You Bet Your Heart, page 15
“I love it here,” I say, because I kinda do. “But I would be traumatized if we were stuck in here again. Is there a way to make sure that doesn’t happen?”
Ezra laughs. “Yeah, true. I’ll be back. Don’t disappear on me.” He drops his backpack and spins on his heels, glancing back for a beat before he disappears.
Now is my chance to make things right.
Faster than I’ve ever moved, I take his flash drive out of my pencil pouch, open the front of his backpack, and drop it in. Plop. There. Back to your rightful owner, Cerebellum. Ezra can think he just misplaced it. My conscience can be clear and I can pretend this never happened.
Without another thought, I zip the pouch closed and head back to my spot near the water bath.
I’m just as clever as he is, if not more. The donut and the book seem like child’s play comparatively. A grin consumes my face, and I let it. I got the info I needed without hurting anyone or anyone knowing. Truly legendary. I give myself a mental pat on the back.
Footsteps cut my praise short, and then he reappears. “That’s a nice smile,” he says, stepping into the room.
I bend down and grab my bag. “Thanks! Anyway…change of plans—I actually need to go.” I make my voice super sweet so he can’t protest. “Rain check, okay?” I rise on my toes and place a small kiss on his cheek. Before he can respond, I head out the door and exhale.
* * *
When I finally make it home, I’m greeted with comfortable silence. I kick off my shoes, and before I call out, I see my mom sprawled out on the couch, dead asleep.
What the hell? It’s only a little after five. She doesn’t move when I come in and close the door; that’s how I know she’s tired tired. She must have gotten up early for work today. Or maybe it’s the way that her work rolls into herself—she’s never had more than a day off in years. There is always someone to clean up after. I worry she’ll never find the time to truly take care of herself.
On the edge of the couch is a small teal blanket. I unfold it and drape it across her body. She twists slightly into the cushions but stays asleep.
I notice the coffee table, which is covered: a water glass, an empty bag of shrimp chips, a gum wrapper, and her phone. I grab the remote off a napkin to turn off whatever K-drama she has playing in the background, but then I stop, taken aback.
My Sassy Girl.
The familiar faces of characters whose love story I’ve grown up with my whole life bounce on the menu screen.
Despite the number of K-dramas my mom would talk about or try to illegally stream, my dad never got into them, but My Sassy Girl? The movie of his heart, a love story written just for him. My parents were always watching it, which means I was always watching it too. We loved everything about it, especially the way beginnings and endings are intertwined. And of course, the way the two people find themselves together again, no matter what the outrageous circumstances. Love always wins.
My stomach dips.
I don’t think I’ve seen her take this DVD out of the cabinet in…a while. The fracture in my heart deepens because I know it means she’s thinking about him and their love. A small part of me wants to wake her up, to sit on the couch and press play.
But that doesn’t feel right. She needs the rest.
With one quick click of a button, the screen fades to black.
I pick up her cup of water to take to the kitchen, and as I turn in our hallway something catches my eye: there’s a long white garment bag hanging from the closet door, perfectly camouflaged with the wall. I take another step forward. What in the—
My heart sinks. This isn’t— I tug on the zipper just enough to catch a glimpse of lilac and lace—the dress from Anna’s, the one in the window from the other day.
I sigh.
I study it, inhaling the plastic, that new-garment-bag scent. I pull the dress out slowly, like I’m touching glass. It’s beautiful. The fabric is super soft, with small crystals sewn into the lace. The last time I put on a dress this nice, in eighth grade, every worry slipped away, and my life felt…perfect. My hand rests on the delicate collar, and a lump rises in my throat. Eyes stinging, I blink until some semblance of control returns to me. The dress makes me think of the father-daughter dance, which makes me think of my dad and my mom and The Plan, our happily-ever-after, together.
I touch the dress again, afraid to breathe on it.
Instinctively, I check the lining in hopes of finding a tag, but nothing sticks out.
It’s expensive, I can tell by the stitching. Is this why we’ve been working at the Pattersons? I know she’s always working hard for me, but this is too much, right?
There is no room for large, frivolous expenses like this. I don’t want her picking up extra work for me. What am I doing for her? The scholarship comes to mind. I want her to know that all her hard work as a parent has paid off because I did it—I proved that I was the best at Skyline.
I stuff the dress back into its protective covering and zip it up. I open the closet door, and there I see something else in the corner: Mom’s old backpack.
I tiptoe to my room, being mindful not to wake her up when I close the door. At my desk, I stare at the same faded photo of my family as my brain bounces between thoughts. I exhale and try to quell the guilt that builds in my chest. I lean back in my chair and shut my eyes.
Describe what defines you. The legacy questions scream at me. Have I let desire for school success determine who I am?
Think about your future: What does it look like?
Thoughts of Ezra flash in my head, in my body. He remembers so much about me, about us. And I’ve kind of just shoved our memories together to the back of my mind like clothes I know I’ll never wear.
I let my thoughts wander; I try to recall things about myself that maybe I’ve forgotten, purposefully or not. The list starts small—reading comics, space exploration, my obsession with Hello Kitty—and then it gets bigger, more detailed. Dancing. Traveling. Ezra and I once talked about backpacking through South America for a summer. And of course, there’s New York.
I know I wasn’t always only about grades. I was full of lots of other things, other dreams, too.
That’s the thing about futures: they stay ready to be created, mine included. Maybe my future can have it all—the school, the boy, the degrees. I spin in my chair, hopeful.
“Knock, knock,” a familiar voice says. Thursday afternoon we’re in Ms. T’s room when Ezra appears in the doorway, cheesing, confident. I sit up straight and place my hands in my lap. The students tilt their heads in curiosity. Chance and Priscilla both bailed on tutoring (mostly likely to avoid being around me). So at the last minute, I asked Ezra.
I clear my throat, but instead, it sounds like I’m choking on food.
“Whoa—you good? Who knows the Heimlich?” Marquese calls out, standing up from his desk. Juan side-eyes, like I’ve already started to embarrass him in front of important company. I clear my throat once more, normally this time, before speaking.
“Everyone, this is Ezra,” I let out, my voice raspier than I’d like.
“Oooh. He’s cute. Is that bae?” Khadijah doesn’t miss a beat.
“Wha—what? No, I…” My face heats. Ezra as my bae? I mean, yeah, we’ve been kissing a lot, but we haven’t established anything, like, official.
Khadijah makes a face that says “Answer my question, because I do not want to ask again.”
“No. I just—I mean, it’s Ezra.”
Ezra laughs as he slides into the desk next to me. “Nice to meet you.” He’s smooth, even in the face of nosy middle schoolers.
All the students’ eyes dart between us.
“Your what-if, then? Or it’s complicated?” Khadijah presses, her eyes stuck on Ezra.
My tongue is in a knot. It’s complicated, at the very least.
I don’t mean to, but I eye him up and down, really taking him in. He’s wearing light blue jeans that have rips across the knees, with a black cotton T-shirt that shows off the muscles in his arms. He sits tall, and his shoulders are broad, his back straight. And of course, there’s his face.
Our eyes meet.
His lips split in a grin. “She’s bae,” he says to the room confidently.
“Everyone!” I throw up my hands, willing myself to regain some semblance of control. “Pause, pause, pause. This is Ezra. He’s here to help with your homework and nothing more.” I love the kids, but they don’t need to know everything about me.
“If you’re not dating, then how do you two know each other?” Khadijah asks Ezra across his desk.
Ezra turns to her. “Sasha and I go way back. We have history.” Khadijah is clearly intrigued. “She was my first real friend. My best friend.”
“Ezra also happens to be brilliant and an excellent tutor, so he’s here to assist. Now if my interrogation is over, can we please get started?”
Ben peers up at Ezra through his glasses. “Do you think you can help me with my math? Usually Chance teaches me.” Ben is in eighth grade too, but he’s the runt of the group. He’s small and has the cutest baby face, with bright greenish eyes, and is always losing his work despite his massive SpongeBob backpack. “I just really hate math,” he sighs, opening the large textbook.
“What?” Ezra walks over and crouches at his side. “You can’t hate math! Yo, you ever heard of Benjamin Banneker?”
Ben shakes his head. The other students listen in. My ears also perk up; I don’t recall that name.
“Benjamin Banneker was that guy. Back in the day, he was born a free Black man in Maryland and was practically self-taught. He was a math whiz and credited with inventing America’s first clock. The clock! Where would we be without it? Wild, right? Imagine that being his legacy and your namesake.”
Ben’s eyes widen and light up his whole face.
“Whoa,” the group says.
I have to stop myself from jumping up and inserting myself in their conversation. I am elated thinking about the connection that Ezra is making with Ben so easily. I almost forgot about Ezra’s obsession with random facts. We used to watch Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune together, and he’d joke, or so I thought, that when he grew up, he wanted to compete on the show, win a sailboat, and travel the world.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see Khadijah, her hands waving in the air. Earth to Sasha. Hello, come back down!
“Miss Sasha, can you help me with this?” Khadijah asks, her eyes wide.
“Huh? Yes, sorry. Algebra?”
“You already know.” She opens the thick textbook and turns it my way.
After about forty minutes of polynomials with Khadijah and mitosis with Juan, the students are restless, shifting in their seats, releasing a chorus of yawns. We’re at our limit. I don’t blame them. An intense tutoring session after a long day of classes is a lot. Even for me.
“I’m getting hungry. Who has food?” Hector’s round face and greenish eyes droop. He takes off his Dodgers cap, signaling the end of our work session, and checks the clock on the wall.
“I could eat.” Khadijah drops her pencil.
Ben lays his head down on his desk, clearly choosing rest over food. “Miss Sasha, Ezra is really good at math. He’s good at explaining it. Did you know that about him?”
Ben has struggled with math since we started tutoring. He’s got dyscalculia, which means reading and writing are good, but math is pretty rough for him. But right now, Ben is cheesing at Ezra like he’s unearthed a rare Pokémon.
“Nah, man,” Ezra says. “You did that.”
“Yeah, but…math is hard, and you won’t always be around with the assist.” Ben sits up with a yawn and closes his notebook.
Ezra nudges him with his shoulder. “We can do hard things.” He gestures to the worksheet. “Proof. See? Don’t ever forget that.”
Ben brightens up. “All right, sure.”
Khadijah watches, her eyes darting between Ezra and me.
“You think you can come back?” Ben asks.
Ezra blinks at me expectantly. The kids are awestruck, and so am I. He is kind. Gentle, even. Very go-with-the-flow. Easy to be around, I guess. He also has a nice laugh. And he’s smart. God, he’s so smart. He’s not afraid of intellect; in fact, quite the opposite. Take his flash drive, for example—his files are detailed and organized, but naming the drive Cerebellum is a little playful, too. He knows he’s got it, but it doesn’t control him, which frankly makes me jealous.
I pull at a piece of my hair. Oh my gosh, has he always been like this? A perfect blend of smart, and generous, and funny, and handsome?
I can’t believe I’m thinking all this about…Ezra.
“Yeah?” he replies.
Shit, did I say that out loud? “Nothing, I—was just, um, what were we talking about?”
“If I can come back?” He laughs.
“Erm. I mean, yes, if you want.”
He lights up. “Of course I want to. This was the most fun I’ve had in a long-ass—a long time.”
The kids mutter happily to themselves.
Everyone starts stuffing books in backpacks, dragging chairs across the room.
In another blink, they’re all gone. Khadijah actually wiggled her eyebrows at me before she left.
Just the two of us now; Ezra scoots his chair next to me.
Hot. Is it hot in here?
I can see the slope of his nose and the fullness of his eyelashes. “I was wondering if you could help me with something?” He unfolds a piece of lined paper and slides it my way.
I’m scared to open it, but Ezra’s giving me those wide, enthusiastic eyes, so I do.
SJ, would you go to prom with me? Check a box: yes or no. I stare at the two choices; the yes box is about ten times larger than the no box.
Ezra leans over. “Here, I even have a pencil for you.” He hands me a sharpened bright-yellow Ticonderoga pencil that I know he got from Ms. T’s desk.
I don’t have to think, I just do it. I draw a heart in the yes box, shade it in, then hand him the paper back.
“Saturday, then?” he asks.
“Saturday.” I lean in, sealing this note with a kiss.
How I got the crew together for another Fry-Date is beyond me. Maybe I can turn on the charm too? In any case, here we are, at McDonald’s, in our favorite booth in the back with our favorite foods: three large fries, two cones (the McFlurry machine is still broken), and six apple pies (we each like to take one home). And thankfully, everyone showed up on time.
“Good things?” Chance calls out, squeezing a pool of ketchup from the packet. Priscilla swirls her straw in her cup, the ice swimming and clanking inside. I try to gauge her mood, from her black-and-white polka-dot cardigan to her pink floral print pants…. I don’t know—it’s a lot of patterns. What does that mean? Just how mad at me is she?
“I’ll pass,” she says.
Got it.
I reach for a fry and Chance swats my hand.
“Ow!” I yelp.
“Apologies first. Don’t forget your manners.” He shoots me a playful look.
He’s right. “P, I’m so sorry. I know I haven’t been myself. Chance, I’m sorry too, if I’ve been, I dunno, absent.” Priscilla softens, her lips form a tiny smile. “For reals. I’m hoping we can talk it through right now. I’m here to answer any questions and make amends.” I hold up the square napkin. “Here, it’s me and a white flag.” I wave it around.
“Very cheesy, but Switzerland accepts your apology,” says Priscilla.
“I thought I was Switzerland?” Chance jokes.
Priscilla’s shoulders relax. She dips a fry in the ice cream and replies, “Not today. I want to know everything”—she glares at me—“because why did Jessica with the shoulder tattoo tell me that she saw you and Ezra kissing? At school?”
“I heard that too,” Chance says.
“So I guess Ezra is my good thing.” I hesitate to say the words, but once I start talking, I can’t stop. I fill my friends in on the weekend, our talks, kisses in the hallway. Then I remember the cherry on top. “Also, we’re going to prom together,” I say sheepishly.
“Wow.” Priscilla grabs a handful of fries. I don’t know what to make of her response.
“Chance, prom?”
“Isn’t it tomorrow? Also, very unlikely. I’m still, ya know, on probation or whatever for attendance, or lack thereof. But! I got my plane ticket. To England. It’s official.” Chance smiles like a madman; the exhilaration in his face is contagious.
“When?” Priscilla asks. “I’ve started making you a list of restaurants you have to visit. My parents and I want to go back there too. Go there, send me pics of you and the desserts. Oh my gosh, I can make you one of those Flat Stanleys, but it can be Flat Priscilla.”
“Food, yes. The rest…we’ll see,” he says. “Get ready for the kicker—departure date is the evening of graduation. A red-eye landing at Heathrow.”
“So cool, Chance, seriously,” I tell him.
We nibble on fries for another moment before Priscilla brings her hands to her face, her fingers undulating playfully.
“Let us throw you a bon voyage party,” she says.
Chance doesn’t even blink. “I love it. Give it a European theme, but no soccer—I mean, football. Nothing sports-related.”
“Absolutely brilliant,” Priscilla says, the elation in her voice almost over-the-top.
I grab an apple pie and slowly open the box, noticing the perfect design, from the carton’s shape to its ventilation holes to keep the pie crisp.
“P, you never said your good thing.” I can’t look at them; instead, I pick at the flap, freeing the pie.
“Well, I don’t know. The week has still been shitty, but it’s good to be back together. I’ve missed you both.”
