by Laura Steven
A shiver of self-loathing runs through me, and at first I struggle to figure out why. I am not personally responsible for the terminal illness of an old lady. When I put my finger on it, though, I realize it’s because of the shallow lens through which I’ve been viewing Madison and Guadalupe’s relationship. Not bothering to wonder what they’re like or what problems they have or why they love each other, but instead fixating on their societal attractiveness and whether it conformed to the Matching Hypothesis. Such a reductive way to view a sweet and caring relationship. Such a reductive way to view the world.
God, what kind of asshole was I? Going around judging everyone in terms of objective hotness? I’m part of the problem. I hated when people judged me for my looks, and I did the exact same thing under the guise of scientific curiosity.
Part of me wants to check in and make sure Madison is okay, but they leave the cafeteria before I pluck up the courage and at chess club they’re nowhere to be seen. I beat Mateo for the eleventh time in a row and reject Zane’s advances when he offers to fork my queen. (I wish I was joking.) I also play against Nafisa Sharraf, who’s on the debate team with Mateo. She’s killer at anything to do with strategy and won some kind of Model UN award in our sophomore year. She’s an equally impressive chess player, but I actually manage to beat her. She’s so stunned by my innovative trapping checkmate with a pawn and a knight that she gives me a literal round of applause. The victory leaves me glowing for hours.
People come up to me in the hallway to compliment me on this morning’s random burst of running, and to tell me I should try out for the team. The girls’ captain presses her phone number into my hand, in case I want any advice, and no fewer than five guys offer to help me train in the gym. I can only assume this is a euphemism.
While all this is happening, the chip on Keiko’s shoulder grows roughly to the size of Honolulu. I can tell that while this was funny and intriguing when it first started happening, and while my roasted honey eggplant spell was as delicious as it was nonsensical, she’s getting tired of being overshadowed.
And it makes me anxious. I hate feeling like she’s mad at me. She seems to have so much power over me, whether that’s making me unspeakably happy with genuine compliments, or giving me tumble-dryer belly because she’s pissed.
The outfit she’s wearing today is one of her most out there yet: skin-tight purple snakeskin pants, white peplum shirt with huge bell sleeves, and white boots with heels higher than the Empire State. She’s dyed her blue hair a delicate lilac, and her undercut is freshly buzzed. Honestly, she looks incredible. The outfit accentuates her soft curves, the heels give her an Amazonian stature, the lipstick pulls your gaze to her pronounced Cupid’s bow.
She is trying, hard, to wrangle the attention back from me. But it’s not working. And she’s becoming a bit of a jerk about it.
‘What should I wear to hang out with Haruki tonight?’ I ask her as we’re leaving school together. Gabs is tutoring, and Keiko has band practice later.
‘Doesn’t matter, does it?’ Keiko stares at her phone as we walk. Like literally not even looking up to see where she’s walking. I have no idea how she’s not gone all Crash Bandicoot at this point. ‘You can get anyone you want no matter what you wear. Overalls or not.’
I mean, this is technically true. Still, the edge in her voice bristles. I decide it’s not worth the hassle of calling her out, so I decide to try and lighten the mood instead.
I blink innocently, looking down at my outfit. My legs are already aching from earlier. ‘What’s wrong with overalls?’
Keiko smirks, but not kindly. ‘What’s right with overalls?’
I hold my hands up. ‘Hey, maybe I like looking like a decorator.’
‘Each to their own,’ she retorts flatly.
Usually I’d just let her sulk in peace, but I don’t feel like it today. She’s been amazing friend to me over the years, but lately she’s been kinda sucky, and I’ve been a total doormat about it. Maybe I’m still fired up from my running frenzy, because I stop on the sidewalk and wait in place until she does the same. She looks irritated, but not surprised.
‘Kiks, what’s up?’ I ask, keeping my tone level and soft. ‘You’ve been weird with me for weeks now. Just talk to me.’
‘I dunno, alright?’ She stares into the road, at the line of traffic leaving the school campus. Samira sits behind the wheel of a blue SUV, a sophomore guy with thick black dreads sitting in the passenger seat, playing with her hair. ‘Something’s changed between us. I don’t know what.’
Samira cranks the window down to let some fresh air into the car, and the second she does, her co-pilot cocks his head, then looks out the window at me. Our eyes lock, and he immediately stops playing with Samira’s hair. She follows his line of vision, sees me on the sidewalk in my thrifted overalls, and shoots me daggers. Daggers I probably deserve.
I swallow back the guilt and turn to Keiko. ‘Is it because I’m getting attention for the first time in . . . well, ever?’
Too fast, she snips, ‘It’s not that.’
‘Well, what is it then?’
A long pause. A gaggle of freshman girls jostle past us as though we’re invisible, and I can tell it stings Keiko. She’s used to being seen. ‘Okay, maybe it’s that. I just don’t like . . . never mind.’
‘What?’ I nudge. ‘Sharing me?’
‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’
For a second I consider leaving it be, but I know there’s something deeper. I know she’s not telling me the whole truth. And who knows when I’ll next feel confident enough to stand face-to-face with her and demand she talk. I go straight to the uncomfortable root; the ugly, gnarled thing I suspect is driving this mood of hers.
Another car horn toots appreciatively. We turn around, and it’s clear the guy behind the wheel has eyes only for me.
Measuredly, I turn back to Keiko and say, ‘You don’t like me being the one people look at.’
‘God, Caro! No!’ she snaps, way more rage in her voice than the situation demands. That’s what gives her away. ‘Jesus. Nice to know how little you think of me. No benefit of the doubt here.’
My face burns, my anger rising to meet hers. She is jealous, and instead of being flattered, I’m pissed. Does our friendship really hinge on me being the unattractive one? On her being my savior; the cool kid who took pity and gathered me under her beautiful wing? Well, fuck it. I’m tired of living in her shadow.
‘Whatever, Keiko.’ I know that doesn’t sound like much, but coming from me, such a dismissal is essentially assault and battery.
I walk home alone, leaving her on the sidewalk amongst a whole bunch of people who’ve stopped seeing her and, for better or worse, started seeing me instead.
Having agreed to a sunset stroll, Haruki and I arrange to meet by Gordon at seven. Gordon is the giant elm tree that arcs over the river right where it forks. I have no clue why he’s called Gordon. Or whether he’s even a he. Is it offensive to gender trees? Whatever. Gordon is definitely a dude.
Haruki is already waiting on a bench by the time I arrive at six-thirty. He leaps up as I walk toward him, arms outstretched. ‘You did it!’ he yells.
I laugh as I close the distance between us. ‘Did what?’
When Haruki wraps his arms around me, I’m surprised. I don’t know why, exactly. I’ve been hugged before, but never in a romantic way. Never intimately. Never by a guy other than my dads.
It doesn’t last overly long, just enough for me to sink into his warm arms and inhale his scent – fresh laundry and an expensive, tobacco-y cologne. When he pulls away, I wish it had lasted longer. I pull down my sleeves to hide the goosepimples.
We start walking down the river trail. ‘Running,’ he explains, and I’d almost forgotten about my question. ‘Last time we hung out you said you wanted to give running a go. See how fast you were. How was it?’
I beam. I can’t believe he remembered. I can’t believe he paid that much attention to me, to the t
hings I wanted. ‘It was so great . . . at the time. My legs are killing me now.’
He looks me up and down and quirks his lip in a gently mocking smile. ‘Is that why you’re walking like you have a coat hanger up your ass?’
I cackle with laughter. ‘Pretty much.’
‘Did your friends get mad at you about it, like you thought?’
I’m on the verge of telling him about my blow-up with Keiko, but then I realize the only person I really want to talk to about it right now is . . . Keiko. I want her sassy advice and unwavering confidence that everything will be fine. I want her ability to make me smile and believe in myself. Then I remember that now I do believe in myself, she can’t handle it. The sadness is hollow and numbing.
Haruki breaks the silence I didn’t realize was stretching out. ‘I’ll take that as a yes. Maybe you need better friends.’
My shoulders tense as I leap to defend them. ‘My friends are fucking awesome, thank you. And besides, may I remind you of how Ryan acted last weekend?’
He holds up his hands as though begging for mercy. ‘Okay, let’s not get into that. I want to enjoy tonight.’
‘Fine,’ I say, resigning myself to the fact that it’s safer not to prompt more questions about why Ryan was so fixated on me.
The water gushes alongside us as we walk. It’s been azure blue all summer, but today it’s a pale, delicate grey. I clear my throat. ‘So, tell me about your family. What’s it like being . . .’
‘Rich?’ He says the word as though it’s a terminal illness.
‘Pretty much,’ I reply, even though that’s not really what I meant. It is interesting that that’s how he took it, though. That that’s the first word that comes to mind when he thinks of his family.
‘Honestly, there’s not much I can say that makes me sound like not an asshole.’ His words have taken on a firmer quality, like he wants this conversation to be on his terms. He’s defensive. ‘I could say I didn’t realize I was rich until I went to my grade-school friend’s house for the first time, which is true. Or I could say it was pretty great being able to make the coolest HEMA costumes ever, which is also true. Or I could say I feel guilty about it basically all the time, which is . . . also true.’
‘Why guilty?’ I ask. My parents aren’t exactly rich, but they aren’t poor either. I don’t think about it that much, which I guess makes me privileged as hell.
‘My parents aren’t good rich people,’ he says, playing with the zipper on his black hoodie. ‘They don’t give to charity or open soup kitchens or even leave all that good a tip when they go out to dinner. They buy handbags and private jets and –’
‘You have a private fucking jet?’
He laughs, but stiffly. ‘I mean, I’m sure they use it for things other than fucking. But sure.’
‘Do you not realize how absurd that is?’ I don’t know where this judgmental tone comes from, having just had a realisation about my own privilege, but seriously. Who has a private jet in real life?
‘Yup. Hence, guilt. A few months ago I read this interview with the Disney heiress, who said that if she was queen of the world, she would pass a law against private jets, because they enable you to get around a certain reality. Like, you don’t have to shove your way through an airport terminal, you don’t have to interact with other people, you don’t have to be patient, you don’t have to be uncomfortable. Those are the things that remind us we’re human. So, yeah. We’re obviously not as rich as the Disneys, but I hate that my parents think they’re better than other people just because they have a jet.’
There’s a pause as I process this. The vitriol with which he talks about his parents and their worldview is entirely new to me. I can’t imagine ever feeling that resentful toward my dads. The thought makes me feel guilty and grateful all at the same time.
‘Is there anything you do like about them?’ I ask tentatively. ‘Your parents?’
He considers this, still yanking the zipper up to his throat and then down again. His Adam’s apple bobs against it. ‘My mom has a killer sense of humor. And my dad . . . I like his brother. My uncle and cousins are so great. They got me into HEMA.’
A middle-aged man is walking a yappy terrier nearby, and the dog is pulling frantically on the lead to try and get to me. I press my lips shut to keep from laughing as the poor man drags his dog in the opposite direction, shooting bemused glances at me, Haruki and Gordon.
By means of explanation, I quickly say, ‘He must smell Sirius. Anyway, you keep bringing up HEMA. I like that.’
Some of the tension in his stance softens. ‘Maybe because it’s a novelty. Gives me kind of a thrill to be able to mention it to a girl and not have her run screaming.’
I make a weird half-laugh, half-pffft noise. ‘It pays to slum it with the Unpopulars every now and then.’
He stops in his tracks, the same way I did with Keiko earlier, and at first a surge of anxiety courses through me. Is he about to end . . . whatever this is? Did I just break the eggplant spell by reminding him of my social status?
Instead, he takes my hands in his. In that moment, I am so damn grateful for the arrival of fall. No sweat. Nailed it.
My heart flutters as he strokes the backs of my hands with his thumb. ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Don’t do that.’
‘Do what?’ I ask, my voice breathy and hitching in my throat.
His eyes bore into mine, dark and intense, like he’s trying to tell me something of paramount importance. ‘Sell yourself short.’
‘I mean, it’s true,’ I say. ‘I am unpopular.’ Then I grin. ‘That doesn’t mean I’m not awesome.’
It rocks me to my core to realize I kind of mean it. Is that the pills talking? Or is it a notion that’s actually taken root in me? There’s no time to unpack it now, in the moment, because:
‘Do you mind if I kiss you now?’ he asks gently.
Then my breath really does catch in my throat. ‘Yes. I mean. No. I don’t mind. That was a confusingly phrased ques—’
He leans in, all fresh laundry and dimples, and cups my face in his hands. As he presses his lips against mine, I’m both tense and relaxed, happy and scared, a thousand different dichotomies all at once. His lips are soft and taste of Earl Grey tea, and there are no tongues, not like the thirsty style Kevin Cartwright employed. It’s sweet and nice, but there’s heat underneath it, in the way he presses his muscular body against mine, the way he lightly grazes my bottom lip with his teeth.
I am kissing Haruki Ito. A thousand different past versions of me ache at the thought.
The river babbles in the background. He pulls away, slowly and reluctantly, like the air is treacle.
‘Caro . . . will you be my girlfriend?’
There it is. The sentence of my dreams.
I’ve fantasized about this moment since the second week of freshman year, when Haruki strolled into Math in an overly formal Ralph Lauren button-down and promptly spilled Diet Coke right down the front. His star power was apparent then, because everyone laughed with him, not at him, and multiple kids offered to trade shirts with him. He refused all of them – not because he didn’t want a clean shirt, but because he didn’t want anyone else to have to wear his dirty one.
From that moment on, I’ve been infatuated with him. He is kind and hot and smart and universally adored, and I never, never in a million years, thought he would ever be mine.
Now he’s finally asking me. And it doesn’t feel the way I wanted it to; the way I always thought it would.
Because I cheated. I didn’t earn it.
You’re being too hard on yourself, a voice in my head insists. People do things to trick other people into finding them attractive all the time. Contoured cheeks and push-up bras and musky perfume. Flattering clothes and hair gel and that Basic Bitch Boy haircut they all have. We’re all playing the game, aren’t we?
Yet Haruki’s question doesn’t carry the weight it should. It feels forced and . . . inevitable. It strikes me for the first time that ine
vitability is not something you want when it comes to romance. The longing, the wondering, the what-ifs are what make these moments so sweet – are what make you truly value another person – and I eliminated all that. I rigged the game, so I knew I was going to win. As a result, this moment feels flat, and I hate that it does.
Haruki’s eyes study me intently, his lips full and pink from the kiss.
‘Of course I’ll be your girlfriend,’ I say, and I lean in and kiss him again just so I don’t have to force a smile.
15
By the time I get home, my initial discomfort over this turn of events has made way for a level contentment. In open defiance of the Matching Hypothesis, Haruki Ito is my boyfriend. I keep saying those words to myself, over and over again like a mantra.
I am living in a rom-com. This doesn’t happen in real life. The hot, charismatic, popular, rich, athletic, smart guy doesn’t go for the average-looking dork.
No, I tell myself forcefully. Not average-looking. I smile to myself, hitting replay on Keiko’s words:
‘Do you honestly not see that you’re beautiful? You’ve got that distinctive fifties movie-star thing going on. I think you’re like . . . a lake on a winter morning.’
The words are precious jewels, for some reason all the more precious because Keiko gifted them to me. I wrap them in tissue and guard them in my heart, not sure whether she’ll ever say anything like that again. Whether she’ll ever say anything to me again. I already regret snapping at her.
The second I’m through the front door, Sirius pins me to the door and begins humping my thigh like it’s the last bang of his life. To be fair to him, it might be. This is becoming a nightly ritual: come home from school, endure a thorough leg-boning from my one-eyed hound, then help Dad make dinner. The way all Cinderella stories unfold, right?
Vati is in the living room doing a Zumba DVD completely unironically. I find Dad in the kitchen, chopping carrots for the casserole. I’m horrified to note one of said carrots is the very same cock-and-balls monstrosity that Vati and I found in the garden. I decide there and then to go on hunger strike.
