers I wore to Eid. Well, those and a pair of silver sparkly heels that I was forced to wear to a family wedding and that pinched and gave me blisters and were lost in the black hole of my closet. This was going to break my streak of never going to school formals. I had no dress to wear. Butterflies battered around my stomach and… was I possibly feeling giddy? Oh my God. I was giddy. I was embarrassed for myself. And yet… I finally understood why people broke out into song in musicals.
The wind continued to stir leaves and shake branches as we walked the last block to my place. “Our apartment is above my parents’ grocery.” I pointed to our building once it came into sight.
Richard nodded. “I think you mentioned that in chem.”
“Well, that was forward of me,” I joked. I liked that Richard paid attention to details, like with the garbage cookies. So many guys in our class only paid attention to their own BS.
My phone buzzed as we neared the store. It was Usman: Jawad’s parents got another text. Maybe from the kidnappers.
“Holy crap,” I blurted.
“Everything okay?” Richard asked.
“Yeah, hang on.”
What did it say? I texted back after removing my mittens.
I stole a glance at Richard. His eyebrows were scrunched together. He looked worried.
“Everyone is fine,” I said. Then hesitated. Rachel, Asma, Usman, and I had agreed that we’d keep our little fact-finding mission under wraps. But we were trying to keep it a secret from Hardy and Ms. Cary. Not Winter Ball dates. (I had a date?!) “Usman interviewed Jawad’s parents.”
“Whoa. That must’ve been intense.”
I nodded, a bit distracted, looking from my phone back to Richard. “Apparently, they got another text. Not sure if it’s from the kidnappers.”
My phone buzzed again. Took Usman long enough. It was a photo of a text screen on a phone: Dead are all gods: now we want the supermen to live.
More gods and death? What the hell?
I texted back: Call you in 5.
“Sorry,” I said to Richard. “I gotta call Usman.”
He looked disappointed. “I was going to try and convince you to hang a little longer. Maybe do some homework at that table.” He pointed to the Formica table in the store window. “But I get it. Maybe we can grab lunch tomorrow?”
“Oh, umm… I’m meeting up with my friends again.” I winced. I didn’t mean to make it sound like I wasn’t friends with Richard. “Newspaper things,” I explained. “Trying to keep some stuff from the prying eyes of Ms. Cary. I’m pretty sure she tells Hardy everything.”
He gave me a half nod. Richard had asked me to Winter Ball, and now I was kind of blowing him off? If there were rules or social cues for this moment, I didn’t know them. And I was antsy to call Usman. Although I was torn because I wanted to hang with Richard. My Winter Ball date, who was very good at flirty banter and smiling and making me feel like some animated version of myself, a girl in a musical wearing a twirly skirt and singing alongside chirpy woodland creatures. But I had to focus on Jawad. This new text could be a bombshell.
My mind wandered, and an awkward silence filled the space between Richard and me. “More sleuthing?” he prompted.
“Something like that.” I reached into my bag, fumbling for my keys. “I’ll text you later?” I didn’t want to be rude, but I had to call Usman. “I’m excited for the dance,” I added as a consolation. Then, remembering what Asma had said about maybe letting my guard down a little, I let my impulse take over, stepped closer to Richard, and kissed him on the cheek.
He smiled. “Can’t wait for it.” He brushed the back of his index finger against my cheek. I had no idea how his hands could be so warm when he never wore gloves. It was nice, though, the perfect complement to my constantly cold hands. He winked at me and gave me a huge smile as we parted. Dimples appeared. Pretend fireworks went off in the air around us. Cartoon birds sang. There might have been heart palpitations. I waved at him as he crossed the street.
I stepped through the door into our apartment vestibule, those cartoon birds still singing. My phone buzzed, another text from Usman: That text is a Nietzsche quote.
Oh. My. God.