The Epic Crush of Genie Lo

by F. C. Yee

  My head began to spin. Something about his uninhibited display made it feel like there was a light shining behind my eyes, or like I was breathing in too much oxygen. I felt all the nausea that he should have, flipping around like that.

  He wasn’t normal. He must have been a gymnast or parkourista or whatever from online videos. Maybe a Shaolin.

  I didn’t care. I kicked the fence in the hope that he would fall and crotch himself, and I ran straight home.

  A few minutes later I crossed the finish line into my driveway, gasping for breath.

  I hurried with the keys to my house, my hands clumsier than usual. The click of the lock never sounded sweeter. Finally, finally, I slipped inside and sighed.

  Only to find Quentin sitting at the kitchen table with my mom.

  4

  I checked behind me as a reflex and banged my face against the door in the process.

  “Genie,” Mom said, beaming like we’d won the lottery. “You have a visitor. A friend from school.”

  I pointed at Quentin while holding my nose. “How did you get inside?”

  He looked puzzled. “I knocked on the door and introduced myself to your mother? We’ve been chatting for a while now.”

  I had taken the shortest route home and hadn’t seen him pass me. Given that I was a decent runner, he must have sprinted here like a bat out of hell. How was he not winded in the slightest?

  “Quentin is so nice,” Mom said. “He explained how you rescued him this morning. He came over to say thank-you in person.” She pointed to a fancy-wrapped box of chocolates on the kitchen counter.

  “I had to ask around for your address,” Quentin said. “In case you were wondering.”

  I rubbed my eyes. I felt like I was going crazy. But I could figure out his little magic trick later, once he was gone.

  “I don’t know how you got here before me,” I said to Quentin. “But get the hell out.”

  “Pei-Yi! Rude!” Mom snapped.

  Quentin made eye contact with me. Maybe he thought I’d stay quiet in front of my mother for the sake of decorum. That a boy’s good name was more important than a girl’s safety. If so, he was dead effin’ wrong.

  “Mother,” I said slowly. “While this person seems like a nice young man on the surface, he threatened me during class this morning. He’s not my friend.”

  My mother looked at him.

  “I’m so sorry!” Quentin cried out, his face stricken. He shot to his feet and lowered his head. “I came here to apologize. And to explain my horrendous behavior.”

  “I’d love an explanation,” I said. “Starting with what happened in the park.”

  “That was a misunderstanding that got out of hand,” he said. “Those men weren’t even bad people, just ordinary folk I tried to make conversation with. But I accidentally insulted them to such a degree that they sought to teach me a lesson. I can barely even blame them.”

  I frowned. At the time, the beating had seemed a bit extreme for a misunderstanding. But then again, I hadn’t turned the other cheek in class myself. I guess he had a knack for pissing people off to the point of violence.

  “After they left I picked up your bag, cleaned myself off, and brought it to school,” Quentin said. “I knew you went to the same one as me because I recognized your uniform.”

  “It was just a fortunate coincidence I was assigned to your class on my first day,” he went on. “I was so happy when I saw the person who saved my life this morning that I lost my head and made the same error all over again. My English is from a book, and I still don’t know how things really work in America.”

  Mom sniffled like she was watching a soap finale.

  “I’m sorry to have spoken to you so personally,” Quentin said, his voice cracking.

  I bit the inside of my cheek. I wasn’t inclined to believe any of his BS, but he said it in such a heartfelt way that I was actually considering giving him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was just a really, really awkward transplant with no sense of personal space.

  That’s when the bastard winked at me.

  Fine. Two could play at this game.

  “You know what would be great?” I said, putting on a coy expression. “If we could have you and your parents over for dinner. Let us welcome you to the States.”

  Quentin raised a black, regal eyebrow.

  Got you, jerk. Let’s see if you can handle me blowing your creepstory to the real authorities. If I let his parents know about his behavior, there’d be no way he’d get off scot-free.

  “Oh, how lovely,” Mom said, clapping her hands. “That’s a wonderful idea.”

  “Uh . . . okay,” said Quentin, looking unsure of himself for the first time ever. “They would also want to give their thanks . . . I guess.”

  “But for now you must be going,” I said. “You promised the chess club you’d go out with them to try your first real American hamburger.”

  “Yes!” he said. “I am most interested in this thing that you’re talking about.”

  As Quentin laced his shoes up in the hallway, Mom pulled me aside.

  “Be nice to him,” she said. “Not so harsh, like you always are.”

  Ugh. My mom is of the generation that believes the male can do no wrong.

  “I should be nice like you were?” I said. “You took his side over your own daughter’s pretty quickly. Did he tell you exactly what he did at school?”

  She looked up at me sadly. “It’s hard, coming to this country,” she said. “You were born here; you never had to experience that. Of course he’s going to make some mistakes.”

  Then her eyes gleamed. “Plus he’s so handsome. And rich, too, probably. Like a prince. I can tell these things.”

  Ugggghhhhhh.

  I showed Quentin out, mostly because I wanted to make sure he walked the hell away and didn’t sneak into our bushes or something. Once I’d closed the door behind us, I stared him down.

  “You picked the wrong girl to bully, asshat.”

  “I said I was sorry!”

  “No, you lied about being sorry to my mother! There’s a difference!”

  “What, do you want me to grovel in front of your dad, too? Where is he? Still at work?”

  At the mention of my father my teeth clenched so hard they almost turned to shrapnel.

  “You don’t have the right to talk to any of my family!” I said. “You have no right to anything of mine!”

  “I don’t understand why you’re so upset!”

  I poked him hard in his chest. It was like tapping granite.

  “That doesn’t matter,” I hissed. “You are not entitled to my thoughts, emotions, or any other part of my life unless I say so. What you get from me is jack and squat, regardless of whether or not you understand. Ming bai le ma, dickhead?”

  Quentin opened his mouth to retort but nothing came out. He stood there, failing to turn over, like a car with a faulty ignition. I could read his face as plain as day. He just couldn’t believe that I, an actual human being, was talking to him like this.

  Finally he just scowled and stomped away.

  I watched him go. I waited till he was out of sight.

  The tension in my body left with him. I nearly toppled over with relief. He’d been banished, out of sight and out of mind. Hopefully for all time.

  Then I remembered he was in my homeroom, where I’d see him every day.

  5

  A little more than a decade ago there was some kind of brainwave, some kind of collective spasm, some bug in the water, that induced every single Asian couple with a newborn daughter in America to name her Eugenia. Or Eunice. Something with an E-U. Seriously, these two vowels together had a base rate of next to nothing in the broader population and then BAM! An epidemic of Eumonia.

  Eugenia Park has been my best friend ever since we made a deal in second grade to split the name we both hated like a turkey. She got the front end and was forevermore “Yunie.” I got the back, “Genie.” There was even a third gir
l in our class to whom we’d hopefully offered “Eugie,” but we turned out not to like her, so she’s not part of the treaty.

  “You’re gonna hate me,” Yunie said during our study hall in the computer lab. “But I have to bail on the Read-a-Thon.”

  I made a face. “Your children will serve me in hell for this.”

  “I’ll find a replacement. I’m sure there’s someone else who wants to wake up extra early on Saturday and wrangle twenty screaming kindergartners. I’ll tell them—”

  “Hold on a second.”

  I glanced behind me across the room. Michael and his posse were at it again, crowding around the workstation that Rutsuo was using.

  Rutsuo Huang was one of the ultrageniuses at our school, a programming prodigy who was miles ahead of everyone else. I mean, I’ve only been able to wrap my head around introductory JavaScript. But Rutsuo had blown through our school’s electives in a semester and could probably work at a startup right now if he wanted to. He was also painfully awkward and shy, and at SF Prep that’s saying a lot.

  He was working on what must have been a personal project, as there weren’t any assignments left for him. But every so often while he was typing, Mike Wen or one of his two gym-rat flunkies would reach over his shoulder and press a random bunch of keys on the keyboard.

  “Boop,” Mike said as a series of complex statements turned to gibberish.

  It was perhaps the nerdiest form of harassment ever invented, but still. Rutsuo kept plugging away without telling them to stop, fixing his code over and over. I could tell he was bothered, but he wouldn’t say anything. And the teacher on duty was in the bathroom.

  “Anyway, it’s because we’re celebrating my cousin’s MCAT results,” Yunie explained. “Apparently she did well enough that my aunt needs to force the entire bloodline to stop and congratulate her.”

  “Boop,” said one of the other guys around Rutsuo.

  “I think the only reason my parents are going is so they can pull the same move if I win my concours,” Yunie went on. “It’s like, gee, thanks for the additional pressure.”

  “Boop.”

  I wasn’t listening. I slammed my palms down hard on the table as I stood up to put an end to this.

  But someone else beat me to it.

  “This game looks like fun,” Quentin said, his fingers tight around Mike’s wrist. “How do I play?”

  Mike tried to yank his hand away, but he was caught fast in Quentin’s grip. There was an audible balloon-rubbing sound that promised the mother of all friction burns on Mike’s forearm when this was over.

  “Back off, shrimp,” he said, his face turning red. But even with both arms he couldn’t get Quentin to let go.

  “Am I winning yet?” Quentin wondered.

  One of Mike’s friends, John or something, threw a sucker punch at Quentin’s head. I saw it coming but couldn’t say anything fast enough.

  Quentin turned his head just enough to let the punch slide by and clasped John’s fist under his chin. I didn’t see how it was possible, but he had the other boy held just as tight as Mike, using only his neck.

  The third one whose name I couldn’t remember also tried to hit him, but Quentin swung his leg up like a contortionist and clamped the guy’s fingers in the crook of his knee, squeezing hard enough to make him howl in pain. All four of them were wrapped up together like a human octopus. The way he was stretched out it should have been Quentin screaming, but he just laughed at the writhing, shrieking goons he’d trapped.

  “Boop,” he said, pressing Mike’s nose hard with the heel of his free hand.

  “The hell is going on here?” Androu bellowed as he stormed into the room.

  It wasn’t a teacher intervening. But it was the next best thing. The whole school, even the punks like Mike and his crew, respected Androu Glaros.

  Androu was a senior, but it wasn’t like he was the student council president or the captain of anything. He just had a natural charisma that made people listen to him. Admire him. Nurse a secret crush on him ever since he gave me the new student’s tour on my first day of school.

  Hey, it’s not my fault. He’s one of the few guys around who’s actually taller than me.

  Androu was naturally an imposing presence, his impeccable posture and steely eyes giving him the air of a poorly-disguised reporter who was always ducking in and out of phone booths when disaster struck. But Quentin looked up at him, nonchalant as can be.

  “We are having the fun times together,” said Quentin, regressing his English in a manner I now knew was more intentional than not. “Would you like to also?”

  “Oh, drop the newcomer act, Quentin,” Androu snapped. “This isn’t acceptable anywhere.”

  Quentin’s grin held but became a little more rigid. He unwound his limbs from his victims, who ran off while spewing a bunch of curses. No one paid them any mind. They didn’t even qualify as a sideshow to the epic staredown going on.

  “You are late to the scene,” said Quentin. “But somehow still early to judgment.”

  “I know what I saw,” said Androu. “And I heard what you did to Genie.”

  I nearly jumped at my name. While the whole school knew about Quentin’s first day, and had spent a good week pointing fingers at me and laughing, I didn’t think Androu cared enough to get upset about it.

  “It doesn’t matter whether you’re ‘adjusting,’ ” he said. “Pull this crap again, and we’re gonna have a talk with the faculty.”

  With the last word firmly in hand, he exited stage left, continuing his journey onward to wherever it is heroic hot guys go during Sixth Period.

  Quentin rolled his eyes and turned to Rutsuo, who’d been curled up in his chair the whole time. He whispered something in the quiet boy’s ear and then punched him jovially in the arm. It was way too hard and nearly knocked him off his seat, but Rutsuo just blushed and smiled.

  Yunie eyed Quentin, and then me.

  “You two are a lot alike,” she said.

  “Don’t even.”

  “I’m going over there,” she said.

  “I said don’t even!”

  Very little could prevent Yunie from doing what she wanted to. She marched right up to Quentin and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “That was very good of you,” she said.

  Quentin shrugged. “I have always hated people like that.”

  “Yeah, Mike and his friends are assholes.”

  “No,” said Quentin. “I mean the big one with curly hair.”

  “Huh? Androu?”

  “Yes.” Quentin’s face darkened. “Bai chi like him care only for order, not justice. They’ll let banditry run free right under their nose so long as no one raises a fuss.”

  Even Yunie had a hard time keeping a straight face at that. Calling our school douchebags a pack of bandits seemed like an upgrade they didn’t deserve. She fought back a giggle and glanced across the room at me.

  “Good thing we have one more fuss-maker around now,” she said.

  I gave her both middle fingers.

  6

  Waking up this early on Saturday would have sucked any time of the year, but today was a high-pollen-count day. My eyes burned at the beautiful weather outside, even though the window was shut tight. Lush green foliage, crisp breezes, chirping birds: Allergy apocalypse.

  I sat up and rubbed my face until my room came into focus. It had been tiny for a very long time. Even though I kept it clean, it was covered in a thick layer of grade-school knickknacks that I never bothered to clear out—art projects that were mostly glue, dolls with bad haircuts, works of fiction that spanned from Dick and Jane to Great Expectations.

  You could have dug a glacial core in my room and pinpointed the exact moment I stopped caring about anything but escaping it. That was where the textbooks and extra study materials and supplementary lessons took over the fossil record. That was when the comet had struck my family. My personal Chicxulub.

  The news from the shower radio promised no
respite from the assault on my eyes. The wildfires raging unchecked in the hills on the other side of the Bay could be sending us a welcoming embrace of particulate at any time. The governor was calling for a state of emergency due to drought conditions. California! What a paradise.

  After I dressed, I made myself a pot of coffee and downed the whole thing while packing my lunch. I knew some of my classmates didn’t drink it, but I could replace my blood with the stuff. It wasn’t like it was going to stunt my growth at this point. Plus any magical liquid that makes you study harder was A-OK by my mom.

  As lame as it sounds, this was no different from my weekday routine. I just left my house in a different direction, for the center of town instead of toward school.

  It wouldn’t have made a difference in the scenery. The houses in this part of the neighborhood had a chronic case of sameface. Garage-less brick boxes with lawns too small to make snow angels. And this was the “more livable” part of town. The rest of Santa Firenza by the office parks was a prairie of concrete and asphalt that grilled your optic nerves from reflected glare. Sure there were a few trees, but they didn’t commit. This was a land that was hot, flat, and almost entirely without shade.

  A far cry from the glorious playground of gleaming aluminum and primary colors that everyone thinks of when they imagine Silicon Valley. That image only holds up in the campuses of the two or three truly giant tech companies, the lone islands drifting in a sea of reality. The rest of the Bay Area is, unfortunately, the Bay Area.

  The one thing we do have down here, more so than green spaces or the changing of the seasons, is education. We gobble up as much of it as we can, in forms both cheap and expensive, from bank-breaking Montessori preschools to flannel-wearing college kids paid under the table for tutoring. Whatever each of us can afford, really. Call it a side effect of our Asian-ness, whether genetic or absorbed through proximity.