by Pintip Dunn
He gestures to the m-shaped jungle gym. “Race you to the middle.”
We take our positions on opposite sides, and on the count of three, we climb ten feet off the ground to the first crest before lowering ourselves to the valley in the middle. We arrive at approximately the same time, bump noses, and start cracking up. I can’t remember the last time my stomach was this achy and glowy at once.
I lie back on the jungle gym, the curve of the structure a perfect cradle for my back. “No boy ever dipped my hair in glue,” I say. A few clouds have drifted over the moon, so both the stars and the shining white orb are dimmed.
He mimics my position, but opposite, so that my feet are by his head and vice versa. “They couldn’t bear to mess up your hair.”
“Nah. They just didn’t think of me that way. I was like an alien from outer space.”
He nods slowly. “I can see how you would feel that way. How others might make you feel that way. But I never thought you looked different. I thought you looked like you. And I like that. More people should look like you.”
“They do. Just go to Thailand. They all look like me over there.”
“Somehow I doubt that.” He grabs my sneaker. I feel the jolt all the way through the canvas. “I doubt that very much.”
“How do you deal with it?” I ask suddenly. “You’re different, too. The way you dress, the way you act. I mean, you’re super talented, but it can’t be easy for you, being a ballroom dancer. The guys must give you a hard time.” I stop, wondering if I’ve assumed too much. Projected too many of my own feelings onto him.
He shrugs. “It’s not that bad. I’ve been friends with those guys forever, Walt, Grant, the whole group of them. Doesn’t mean they don’t think I’m weird. But they give me a pass, mostly because of my mom.”
I swallow hard. I know his mom passed away a few years ago in a car accident. We all do. In a town like Foxville, you know everybody’s business, even if you’ve never talked to them.
“She died when I was thirteen,” he continues. His voice is perfectly even, perfectly normal, but I take his hand anyway. I know how it feels to lose a parent. I know what it’s like to walk around with a gaping hole in your heart.
“Before she died, though, she was the nicest mom in the world. All my friends loved her. She always had cookies for us, and she just listened, you know? Not just to me, but also to Scott, when he got his first girlfriend in the seventh grade. Walt, when he messed up his knee and had to sit out an entire football season.
“She was a ballroom dancer, and she used to give all of us dance lessons. The guys grumbled and complained—but they went along with it. And you know what? I think we all liked it, even Walt. And then she died.”
He looks down at our hands, at our interwoven fingers of dark and light skin. In the dimness of the night, however, I can hardly tell the difference in our skin color.
“Her death . . . was hard on me,” he says slowly. “I’m not going to lie. I don’t know how I got through the year.”
I tighten my grip.
“After she died, I found a note she had written to me.” He tilts his head back, back, back until he’s looking at the generous dusting of stars. “She told me to find my joy in life. To find the thing I loved more than anything else—and to do it. No matter what anyone else said. That’s when I started dancing for real. For hours every day. At first, because it made me feel close to her. And then, because I truly loved it.”
I can’t breathe. My heart is saturated, and my head is full. It’s like he’s speaking directly into my soul. “That’s how I feel, too, when I’m designing and making my clothes.”
“I can tell. When I look into your eyes, what I see there . . . well, it reminds me of my mom.”
I blink. And then blink again, because my vision is all of a sudden blurry. “Wow. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
He smiles and tugs me forward. I fumble along the bars, and after a bit of rearranging, I’m sitting next to him, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip.
“That’s why the guys leave me alone, even after we drifted. You know, they still bring flowers to her grave every year.”
“Even Walt?” I choke. I try to imagine Walt Peterson kneeling by a grave, a bouquet of fresh flowers in his hands, settling down for a talk with the departed. And I just can’t. I can only picture him with a nudie magazine in his hands, sneering and making obscene gestures.
“Yeah. He’s really not so bad. My mom would say there’s a good guy hiding underneath. He’s just taking his sweet time being found.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” I mutter.
“I’m not defending the guy. I heard what he did to you, and that was a complete asshole move.” He pauses. “If he bothers you again, will you let me know?”
“Would you actually do something about it?” I ask, more than a little awed.
“Of course. He has to learn he can’t treat girls that way. I’d talk to him or to the authorities, whichever is more appropriate.” He picks up my hand, studying my fingers as though he’s memorizing the creases across the knuckles. “So, um, the other day, Greta Greenley asked me to prom.”
“Really?” I say, struggling to sound casual. “What did you say?”
He slides a sidelong glance at me. “I told her I was interested in someone else, that I was hoping she would go to prom with me.”
“And, uh, who would that be?”
He smiles, so sweetly it makes my heart painfully sticky. “Kanchana, will you go to prom with me? I promise I won’t step on your feet.”
“Yes.” I lunge at him, almost knocking both of us off the play equipment. “Although I can’t promise I won’t step on yours.”
Chapter 15
I float into my house, my lips curved. It’s after midnight. Khun Yai gives me a curfew on school nights, but she pretty much lets me come and go as I please on the weekends. We got into vicious battles about it at first—no good Thai girl would be out so late—but I never get into any trouble, and I don’t go anywhere other than Ash’s house and the dance studio. So she finally relented my junior year.
The house is dark. Still. If I stop and listen, I might hear the quiet, even breathing of the women most important to me—my mom, Khun Yai, and more and more, my new friend, Shelly. But I don’t listen. Instead, I clap a hand over my mouth as giggles threaten to geyser out.
Ethan. Oh my god, that kiss. The way I almost drowned in his embrace. Our conversation at the park. Turns out Ethan is a super nice guy and a good kisser. Who knew?
My head bursting with song, I walk into the living room. There’s no way I can sleep yet. Might as well watch some television. I flip on the lights.
Shelly’s asleep on the couch, an open book on the carpet. The coffee table holds a bowl filled with popcorn balls in every color of the rainbow. Red, orange, green, blue. There are even a few multicolored ones. The bowl wasn’t here before. Shelly must’ve brought it in.
Smiling, I grab an afghan off the back of the couch and tuck it under her chin. I’m about to head to my bedroom when she stirs and sits up. Her eyelids are red and puffy, as though she cried herself to sleep.
“Oh.” She blinks at the overhead lights. “I must’ve crashed while I was waiting for you. I should get to bed.”
She stumbles off the couch and begins to lurch toward the door. I grab her arm. “Shelly, wait. Have you been crying? What’s wrong?”
She won’t look at me. “It’s nothing. It’s just . . . I thought you would be home a lot earlier.”
“I was at Miss Patsy’s,” I say. “And then . . . I went to the park. With Ethan.”
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I mean, I’m not your mother.” She takes a hitching breath. “But I would’ve told you if I was going to be home late.”
“I’m sorry, Shelly.” Guilt winds through my veins. She’s right. I should’ve told her.
She flicks her eyes over my body. “What are you wearing?”
&
nbsp; “Oh.” I hug myself with the long sleeves of the oversized sweatshirt. “I was a little cold on the way home. Ethan let me borrow this.”
Her mouth twists into a sneer, and the scar on her cheek seems to gape at me. “Were you really cold? Or did you just want a guy’s sweatshirt to wrap around yourself so that you could rub it into the faces of all the single girls?”
“Shelly! What’s gotten into you?” I drop my arms. “I’m not trying to rub this in anyone’s face. How could you say that? The last thing I was thinking about was you.”
She flinches like I slapped her. “Oh god, I’m such a fool. Forget I said anything.” Her expression stricken, she starts to walk away again.
I take her arm again. “Let’s talk about this. Please.”
She stops but doesn’t turn around. “Obviously, I was wrong. Now that I know how you really feel, I won’t burden you anymore.”
“You’re not a burden!” If she won’t look at me, I’ll make her, damn it. I grab her shoulders and spin her around. “Shelly, we’re friends. Good friends. You defended me against Walt Peterson. I won’t forget that,” I say quietly. “You proved from the beginning you would be there for me.”
She’s facing me, sure, but her eyes are trained on the collar of my shirt. “I even made you popcorn balls.”
She gestures to the bowl on the coffee table. “Khun Yai told me a story about how your dad took you to the county fair. How you wanted those brightly colored popcorn balls more than anything. How you took your first bite and thought it tasted just like—”
“Magic,” I finish for her, squeezing my eyes shut. “I thought my dad was just like Jack from ‘Jack and the Beanstalk,’ trading a few coins for a bit of magic. I tossed my last popcorn ball out the window that night, and when I woke up, my dad had planted a bean stalk in that very spot.” I open my eyes and focus on Shelly. “I miss him.”
“I know. That’s why I made the popcorn balls. Because I wanted you to have magic in your life again.”
My heart twinges. Shelly’s so sweet. As far as I know, I’m her only friend. And I took off with Ethan without giving her a second thought.
“I waited and waited, and finally, I had to admit to myself you weren’t coming. I thought you’d gone to that party all the kids at school were talking about. I thought you were hanging out with Ash and Izzy and didn’t want me around.”
“Oh, Shelly,” I say. “That’s not it at all. I wouldn’t have gone to that party without you, and besides, I doubt Ash is really in the mood for partying. You should’ve texted me.” I fish my phone out of my pocket. I have a couple text messages from Lanie. At least, my phone seems to be working now.
Putting it away, I lick my lips. “Ethan . . . kissed me, and I’ve never felt anything like it. We went to the park and just talked. It was amazing, Shelly. He really seems to understand me.”
“I understand you,” she mumbles.
I squeeze her hand. “Yes, you do. But you have to admit, this is different.”
“I wouldn’t know,” she says haltingly. “The only dates I ever have are in my dreams. You know my fantasies of going to Paris one day? Well, I’ve planned out every detail of my perfect date there, too. Tall white candles, heavy gold-rimmed china, decadent French food. But it doesn’t matter what my dreams are. Doesn’t mean they’ll ever come true. Doesn’t mean anyone will ever put me first in their life.” She buries her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking.
“Hey. Look at me, please.” I nudge her shoulder, and she lifts her tear-stained face. “I messed up tonight. But it won’t happen again. No boy is going to come between us. I promised.”
She widens her eyes. “You still plan to keep your word?”
“Of course. I don’t make promises just for the hell of it, you know.”
A smile ghosts across her lips, but I can tell she’s still hurt. My heart contracts even more. “I’m here for you, Shelly. How can I prove that?”
“Well, there is one thing. . . .” She glances over her shoulder, although no one else is here. “Never mind. You’re going to think it’s silly. Forget I said anything.”
“I won’t. We’re friends, right? You can tell me anything, and I won’t think you’re silly.”
She takes a deep breath. “Okay. Fine.” The words tumble out. “It’s something I’ve always wanted to do, ever since I was a kid. Problem was, I never had anyone to do it with.”
“What is it?”
“I want us to be blood sisters.”
A chill creeps up my spine. Blood sisters? As in, my blood mixed with hers? This is unsanitary at best, deadly at worst.
“You hate the idea, don’t you?” she moans. “Forget it. I knew it was silly. . . .”
“No, no. You just surprised me, that’s all.” My mind spins, as I try to think of how to respond. “I don’t have anything against the idea, in theory. But you know all that stuff we’ve heard, about AIDS and other diseases and infections. Maybe I’m just being silly. . . .”
“Hey, it’s a valid concern. And I could tell you I’m clean, but you can never be too sure, right?” She wrinkles her forehead. “I’ve got it! We can do our own modified version. We’ll drop our blood onto a clean surface and let the liquid mix there. That way, we’ve performed the ceremony, but we’re still protecting ourselves. What do you think?”
“Um . . .” NO! my mind screams. Every cell in my body rebels against the thought. Mixing our blood is just gross. And weird. There’s nothing in me that wants any part of this. I rack my brain, searching for a reason, any reason at all that won’t offend her.
“Look, I know we only met a couple weeks ago,” Shelly says in a small voice, “but I feel this connection with you. Like we were always meant to be friends. This ceremony represents that. You’re my sister, through and through.”
I take a deep breath. This idea she’s suggesting is more than a little creepy. But Shelly’s been through such a rough time lately. It’s not going to kill me to drop a little blood on a cutting board. If it makes her happy, I should just say yes. It’s not that big a deal . . . even if it makes all the hair stand up on my neck.
“Okay, fine,” I say, before I can change my mind. “Let’s do it.”
Chapter 16
A few minutes later, we’re in Shelly’s room. I haven’t been in here since last night, and the tops of the dresser and nightstand are spotless. No scatter of earrings. No BFF necklaces.
My smile wavers. Did she clean off the surfaces because of me? Because I didn’t come home when she expected, and she no longer wants to share that part of herself with me?
“I finally had a chance to put my things away,” Shelly says with a light laugh. “You must’ve thought I was such a pig, leaving my stuff everywhere.”
I relax my shoulders. Apparently not. Apparently, I’m just reading too much into a simple action.
We raid the kitchen and bathroom and come up with the supplies we need. Small paper plates. A needle. Matches. Alcohol wipes.
Ten times, I open my mouth to tell her I’ve changed my mind. And ten times, I see the happy smile on her face and close my mouth again.
Suck it up, Kan. It’s a few minutes of your life. Just get it over with, and you can forget it ever happened.
We arrange everything on her bed, and with practiced movements, Shelly lights a match and sterilizes the needle. She then pushes two of the paper plates, a packet of alcohol wipes, and the sterilized needle toward me.
“Prick your finger, and let some blood drop onto both plates,” she says. “This way, we can have before and after specimens. Our blood, before and after it’s combined.”
She presses the needle into her pointer finger and in quick succession, drops the blood onto two of the plates. She smiles, pleased. “Your turn.”
“Okeydokey.” I inhale deeply through my nose. I know I agreed to this. I know this ceremony is important to her. But right now, all I want is to be tucked in my bed, dreaming about Ethan.
I grit my teeth.
The sooner I stab my finger, the sooner I can make that happen.
I run the alcohol wipe over my pointer finger and pick up the needle. Ew, this is so gross. I can’t stand blood.
“You can do it,” Shelly says. Even in the dim light of the room, I can see her eyes shining. “It’s like a flu shot. One prick, and then you’re done.”
I nod, but my fingers shake. Sweat dots my upper brow, and the room slowly begins to spin. I put the needle down. “Do we really have to do this? Maybe we can just say we did. That’s almost as good, right?”
She pats my shoulder. “Listen, Kan, when I said I understood you, I wasn’t kidding. I really do. Give me your hand.”
I curl them into fists. “Why?”
“I’m going to do it for you. Don’t be scared. Just close your eyes, and I’ll take care of it. We’ll be done before you know it.”
“Do you know how?”
“It’s not open-heart surgery, Kan. Gimme.” She waggles her fingers at me.
Taking a deep breath, I put my hand into her palm and close my eyes. It’s just a little blood. Prick. This is the girl who kicked a boy to defend your honor. Squeeze. She’s asking for so little in return. More squeezing. You can do this. You can do anything for a little while. Even more squeezing. Holy hell. How long does it take to get out two drops of blood?
“Finished,” she finally says. “You can open your eyes now.”
“How many samples were you making? A hundred?”
“I wanted to be sure we had sufficient before and after images. Here, take a look.” She presents me with the plate with our two drops of blood commingled, as proud as a new mom.
I stare. A bright red blot is shaped like a squished-together dumbbell. With two blobby ends. Two bodies. Two heads. It’s like we just created a strange new creature, one that’s made up of half her and half me.
That doesn’t make me proud. Not one little bit. Instead, it makes the chill crawl up my back, one long spider leg at a time.
