He gives me a long look. “I said all right.”
But he doesn’t sound like he fully believes me either. My skin prickles, embarrassment and annoyance warming my cheeks. And then my mouth decides to make everything worse by saying the most ridiculous thing: “I’m not—I’m not even a fan.”
A terse second passes, his expression shifting briefly into something impossible to read. Surprise, perhaps. I can feel my insides disintegrating.
“Good to know,” he says at last.
“I mean, I’m not ananti-faneither,” I splutter, with that dreadful, helpless, out-of-body feeling of watching a protagonist inside a horror film: when you want to scream at them to stop, but they keep moving closer and closer toward their own doom. “I’m just neutral. Nothing. A—a normal person.”
“Clearly.”
I clamp my mouth shut, my cheeks hot. I can’t believe I’m still standing here withCaz Song, who apparently has a unique talent for making me feel even more self-conscious than I usually do. I can’t believe we’re still talking, and Mr. Lee’s still inside that crowded classroom with Ma, and both of them think I’m still in the bathroom.
This is a nightmare. Time to figure out an escape strategy before I can embarrass myself further.
“You know what?” I crane my neck as though I just heard someone call for me. “I’m pretty sure that was my mom.”
Caz lifts both eyebrows this time. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“Yeah, well, she has a soft voice,” I babble, already moving past him. “Hard to pick out, unless you’re really accustomed to it. So, um, I should probably go. See you around!”
I don’t give him a chance to reply. I just bolt back into the classroom, ready to grab my mom and beg Li Shushu to come pick us up as soon as possible. After an ordeal this mortifying, I can never,evertalk to Caz Song ever again.
I wake up before dawn the next day, the heat heavy on my skin, my blankets twisted around me.
My phone is flashing.
237 new notifications.
I squint at it for a minute, uncomprehending, my brain still foggy from sleep. But again and again, the screen lights up, casting a soft blue glow over the bedside table, and a jolt of alarm cuts through my fatigue. No one usually messages me at this hour. And certainly no one—not even Zoe—would send methismany messages in a row.
239 new notifications.
240 new …
I kick my blankets aside, fully awake now, and check my iMessage, my confusion quickly curdling into apprehension.
Then I read Zoe’s texts:
holy shit.
Holy fucking shit!!!!!!
ok i knOW IT’S THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT
BUT
PLS GET ON YOUR PHONE
asdfghjkklkll
girl have you SEEN THIS what the actual hELL
She’s attached a screenshot below: an article. I’m almost too scared to open it, but after two seconds of staring at the screen, my heart punching holes in my ribs, I give in.
A giant, bold heading leaps out from the page:
“A Rom-Com in the Making: This Girl’s Blog Post about Her Love Life Has Us Believing in Love.”
