I heap four onto my tray and turn to go, but the kids behind me aren’t done yet.
“Is it true that your boyfriend’s identity is top secret?” the same girl asks.
My body stiffens, but my voice comes out smooth. “No. I mean … No, I wouldn’t say that.”
“So you can tell us who he is?” another girl pipes up.
“Also no.”
Even though I can only see them out of the corner of my eye, I can practically sensetheir disappointment.
“Can y’all give her some space?”
This, from a girl in my year level I vaguely know. Her name starts withS: Samantha or Sally or Sarah … No,Savannah.She’s standing at the front of the line, her tray stacked with at least six roujiamos, one hand on her hip.
After a stunned beat, the kids mumble apologies and back away. I almost feel bad for them. Savannah is one of those people who’s effortlessly cool and absolutely terrifying at the same time. Her winged eyeliner alone is sharp enough to cut glass, and she’s so tall I have to crane my neck a little just to look at her. It also doesn’t hurt that she’s dating one of Caz Song’s friends; anyone with any connection to Caz Song is basically granted instant membership to the school’s Super Popular, They-Could-Step-on-Me-and-I’d-Thank-Them circle.
“Um, thanks for that,” I manage.
“No big deal,” she says. She has a faint New York accent, and I remember hearing somewhere that she’s Vietnamese American. Quite a few students around here fall into similar categories: Chinese American, Korean Australian, British Indian. All people who have grown up balancing different cultures. People like me. “Must be pretty overwhelming, huh? Getting questions like that all day.”
“It’s okay.” I shrug, hoping to play it cool. “Could be a lot worse.”
“Yeah, I mean, you could’ve gone viral for trying to go up a down escalator in the middle of a crowded mall only to end up falling and knocking over a mascot in a giant chicken costume.”
I stare at her. “That’s … very specific.”
She laughs. “It was trending the other day. In fact, I think your post took its spot.”
“That’s nice? I guess?”
“Huge accomplishment,” she agrees jokingly. “You should be proud.”
We’re standing near the cafeteria tables now, and for a moment, I debate asking if she wants to have lunch together. But that’s silly. It’s not like I have a great track record with keeping new friends; I can’t imagine building a friendship on a deeply embarrassing lie would yield great results in any case. And like she said, her speaking up for me wasn’t a big deal.
Plus, a scan of the cafeteria makes it clear that her boyfriend—Daiki, I remember from roll call—is waiting for her at the largest corner table, alongside Caz Song, Stephanie, and Nadia and a bunch of other loud, gorgeous, perfectly sociable people from our year level. They’re laughing together at some joke Caz must’ve told just now, their mouths wide open, some actually doubled over in mirth. I can’t help but stare for a few beats, an unwelcome, unreasonable stone of envy lodged in my gut.
“Well, thanks again,” I tell Savannah with a weak half wave, eager to be alone. “Um, bye.”
She looks surprised, but she nods at me. Smiles. “Anytime.”
Then I leave her there. I leave the cafeteria entirely and climb the five flights of steps up to the very top of the building, my lunch tray still gripped tight in my hands. Soon, the babble of voices and clatter of plates fade away, and it’s just me standing alone on the roof with warm, buttery sunlight falling around me.
For the first time since this morning, I feel myself relax slightly.
I love coming up here, not only because it’s quiet and most often empty, but because it’s beautiful. The rooftop is designed like a garden, with bright mandarin trees and slender bamboos and this gnarled-looking plant I can’t name lining the sides and fresh jasmine flowers—Ma’s favorite—blooming everywhere like little clusters of stars, sweetening the air with their scent. There are even fairy lights strung up around the railings and over the wooden swing set in one corner, though I’ve never stayed behind late enough to watch them glow.
The view’s gorgeous too. From here, you can see the entire stretch of the school campus, and Beijing rising behind it, all that shiny glass and steel reflecting the clouds in the sky.
This is my trick to surviving new schools: Find a space like this, a place no one can disturb me, and claim it as my own.
It’s especially useful now, when I need to figure things out alone.
I lower myself onto the swing and balance my tray on my lap, ripping out a large bite of the roujiamo with my teeth. Then I do the thing I’ve been putting off all day: I check my phone.
Generally speaking, I try to stay off social media as much as possible. Every new post from an old friend serves as a painful reminder: This is their life now, without you. This is their group of best friends, their boyfriend they didn’t tell you about; this is them moving on completely. This is proof that when they said they’ll remember you, stay in touch with you, they were lying. Sometimes I’ll stare at an Instagram photo of someone I was close to in London, New Zealand, Singapore, at their fresh-dyed hair and wide grin and the kind of cropped jacket they wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing years ago, and get the odd sense of seeing a total stranger on my feed.
But today, so many messages come flooding in that my phone freezes for a solid minute. My heart freezes as well. People I haven’t spoken to in years—people fromprimary school—have reached out to me, all with screenshots or some variation ofomgyou made it!A few have followed up with questions likeHowhas life been?orIt’s been ages!but the distant politeness of it all, compared with the keyboard smashes and emoji spam we used to send one another without thought, only drives another pang through my gut.
