by Pintip Dunn
Chapter 17
Shortly after the blood ceremony, Kan mumbled something about the late hour and retreated to her room. Clearly freaked. Shelly didn’t mind. She had everything she needed from her new blood sister—and then some.
She waited until she heard the shower running and then snuck into Kan’s room and swiped her phone. It was a simple enough matter. She had been doing it every night. She took the phone out of curiosity, as part of an education that had started years ago. What on earth did people say to one another? How did they sound so natural and relaxed? How was it possible to be spontaneous and yet so witty at the same time?
She had never had a friend. Not really. Not a true one where she could let down her guard and be herself. Not a best friend whose menstrual cycle lined up with hers. That was when you knew you were really close. That was when you knew the two of you could be sisters.
She and her mom had moved around a lot when she was a kid, and at first, that’s what she had blamed. She never stayed in place long enough to make lasting relationships. But then later, as the moves stretched farther apart and she remained friendless, she had to admit that wasn’t the problem.
Maybe the problem was her. Her grotesque face, with her jagged blemish. She was the only common denominator, after all. Although she’d observed plenty of friendships and had learned to fake it over the years, she didn’t get it—the spark that bonded two people, the germ of connection that turned an acquaintance into something more.
She stood on the outside, and her classmates’ glee made a wall so thick there was no way she could penetrate it. So, she pretended to laugh. Did her best to be one of them. But she always suspected that deep down, they knew. With their matching clothes and their mascaraed lashes, with their high-pitched giggles and confident tosses of the hair, they saw right through her façade to the fraud she was underneath.
How could they not? In an aquarium full of guppies, with their swishing tails and brightly colored scales, she was the plain, gray one, whose deformed body was bent at a right angle.
It was even worse digitally. She read their little jokes when she snooped on social media, the sarcastic remarks, the profuse displays of affection. She scrolled through Kan’s text messages and read as far back as the history would allow. She read and read and read, until her eyes dried and she had to switch her contacts for glasses, and then she propped Kan’s phone up on her knees and read some more.
She studied the quick, back-and-forth conversations, taking them apart as though she were studying for a test. There was nothing she couldn’t learn, and this social thing—having friends, being popular, knowing how to make people laugh—was just another subject for her to master. And this time, she was determined to get it right.
She’d made a mistake with the last girl. She’d been so excited about their friendship, so hopeful. The girl had been so kind and understanding.
In retrospect, Shelly had to admit, the relationship was doomed from the beginning. There were red flags she should’ve seen. It was like their friendship was a wet clump of sand, and for a while, she was able to hold it close to her chest. For a while, it was the most tangible relationship she’d ever had. But then, the sand began to dry out, and clumps began to slip through her fingers. As much as she tried, she couldn’t hold on any longer.
She learned, then, she couldn’t wait for the sand to dry before she took action. She had to mold the friendship right from the beginning.
And so, a few days ago, she had pressed the DELETE button on Kan’s texts. Tapping it once had given her a rush of power. Tapping it twice made her feel like she was, at long last, a player. By the time she’d deleted all of the messages, she felt something she hadn’t felt since Sheila Ambrose’s death. Something that had been sorely missing from her life these last few months.
She felt like herself again.
After the blood sister ritual, when she got back to the safety of her room, she unlocked Kan’s phone with a simple triangular swipe over the numbers. Really, that girl had a lot to learn about security—and inputting her code into the phone where others could see her. A new text popped up. It was a message from Ethan.
I miss you already.
Her fingers hovered over the screen. She could almost believe he was talking to her. He didn’t use any names, after all. And the message had arrived when the phone was in her hands. Besides, she missed him, too. She didn’t know Ethan, to be sure, but she missed having someone like him in her life. She missed having a first kiss. Hell, a first smile or a first conversation would do.
It wasn’t fair. Kan and the others—they took these milestones for granted. Whereas for Shelly, having a boy’s interest would be a once-in-a-lifetime miracle.
Without warning, tears soaked her eyes, and she gasped for air as if her lungs had sprung a leak. Just as quickly, she wiped the wetness away and forced her breathing to become steady. She hadn’t cried over Sheila Ambrose’s death, and she wasn’t going to cry now.
Kan was going to be her new best friend. She shouldn’t mind if Shelly took a few blades of pleasure for herself, when she had a whole freaking lawn of it. There wasn’t a limited supply of text messages, after all, and Shelly was certain that if Kan knew, she would be more than happy to give her new blood sister this experience.
That settled, Shelly leaned back against her pillows and began to text Ethan back.
Chapter 18
Needles jab me everywhere, poking, prodding, pricking. In my cheeks, down my back, along my legs. Like a thousand acupuncture needles, but worse. Because these needles aren’t designed to relieve pain—but to draw blood.
Fountains of blood spurt from the millions of tiny holes all over my body. Splattering the white walls. Pooling on the white tile. Drenching the white sheets.
Drowning me.
I gasp and choke, clawing at the blood, trying to push it away. But there’s too much liquid, too much wetness. I can’t see, I can’t breathe, I can’t—
* * *
I jerk awake. Sweat pours down my face, and the drenched sheets tangle about my legs. Panting, I look around my bedroom, from the brightly colored scarves draped over my desk chair to the hand-painted wooden bangles on my dresser.
A dream. It was only a dream. Blood’s not gushing out of me. Shelly only pricked me once, on the finger. The nightmare has nothing to do with our bloodletting ritual last night.
Or does it?
Shivering, I lie back in my bed and pull the comforter over my shoulders. I feel . . . unsettled. I shouldn’t have agreed to the ceremony. It may be harmless kid stuff, but it also creates another bond between Shelly and me, one that feels too intimate. Too soon.
Ash’s words echo in my head. How can you forget about me already, Kan? You’ve known her for five minutes. We’ve been friends for fifteen years.
Time makes no difference in a true friendship. I know that. But now . . . I’m not so sure. I don’t really know anything about Shelly. I didn’t know about her fixation with blood, for example. I didn’t know she would get so upset because I forgot to call.
I drift back to sleep, and the next thing I know, the sun is streaming across my body. Oh no. I slept through my alarm. What time is it? I grab my phone from my nightstand, but the battery’s dead.
That’s weird. I always plug in my cell to charge before I go to sleep. But I couldn’t find it after my shower, and I was so exhausted I just fell into bed. If my phone was missing, though, how did it end up here, back on my nightstand?
Frowning, I sit up and pull my hair into a ponytail. Is it possible that Shelly had something to do with my phone? First, the texts from my friends go missing; now, this. Tendrils of unease curl around my stomach as I think about our blood-mixing ceremony last night. That girl is definitely . . . strange. Normally, I don’t like that description. Because I’m strange—I’ve been strange all my life—I know that. And yet, something about Shelly isn’t sitting right with me.
I glance at the clock again. Great. Now, I’m rea
lly late for my weekly egg-roll-wrapping date with Khun Yai.
Every Friday night, Khun Yai mixes together a filling made from ground beef, shredded cabbage, vermicelli noodles, fish sauce, powdered garlic, and black pepper. And every Saturday morning, at eight a.m. sharp, she and I wrap the filling in egg roll skins. She then deep-fries them in vegetable oil and takes them to her ESL teachers at the community college.
“You don’t have to bring a gift every single time,” Mae has told her more than once. “They work for the college. They get paid.”
“They don’t get paid very much,” Khun Yai would shoot back. “Besides, they’re teachers. They deserve our highest esteem and respect.”
When I burst into the kitchen, Khun Yai is already at the table, scooping a bit of the meat and cabbage mixture onto the middle of the egg roll skin, her wrinkled hands moving deftly. I’m not surprised. Khun Yai’s not the kind of person to wait for anyone.
But she’s not alone.
Shelly sits across the table from her, in my seat. Her hair is pulled back from her face, the scar on full display. She dips her fingers into a bowl of beaten eggs and then runs them along the diamond-shaped edge of the egg roll skin to create the adhesive. That’s my responsibility.
My eyes fly to the clock above the stove: 8:36. I’m thirty-six minutes late. A travesty, through Khun Yai’s bifocal spectacles. Doesn’t mean she has to give away my job.
“What are you doing?” I ask Shelly, fighting to keep my tone neutral even as part of me wants to shove her out of my chair.
“Oh, Shelly is helping me wrap egg rolls,” Khun Yai says in English, since Shelly is present. “Like a good granddaughter.”
There’s something in the air, something . . . strained about her words, and it’s not just the switch in language. Khun Yai is hiding something. Is she mad at me for being late? Nah. I’ve been late before, and she’s never minded. Is it the issue she has with Shelly? Clearly not, or Shelly wouldn’t be sitting here, wrapping egg rolls.
“You decide not to help me this morning?” Khun Yai continues.
I flush. “Of course not. I would never skip out on this. I look forward to it all week. I love your stories—” I break off. As part of our ritual, Khun Yai tells me stories about her childhood. Stories about how she helped her mom at the dessert shop. About how Khun Ta fell in love with her and skipped lunch so that he could spend all of his baht on tapioca balls and coconut cream.
But I don’t say any of these things. Shelly’s eyes are a little too wide. She’s leaning forward a little too much. Listening a little too hard.
And for some reason, I don’t want to share these stories with Shelly. They’re my bond with Khun Yai, not hers. She’s already co-opted my egg-roll-wrapping session. I’m not going to give her this part of Khun Yai, too.
“My alarm didn’t go off,” I finish weakly.
“I thought I heard your alarm this morning.” Shelly begins to seal another egg roll, but she glops on too much egg batter and the skin sticks to the plate. “But then the ringing stopped, so I assumed you turned it off.” She shrugs apologetically. “I didn’t check because I thought you needed your beauty sleep. I mean, since you had such a late night and everything.”
“Your night was just as late.” I stare at the Band-Aid on her finger.
“Yes, but I’m not as pretty as you. So I need less sleep.” She smiles, but I’m in no mood for her woe-is-me act.
“Well, I’m here now. So you can get out of my seat.” Maybe it’s the dream. Maybe it’s just my regret for participating in that silly ritual. But for the first time since we’ve met, my tone is harsh.
“Kanchana, you are rude.” Khun Yai stands and brings the metal mixing bowl to the sink. “We are finished. There is nothing for you to do.”
I look at the egg rolls piled high on the silver platter. Some are fatter than the others, and the diamond fold is off-center on almost every one. “Do you want me to rewrap these, Khun Yai? You always yell at me when I don’t wrap them tightly enough. . . .”
“Very rude. Shelly is doing a good job, for her first time,” she says grudgingly, as though it pains her to admit it.
Any other day, I would’ve been proud of her for putting her prejudices aside and trying to embrace a white girl. Not today.
“There are bubbles under the skin,” I say. “They won’t fry properly. Ever since I was five years old, you’ve taught me—”
“Enough.” Khun Yai covers the platter with plastic wrap, and I know the subject is closed. “I need to talk to you. Where were you last night?”
“What . . . what do you mean?” I stutter.
“It is a simple question. Even my English is good enough that I cannot mess that up.”
“I told you. I was at Miss Patsy’s.”
She looks at me over the top of the bifocals. “After the dance studio. You came home past midnight.”
I dart an angry look at Shelly, who shakes her head in return.
“No, do not look at Shelly. I have ears. I know when my own granddaughter is arriving home. You may not have a curfew, but that is because you said I could trust you. Do not make me lose my trust, Kanchana.”
“Fine.” I blow a breath up through my hair. “I was at the playground. At the park.”
“You were with . . . whom? A boy?”
I cross my arms and uncross them. I look at the peeling wallpaper with its baskets of fruit, the light blue tile that clashes horribly with our yellow refrigerator. I really don’t want to answer her question. She’s not going to like it, and I’m not going to like her not liking it.
But lying isn’t an option, either. Not if I want any kind of a future with Ethan.
“Yes. A boy,” I say slowly. “His name is Ethan, and he helps Miss Patsy teach dance classes.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “It is not proper for you to be seen at night with a boy.”
“We were on the swings, for god’s sake! Not making out in his car.”
She doesn’t blink at me taking the lord’s name in vain. Good thing we’re Buddhist.
“What if someone saw you driving to the park?”
“Someone?” I shake my head. This is an old argument, but that doesn’t mean we won’t keep repeating it. “Who, exactly, are you talking about?”
“It does not matter who. It is not proper.”
“Khun Yai, you barely know anyone who lives in Foxville! Why do you care what they think?”
“It is not a matter of knowing them. It is a matter of what is right.”
Shelly watches us, fascinated. She’s breathing quickly, taking in our drama as though we were characters on a TV show. I’d snap at her, but Khun Yai would get even more upset. A proper Thai girl, I am not.
But neither is Shelly, I want to shout.
“Fine.” I relax my shoulders. All of our arguments end this way, with me acquiescing. “I won’t ride around with him in the dark anymore. Satisfied?”
“No, I am not.” Khun Yai smooths a hand over her bun. Back in Thailand, she went to the hairdresser twice a week. Here, she does her hair herself—with the occasional help from me to dye the parts she can’t reach—which means it’s never as smooth as she likes. “If my granddaughter is running around with a boy, I want to meet him. You will invite him here for dinner tomorrow night.”
“I can’t do that,” I sputter. “They don’t do that here. You don’t bring a guy home until he’s your boyfriend. And Ethan’s not my boyfriend.” At least not yet.
“He better not be your boyfriend. No boyfriends until college, remember?”
I drop my eyes. “Yes.”
“But if you spend time with him, I need to know he is a good boy, from a good family. Invite him to dinner tomorrow. I will make him real Thai food. We will see what kind of boy he is.”
“But Khun Yai—”
“This is not a request, luk lak. Invite him, or you will quit your job at Miss Patsy’s.”
“All right, geez.” I roll my eyes to th
e ceiling. No good Thai girl would act this way, but none of us are under any illusions about what I am and what I’m not.
I stomp out of the kitchen, and Shelly creeps out after me. When we’re halfway down the hall, I whirl around. “What do you want? Haven’t you caused enough trouble?”
She recoils, and guilt snakes through me. I take a deep breath and then another. The thing is, Shelly hasn’t done anything wrong. It’s Khun Yai I’m upset with, for holding me to these impossibly high standards. And me. For not being the kind of girl she can unconditionally love.
“Ethan seems like a nice guy,” Shelly ventures. “Just explain it to him. I’m sure he’ll be happy to come here for dinner. Khun Yai’s food is terrific.”
“It’s embarrassing. Whatever . . . this . . . is, it just started. I can’t sic my weirdo family on him before he even decides if he really likes me!”
“If he’s truly the right person for you, he won’t think your family’s weird,” she says quietly. “I don’t.”
I sigh. She’s right. If Ethan and I are to have a future, he’ll have to meet my family sooner or later. I just didn’t realize it would be this soon.
That’s when I see Shelly’s blouse. I can’t believe I didn’t notice earlier. Must be because I was so distraught about the egg rolls. It’s a flowy, emerald green number, with cutouts along the shoulders—Ash’s birthday present to me last year.
I swallow, but the silly lump won’t go down. I did say she could borrow anything in my closet. Only, that was before she bought her own things. And I never wear that shirt to wrap egg rolls. “Is that my shirt?”
She flushes. “Oh. I, uh, didn’t think you’d mind. All my clothes are in the wash, and you have so many.”
I blow out a breath. Shelly is my friend. My blood sister. I offered her my clothes. She hand-washed the shirt I made her in the sink, so that she could wear it three days in a row. I’m overreacting. It’s just a shirt. I don’t care if Shelly wears it. I don’t.
“It’s just . . .” How did she get it out of my room without me knowing, anyhow? “Next time, just ask, okay?”
