by Jenny Han
The saleslady frowns. “Homey? Let’s see, we have a beautiful strawberry tart with a pistachio brûlée.”
“Umm . . .”
“Or how about a peanut butter–chocolate mousse cake?” she suggests.
Eagerly I nod. “Yes, yes!” Peanut butter is definitely homey.
She opens the display case and pulls out the cake with a flourish, and it looks like something my mom would describe as “truly decadent”—ganache was poured on top, and it has hardened into a shell, and there are chocolate shavings piled high like a modern sculpture. Chocolate-covered peanuts border the cake like a pearl necklace. This is the least homey cake I have ever seen.
I shout out, “Wait! I’m so sorry. Can you wait just one minute? I just need, like, two seconds to consult with my friend.”
The saleslady looks annoyed, but she gives me a fake smile, and I fake smile back and turn around and whip my cell phone out to call Kat. She would know what I should bring to the Tabatskys.
She takes forever to answer. “What up, what up, Lil.”
“Um, so, remember how I helped Reeve get a postgraduate year at a prep school?”
“No. I mean, you mentioned that it happened, but not that you helped him.”
“Ugh. Well, I didn’t really help him. I just gave him the idea.” Kat’s quiet, so I just keep going. “Anyway, his mom is so happy about it that she wants me to come over for dinner.” Hastily I add, “Just as friends. So, like, if you were going over to his house for dinner, what would you bring for dessert? If it was between a peanut butter–chocolate mousse cake and a strawberry tart?”
“Lil.”
My heart thumps. “Yes?”
“Did you or did you not shut that shit down like we discussed?”
The lie is right there on the tip of my tongue, Yes, of course, but I’m having a hard time saying it to Kat. “Well, basically. I mean—”
Kat groans. “Girl! What did I tell you?”
“Kat, please,” I whimper. On the other side of the room, the saleslady clears her throat and looks at the clock. Crap. The bakery is going to close soon. “Please. You can yell at me later, but for now will you just help me? Which is less fancy, peanut butter–chocolate mousse cake or a strawberry tart?”
Sighing, she says, “Umm . . . shit, I don’t know, Lillia. Reeve’s family is all dudes. Just, like, get a few gallons of cheapo Neapolitan and throw it at them, and they’ll lap it up like dogs.”
“Do any of them have any nut allergies or dietary restrictions?”
“Are you kidding me? Those guys don’t have freaking nut allergies. They’re animals. They grew up eating dirt and blood and roadkill. If any one of them had a nut allergy, the other brothers would beat it out of him.”
I stare at my phone in horror. Dirt and blood and roadkill? “You’re scaring me,” I whisper.
“Just buy the peanut-butter whatever and be done with it. And, Lil, after this dinner’s over, you and me are gonna have a talk. Aight?”
“Aight.”
* * *
I’ve never met a boy’s family before, like as a girlfriend. Not that they know I’m his girlfriend. But still.
Before I can ring the bell, Reeve’s already opening the door for me. He’s wearing a navy-blue turtleneck sweater that I’ve never seen before, and his hair is combed nicely. He takes the cake out of my hands, sets it on the entryway table, and sweeps me into his arms for a bear hug. He lifts me up in the air for a second before he puts me down. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he says, smiling big.
I try to smile back, but I’m so nervous. I can hear the TV on, and men’s voices shouting at it. Reeve picks up the cake box with one hand, and with the other hand he leads me into the kitchen, where his mom is taking dinner rolls out of the oven. I’ve met Mrs. Tabatsky before a bunch of times, at football games and when we’ve all hung out over here. And then at the hospital when Reeve got hurt.
She’s wearing an apron, and when we walk in, she beams at me. “Hello, Lillia. I’m so happy you could join us for dinner.” She has a faint Boston accent.
“Thank you so much for inviting me, Mrs. Tabatsky,” I say, talking too fast. “Is there, um, anything I can do to help?”
“No, honey. Just make yourself comfortable with the boys.” To Reeve she says, “Reevie, take her coat.”
Reeve sets the cake box on the counter and helps me out of my coat. “What’s in the box?” he asks me.
“It’s a cake,” I say.
“That was so thoughtful of you,” Mrs. Tabatsky says. “And it’s from Jean-Jacques, no less! Ooh la la!”
Reeve rolls his eyes and puts his arms around his mom. “My mom’s not used to the finer things. Don’t worry, Mom. When I’m big-time, I’ll buy you as many cakes from Jean-Jacques as you want.”
Mrs. Tabatsky laughs. “Lillia, you’re my witness. He said as many cakes as I want! So, what kind of cake is it, anyway?”
“It’s a peanut butter–chocolate mousse,” I say, and both their eyes light up. For the first time I notice that Reeve has his mom’s eyes.
* * *
Reeve has three brothers. The oldest is Luke, who I’ve only met once or twice. Luke set a bunch of sports records at our school—he played football and baseball, and the newspaper called him Jar Island’s Bo Jackson. He played football in college, but he got injured, so now he works with Reeve’s dad at the landscaping company. Next is Pete, who moved off island pretty recently. Then Tommy, who I know the best, because he’s only a couple of years older than us. Tommy used to get in trouble all the time at school. The stories about him are legendary. During gym, when Tommy was only fourteen, he used to take Coach’s car out for joyrides. He did it for a month before he got caught.
Reeve’s dad and his brothers Tommy and Luke are sitting in front of the TV, drinking beers and watching a hockey game. Of Reeve’s three brothers, Luke looks the most like Reeve. They’re both dark-haired, green-eyed, have the same proud nose. Tommy has lighter hair, and he’s shorter but more muscular.
Fun fact: Tommy was both Rennie’s and Kat’s first kiss.
Reeve and I stand in the doorway for a few seconds before Reeve shoves Tommy’s knee and says, “Make room for Lillia.”
Tommy stuffs a handful of potato chips into his mouth and scoots over, and there are crumbs scattered over the couch cushion. I’m trying to decide if I should sit on them and pretend I don’t see or if I should clean them up, when Tommy winks at me and sweeps the crumbs onto the carpet. Reeve glares at him. “I just vacuumed in here, you Neanderthal.”
Tommy ignores him. He pats the cushion, and I sit down next to him. Reeve squeezes in on Tommy’s other side. Tommy raises his eyebrow at me. “So are you and my little brother a thing, or what?”
I almost choke. “Nooo. We’re just friends.” I look over at Reeve, but he’s looking straight ahead at the TV.
“Just friends, huh?” Tommy leans closer to me. “Nah, I don’t think so. The kid is whipped over you. He spent hours cleaning up the living room before you got here.”
Reeve is scowling. “Really?” I say.
From the La-Z-Boy Luke chimes in, “Oh yeah.” He takes a swig of beer. “He had the Swiffer out and a duster and a fucking can of Pledge.”
“Shut it, you guys,” Reeve warns. He’s getting red, which is so adorable, I can’t even.
Tommy’s just getting started. “You know how long it took Reevie to get his hair looking like that tonight?” Tommy pretends like he’s looking in the mirror, primping and smoothing down his hair, which makes me giggle.
Reeve says, “Tommy, what are you even doing here? You moved out, remember?”
Tommy reaches over and messes with Reeve’s hair, and Reeve shrugs him off. “Aw, is Baby Reevie getting embarrassed in front of his girl?”
“Yeah, I’m embarrassed that I’m related to you,” Reeve retorts, his eyes focused on the TV screen. “And she just told you, she’s not my girl.”
“Then I guess she’s fair game.�
�� Tommy winks at me. “What do you say, Lil?”
I know he’s only teasing, but I can feel myself blush.
“Don’t waste your breath, Tom,” Reeve says. “Cho only talks to guys with IQs in the double digits.”
“No wonder she ain’t with you, then.” Tommy reaches over and play-slaps Reeve upside the head, and Reeve launches himself at Tommy and they start wrestling around. I jump up so I don’t get caught in the fray.
Mr. Tabatsky looks over at me from his armchair, unfazed. “You’d think they were raised in a back alley,” he says. “How are your parents doing, Lillia?”
“They’re great,” I say.
“Tell your mom to let me know if she needs me to take down any of the trees before the next snowstorm,” he says.
“I will,” I say.
Breathing hard, Reeve collapses onto the sofa and pats the seat next to him, which Tommy has now vacated. Tommy grins at me from the floor. “Sit down, Cho,” Reeve says.
I sit down next to him. “So where’s your cat?” I ask him. “I want to pet it.”
Reeve’s brow furrows. “Cat? We don’t have a cat. My mom’s allergic.”
Oh, Ren. Of course she lied about the cat! I smile to myself.
“What?” Reeve asks.
“Nothing,” I say. It’s crazy, but at moments like these I really miss her.
* * *
We sit down at the dining room table. Mr. Tabatsky is at the head, with Luke on his left and Mrs. Tabatsky on his right, and I’m down at the other end with Reeve and Tommy.
“Mom did her scalloped potatoes, which means she wants to impress you,” Tommy tells me. “They’re her specialty, so you better eat a lot.”
“Hush, Tommy,” Mrs. Tabatsky says, swatting at him. She slices pot roast and slides it onto my plate. “It’s not every day Reevie brings a girl home.”
I suck in my breath. So he never brought over Teresa or Melanie. I’m not like his other girls. I’m pressing my lips together and trying not to smile, when Reeve says, “I told you, Mom. It’s not like that. Cho’s just a friend from school.”
I stare down at my plate. Just a friend from school.
“All right, all right, Reevie. Cool your jets,” Mrs. Tabatsky says. “Lillia, we’re so glad to have you over tonight. We’ve been wanting to thank you for everything you did to help Reeve when he was injured.” She looks across the table at Reeve’s dad, who is chewing his pot roast. “Mr. Tabatsky and I obviously don’t know much about prep schools and fifth-year opportunities. We’re so glad he had you to guide him.”
Gruffly Mr. Tabatsky says, “When those college scouts scattered like cockroaches, I thought Reevie was done for. But now he’s got a second chance to play ball again.” Nodding to himself, he says, “I can’t wait to slam our front door in their faces when they come calling after they see what Reeve’ll do next season.”
“We’re not slamming the door in anybody’s face,” Reeve’s mom chides. “But we’re gonna make them work for it, that’s for sure.” She dimples. “My baby is a star.”
“He ain’t all that, Mom,” Luke says. “Don’t forget your firstborn.” He points to his trophies lining the top shelf of Mrs. Tabatsky’s china closet, and Tommy laughs so hard he almost spits out his milk.
Mrs. Tabatsky silences them with a glare and turns to me again. “It’s all thanks to you, Lillia.”
Guilt stabs my heart. It’s all thanks to me that Reeve almost lost everything in the first place.
“Who wants more potatoes?” Mrs. Tabatsky asks.
Immediately I say, “I’d love some more,” even though I’m not finished with my first helping yet. I’ll eat every single bite on my plate and more if it means I’ll stay on Mrs. Tabatsky’s good side.
* * *
After dessert Reeve walks me outside. We’re almost at my car when he says, “Let’s go for a drive.”
We get into his truck and drive to the woods.
I can tell something’s wrong. I reach out and touch his hair in the back, where it’s soft and curls against my hand. He likes it when I touch him here. But he doesn’t melt against my hand the way he usually does. He stays rigid. “What are we doing, Cho?”
I go cold. “I don’t know.”
“This doesn’t feel right. I don’t like lying to my family. I want to introduce you as my girlfriend.” Reeve goes quiet, and then he says, his voice halting, “I got into another prep school. . . . It’s an all-boys school called Graydon. It’s an hour outside Boston.”
I sit up straight and turn to look at him. “Really?” Benedictine is all the way in Delaware.
He’s watching me closely. “BC’s still your top choice, right?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“So . . .” Reeve shrugs his shoulders. “Then that’s where I’ll be.”
“But what about Benedictine?”
“It’s too far away. I don’t want us to be so far apart.” I’m staring at him, and he colors. “I mean, unless that’s what you want. I’ll do whatever you want to do. If you don’t want to try for a long-distance thing, or if you do . . . it’s . . . whatever. I’m just laying out options.” He swallows. “It’s as good a school as Benedictine, too. Plus, their coach played pro ball back in the day. But . . . you know, like I said, it’s just another option. No pressure. I don’t have to decide right away.”
My heart is thrumming in my chest. This thing with me and Reeve . . . it doesn’t have to be a secret forever. I lean forward and press my lips against his. “Yes, yes, yes, yes,” I whisper against his mouth.
He pulls back, and his face breaks into a grin. “Yeah? Are you sure?”
“Sure, I’m sure!” The thought that this—we—get to continue, that he wants it to—it’s everything.
Reeve lets out a breath and relaxes his shoulders. “Okay, cool. Awesome. So we’ll just bide our time until graduation, and then we’re out of here.” He pulls his phone out of his coat pocket. “You need to get home soon.”
That he was nervous and unsure of me, it’s so sweet I could die. I want to give him something of me in return.
My hand is shaking as I unzip my coat, reach behind under my sweater, and unhook my bra. I pull it out of my jacket armhole, and I’m glad I wore a pretty one today—sheer pink with a dove-gray bow in the center. Reeve has stopped breathing and is watching me like a boy in a trance. He doesn’t take his eyes off me, and all of a sudden I feel like a queen. I take his hand, and I slide it underneath my sweater and up my front, all the way to my heart. “You can touch me,” I whisper, and I let go, and he cups his hand around the curve of my breast. I wonder if he can feel my heart pounding against his hand. It’s beating so hard and so fast, he must. I know he’s been with other girls, that this is nothing new. But the way he looks at me, like I am a revelation, a treasure to behold, it takes my breath away, and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than here.
Chapter Sixteen
KAT
I CRASH INTO MY HOMEROOM seat, tuck my headphones into my ears, and lay my head down so my cheek is on my desk. Then I press play and turn the volume up and up and up, basically as loud as it can go. The kids milling around hear it too, because they turn and look my way for a second. Then they go back to their business of being annoying, and I go back to my business of ignoring them.
I close my eyes and try to fall asleep, but the fluorescent lighting in here is just too awful. It colors the backs of my eyelids acid yellow. So I’m forced to watch the girls parade into the room like a silent movie scored by my favorite punk band from Germany, Umlaut Suicide.
I don’t know exactly when this became the thing at our high school, but every February 14 everyone with boobs dresses up like a literal living Valentine. Red pleated skirts, pink fuzzy sweaters, white kneesocks with hearts running up the backs. They do their hair up special, barrel curled or braided with ribbons or pinned up with sparkly barrettes. I shift myself and bury my nose in the arm of my hoodie, because the smells of all the different perfumes m
ake me want to barf.
The boys, they don’t wear anything special. They have a different responsibility today.
Since the first of the month, there’s been a mention every single morning about placing orders for the rose sale run by the student council.
Yellow roses are symbols of friendship, sold for a dollar a stem. Pink roses are for crushes, at three dollars a stem. Red roses mean true love and are sold for a whopping five bucks a stem. On the morning of Valentine’s Day, a student council person goes to each homeroom and delivers the flowers, and then the girls compare who got the most.
It’s, like, the biggest affront to feminism, like, ever.
Back when I was a freshman, anyone could buy whatever color rose they wanted for someone else. But the “rules” have changed over the years as the girls have gotten more competitive. Now you can only buy red roses for a person of the opposite gender, unless you’re gay, because we are very progressive. It’s effing ridiculous, if you ask me.
Now, I’m not trying to shit on the very idea of Valentine’s Day. I’m a fan of love. I’m a sucker for romance. Truth be told, when I’m home alone, I usually channel surf to the sappiest movie I can find, one where the sound track is just violins and there are, like, big passionate kisses at the airport, or on some rocky beach. Or, best of all, in a hospital bed.
It’s Valentine’s Day played out inside our high school that’s utter bullshit. I mean, I don’t think I could find even one or two couples in the whole school who are really, truly in love.
Love is not a big show of spending fifty bucks on some bullshit flowers as part of a fund-raiser for school. I’ve seen plenty of girls get a red rose from their boyfriends, and then they’re screaming at each other ten minutes later in the hallway.
They don’t know what love is. They’re just hopped up on hormones.
I’m sure some people think I’m bitter because I’ve never gotten a rose. First off, none of my guy friends are going to waste their money on dumb shit like that. You can get better roses at the dang gas station for half of what our school charges, and they won’t be wilted by eighth period either.
