I Believe in a Thing Called Love

by Maurene Goo

  “Can I please speak to your supervisor?” I willed myself to keep my voice calm.

  “I don’t think that would make any difference,” he said, voice stiff.

  “Please transfer me to your supervisor.”

  “Fine.” And I heard a click as the call was transferred to another line, ringing. It stopped eventually and went to voice mail. Damn. I left a clipped and urgent message and hung up the phone.

  I was staring out into the grassy courtyard in silence when the clouds rumbled loudly. I looked up and a raindrop fell on my face. And the weight of the humidity and disappointment filled my lungs.

  STEP 21:

  Betrayal Time—One of You Kinda-Not-Really Betrays the Other CHAPTER 21

  It’s a funny feeling when your entire future is erased within seconds. It’s like space—a whole lot of nothingness. After the denial and the will to fight, there’s … nothing. Because at the end of it all is a black hole where your future used to be.

  “Don’t you think you’re overreacting?” Fiona asked a few days later as I brooded in her car as we headed to school.

  I shot her a dirty look, almost as potent as one of Fiona’s own. “Overreacting? If I don’t get into Stanford, I am seriously, majorly screwed. And it’s all my fault.”

  “That there, Desi Lee, is what I would call an overreaction. Why the hell would you be screwed? You’ll get into all your safety schools and you’ll be a doctor no matter what.”

  “Because it’s always been Stanford, Fi!”

  Fiona pulled the car over dramatically and we screeched to a stop as she put Penny into park. She turned toward me with a very un-Fiona-like serious expression.

  “Desi. That’s the thing. Why is it so important to you that you go to Stanford? I know your mom went there, but that’s just not…” Fiona trailed off, uncertain how to say what she wanted to say.

  “What? Not important?” I demanded. “Not a good enough reason?”

  Fiona shrugged, her face turning red. “Yeah. I mean, not to be a total bitch about it, but is it going to bring your mom back if you go to Stanford?”

  I flinched. Fiona was right. It wouldn’t bring back my mom. I leaned into my seat and stared up at the ceiling. “No, it won’t. But Fi, that’s not the point. I want my dad to know that I can be the best, like my mom was. Stanford is…”

  Fiona also leaned back in her seat. “Symbolic,” she finished for me.

  “Yeah. Symbolic.”

  “Of your dad’s good job raising you.”

  I nodded.

  “Desi, everyone knows that your dad did an awesome job raising you. He knows that.” Her voice softened.

  My best friend’s sympathy broke something in me and I felt tears prick my eyes. “I just—I want him to always be proud. To never worry.”

  She laughed kindly. “Des, parents are going to worry no matter what. You can’t always protect him, no matter how perfect you try to be.”

  I swiped at my tears. “I know that. But I’m always convinced I can do it.”

  “So what was his reaction? If I know Appa, he didn’t ground you for disappointing him.”

  I managed to laugh. “No, of course not. He was definitely bummed at first but then instantly tried to cheer me up, saying it wasn’t a big deal and that I still had a good chance. Then we binge-watched an entire drama series.”

  Fiona pulled the car back onto the road. “See! Don’t even worry. Now, with Appa covered, when are you finally going to tell Luca about this whole thing?” she asked.

  Luca. I had avoided him the past few days, using a bunch of student government things as an excuse. I didn’t want him to see me so bummed and I wasn’t ready to tell him about Stanford yet. I knew he would feel guilty and I just didn’t want to bring another slew of emotions into my life. And I didn’t want him to feel guilty about my own stupid decision.

  “Not sure. Soon, though.”

  She threw me an unconvinced look as we pulled into the school parking lot. “Soon, for sure,” she said firmly. When I got to my locker, there he was. Leaning against it like some hunky 1950s boyfriend.

  “Hey, stranger,” he said to me with a smile.

  I gave him a hug before saying apologetically, “I know, it’s just been kinda nuts lately. Sorry.”

  He stepped back as I opened my locker, and shrugged. “No worries. Can you hang out tonight?”

  My instinct was to avoid it, but I knew Fiona was right. I had to tell him soon. “Sure!” I grabbed my books and shut the locker just as the bell rang. “I have a French Club meeting at lunch and soccer after school, so we’ll figure it out tonight?”

  He gave me a kiss on the forehead. “You got it, missy.”

  * * *

  But when Luca texted me that evening, I was in slug mode. My dad was out at dinner with friends, so I was home alone, lying on the sofa watching Kill Me, Heal Me, and had lost all motivation to do anything.

  His text said: Meet me at Boba Palace?

  I was wearing leggings, my dad’s old basketball-league jersey, and my hair was a frizzy pile. Public-ready I was not. And for the first time since we started dating, I just didn’t feel like putting my best foot forward. Or grinning and bearing it. Or whatever platitude fit the bill. I just wanted to wallow.

  So I texted back: Sorry Luca—not sure if I’m feeling up for seeing half of Monte Vista population tonight

  You ok?

  Guilt ate away at me. But I honestly felt like, for the first time in a long time … just not doing anything. I’m fine, sorry. Just feeling kinda meh. And as soon as I sent that text, I regretted it. Crap. Who wanted to date a Debbie Downer?

  He texted back: Sorry Need anything?

  I wouldn’t be able to hide my bummerness around him if he came by, so I texted something that I knew would keep him away: I’m already taking a ton of Pepto, I think I have the stomach flu, probably best if you don’t come over

  As anticipated, there was a long pause before Luca’s response: Eek, ok, feel better D. Miss you xoxo.

  I was relieved but also disappointed in myself. Alas. I just wasn’t ready to tell him. My dad texted shortly after to say that he would be out a bit longer with his friends, so I had a whole night of pure wallowry ahead.

  In my room, I stared mournfully at my Stanford sweatshirt and T-shirt, then tossed them into a trash bag to donate to Goodwill. All my Stanford brochures went into the recycling bin.

  I ate an entire jar of pickles.

  In the middle of the final episode of Kill Me, Heal Me, the doorbell rang. I started. Who the hell was that? I decided to ignore it, since I looked and felt like utter crap anyway.

  But it rang again, and then came a tentative knock. Ugh.

  I dragged myself off the sofa and peeked through the peephole. Ah!

  It was Luca! Nooo.

  Why was he here? I didn’t have time to change my clothes or fix my hair, my face … my everything. With a giant sigh, I opened the door.

  Luca held up a bunch of bananas and a giant carton of yogurt. “Luca’s stomach flu remedy to the rescue!”

  Despite my annoyance, I couldn’t help laughing. “Bananas and yogurt?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Bananas stop you-know-what. And according to a few disgusting Google searches, I found out yogurt helps repopulate gut bacteria.”

  Gut bacteria.

  And just like that, it hit me: I could be myself with Luca.

  Luca, who could sense I was feeling shitty and needed to be with someone. Luca, who came over when I was sick. Luca, who hated being around sick people. Luca, who cared about me.

  Weeks and months of anxieties melted off, layer by layer.

  He truly liked me. It really was done.

  Carrying this revelation like a fluttering key in my chest, I practically floated on air as I followed him into the kitchen. I watched as he scooped out the yogurt into a bowl and cut the bananas into slices. He refused to let me help, making me sit on the counter instead. “Do you have any honey?” he
asked while sliding the bananas into the bowl of yogurt.

  I tried to appear normal and not like a person who had just had an emotional breakthrough of epic proportions. “Yup.” I made a move to grab it from the cupboard, but Luca held up his hand. “Nuh-uh. The patient must rest. Just tell me.”

  Staying perfectly, comically still, I said through barely moving lips, “That upper cupboard to your right.”

  He grabbed the plastic honey-bear bottle and squeezed a healthy dollop into the bowl. I widened my eyes. “Whoa, mama, that’s a lot of honey, Dr. Drakos.”

  “Sweets for my sweet,” he said in a high-pitched trill. I laughed and took the bowl when he handed it to me with a flourish. He sat on the opposite counter. I lifted a spoonful of the yogurt up toward him. “Don’t you want to sit next to me and share?” I teased.

  He squirmed. “Um, I know you’re my girlfriend but I don’t know how romantic it’ll be spending the night in the bathroom side by side.”

  I shook my head. “Who knew I would end up dating such a germophobe?” His response was to lean back, the picture of comfort, and grin his cocky little grin. As was always the case, I couldn’t help but crack a grin, too—my body’s response whenever he looked at me like that. After this snack, I would tell him about Stanford. Again, relief washed over me, and I felt lighter and lighter as every minute passed.

  After finishing the yogurt (I held back from telling him that most yogurt didn’t have enough units of bacteria to actually help repopulate microbes), I slid off the counter and started doing the dishes. Luca scrambled over and took the detachable faucet from me. “No! I’m here to tend to your every need, missy.”

  This was getting ridiculous. I wasn’t even sick! “Luca, let me do this, you’ve been very sweet and all, the perfect boyfriend, really.”

  He cracked up. “Ooh, perfect boyfriend.”

  I wrestled the faucet from him. “Yes, a prestigious title! Now let me just—” Suddenly, the faucet flipped over in my hands and sprayed water all over Luca. I dropped it and covered my mouth with my hands, stifling my squeal of laughter.

  He looked up slowly, staring at me through dripping-wet locks of hair. “You’re so dead.” He grabbed the faucet, flipped the lever to full blast and sprayed me. I shrieked and bolted to the other side of the kitchen. “I’m sick!”

  A moment of hesitation before a stream of water hit me in the butt.

  “Oh my God!” I yelled before running toward him to exact revenge. He dropped the faucet in the sink and ran out of the kitchen, laughing his ass off.

  “Even sick I’m faster than you!” I shouted, following him up the stairs.

  He fled into my room and slammed the door shut. I jiggled the knob but he had locked me out. “Luca!”

  He shouted at me from the other side of the door, “You’re not allowed to come in here until you call truce!”

  “Truce?! I sprayed you once by accident and you sprayed me, like, three times! If you played any sports you’d know how unsportsmanlike that is!”

  Silence. I banged on the door. “What are you doing in there?”

  I heard the distinct sound of a body plopping down onto my bed. “Just making myself comfy,” he called out.

  My bed was unmade and all my linens probably needed a good wash. Lord. “Luca! Come on, let me in.”

  “In due time, girlfriend,” he said. Then I heard him walking around the room. “First, I’m going to look through your underwear. I’ve been curious ever since that first day you dropped your pants in front of me.”

  “What! That was an accident!”

  “Suuure.” I heard some shuffling noises—as if he was looking through papers or books. Eep, I hoped he hadn’t discovered my tree scrapbook. I’d never hear the end of it.

  “If you’re looking through my tree scrapbook, I hope you’re being careful not to let the pressed leaves fall out!” I waited for a smart-ass response, but heard nothing. “Luca?” Instead I heard more paper shuffling noises.

  “What’s a K drama?”

  What? Then every part of my body froze over—every hair, every organ, every inch of skin. I jiggled the doorknob again. “Luca, let me in!”

  “Wait, are they those Korean soap operas your dad watches all the time? You’ve been studying those, too? Des, your nerdiness knows no bounds.”

  No no NO. I kept jiggling the knob, as if I could actually get the door open. “I’m serious, Luca, please let me in. Stop reading that, it’s private!”

  He didn’t respond. And with each passing second of silence, I felt myself dying. And then suddenly the door whooshed open, and I stumbled forward.

  When I looked up, Luca was holding the K drama steps in his hands, staring at me with an expression that made my breath catch in my throat.

  I reached for the notebook, but he swiftly moved it out of my reach—instead holding it up to his face to read out loud from it. “Take Wes to Gwen Parker’s party and make Won Bin jealous…” He was reading my notes scribbled for step 8: Be Caught in an Obviously Lopsided Love Triangle. His voice shook as he continued reading. “Ask Won Bin to take me home, cause minor car accident.”

  “Luca…”

  He stood there staring at the notes for what seemed like forever, in silence. “Let me guess, I’m Won Bin.”

  I gulped for air. “No! I mean, yes, but—”

  He started to pace the room but continued to read, throwing tiny little daggers into my heart with every word. “Prove that you are different from all other women—in the entire world. Side note: You are the only person that can prove his jaded conceptions of relationships and love are all wrong—that you, of pure heart and soul, are the exception to the rule that all women are hateful, untrustworthy creatures.” A derisive snort, then he kept pacing, reading and muttering. When he finished, he looked up at me again. “Who are you?”

  “Luca, please stop reading that. It’s stupid, it doesn’t matter anymore…”

  He stopped in his tracks and shook the notes violently. “Oh, no, it matters. It matters a lot. You planned all of this.” His voice shook. His posture was slumped, all traces of his usual cockiness gone, and the sight of him so defeated, so undone, crippled me with guilt.

  I shook my head. “No, wait. You don’t understand. It was because I liked you…”

  And then, everything changed. He went from pacing and agitated to completely still. “So you followed these steps to get a boyfriend? This is a real thing you did?”

  I kept shaking my head, unable to do anything else with my body. “No, no. Not a boyfriend. You. Luca, it was for you.”

  The harsh, mocking sound he made was like a slap to my face. It wasn’t his honky laugh, the one he did with his entire body, the one he did when I copyedited menus at the local sushi place or when I made him change parking spaces because we were one inch into the red curb. No, this was a different laugh.

  “This was for me? Wow, this all sounds so fucking familiar.”

  Emily. Oh, God, he was comparing me to Emily. “No! No, Luca, please, listen to me. I know this seems crazy!”

  Luca pointed at me. “Seems crazy? It is crazy, Desi. This is beyond. I knew you had it in you to go overboard, but I always thought it was harmless. Endearing, even. Not manipulative, like some scheming … like Emily.” His eyes blazed, the recognition clicking.

  “You’re just like her.”

  My chest hurt, my face hurt. It all hurt.

  He straightened, controlling himself with a tight precision that panicked me more than him yelling or screaming. And when he spoke, his voice was calm again, measured. “Except, actually, you aren’t just like her, are you? You’re worse.” My eyes filled up with tears and I choked back a sob.

  He watched me cry with that familiar impassive expression I’d seen on him when he spoke to his dad. Then he slowly turned to the shelf in my room. “You know why you’re worse? Because with you, I was just another trophy on that shelf, another accomplishment to check off your list. None of this was real.”


  I tried to choke out words between sobs. “No, Luca. What I felt for you, what I still feel for you, is real. Please, believe me!”

  “You’re a liar. Everyone around me is a liar. My dad, the cheater. My ex-girlfriend, the manipulator. And you … you’re the same.” He dropped the notebook on the floor.

  And that was my moment, the moment I needed to explain everything.

  Except I couldn’t. I was paralyzed in my own waking nightmare. Everything—Luca, Stanford—was vanishing before my very eyes.

  I walked over to him and grasped his sleeve. “Luca, please—”

  He shoved me away. Shoved. “No.”

  Then he walked out the door. Down the stairs. And out of my house.

  And I just stood there. Heart broken in half, the pieces laid at my feet.

  STEP 22:

  At Your Lowest Point, Your Life Is Only Made Up of Flashback Montages of Good Times CHAPTER 22

  So I suppose the next month of my life was the blank pages of breakupdom in The Desi Lee Story. And unlike Bella Swan, I couldn’t just sit in a chair for months and stare out my window, unfortunately. I still had to go to school, go through the motions. And while I wore a convincing Normal Desi mask for my dad, I immediately took it off when I got to school.

  The last few days of February crawled by. Those days were spent alternately crying or being delusionally hopeful that Luca would forgive me. Then March inched its way toward April and I went from sad to angry. I hated everyone. I refused to watch K dramas and the excited end-of-school-year buzz just deflected off my dark-energy force field. A period where Wes referred to me as Des Vader. But then the anger eventually cooled to a numbness—giving me a nihilistic outlook that made me real fun to hang out with.

  It was while in one of these delightful moods, in April, that I found myself walking out into the courtyard for lunch. The sun was too bright, the air too cold. I yanked my sunglasses on and threw my sweatshirt hood over my head.

  I spotted Wes and Fiona at our usual table but veered away from them, heading for the pizza stand. They saw me, though, and their concerned faces made me want to scream. For the first couple of weeks, they had insisted that it would blow over, that Luca would forgive me. And if he didn’t, Fiona said she would happily castrate him. But now even they could tell the breakup was a done deal.