I go back to unpacking, pulling out a faded blue-and-gold shirt. My old track uniform. It’s a security blanket for my soul, albeit a ratty, smelly one. After locating an ideal spot above a chest of drawers, I take a pin from my bag and stick it in. But as soon as I let go of the shirt, it slides off the wall and ends up behind the drawers.
Dammit. I grip both ends of the drawers and pull. As it moves, I catch a flash of red written on the wall behind it.
WERNER IS GUILTY.
The words are scrawled in red, ground into the wall with so much force, I can almost taste the hatred behind them. Oh-kaaay. This is weird. It is, right? Graffiti’s everywhere in South Melville. But here? It seems weird. Also, who’s Werner and what’s he or she guilty of? The name sounds familiar.
Beth’s voice comes back to mind. “Did she punch Mr. Werner?” she’d said, as we watched the girl being taken away.
So. Mr. Werner’s that creepy teacher who looks like a possessed Ken doll. Which means…this room belonged to Sophie. The girl with the desperate eyes, shrieking like a lamb at the slaughterhouse. She’s flunked out, and here I am, taking her place.
Chapter 2
It’s none of my business. It’s not my fault she got kicked out. Even as my heart thunders a sickening beat and I feel like ripping my skin off, I keep myself busy unpacking. But in the silence of my room, I can hear Sophie’s animal shrieks, and guilt churns in my gut, as though I were the one who expelled her. Finally, I put my earphones in and dive into arranging all my stuff around the room until it feels less like Sophie’s old room and a little more like mine.
By the time I’m done, I’m starving. I comb my hair and look for my student ID, so I can go grab some dinner, but it’s nowhere to be found.
I can’t possibly tell Beth I’ve lost the card right after she told me not to. She’ll think I’m a giant flake. Welp. I’ll just starve until I can get a replacement card. Food is overrated anyway.
Later that evening, I stand outside of the main building and peer through the windows like one of those sad newspaper boys in old movies. The school has the fanciest dining hall ever, complete with a seven-foot fireplace. A board outside announces that tonight’s dinner is roasted, free-range chicken with thyme jus accompanied by winter vegetables. I have no idea what “thyme jus” is, but I know I want to put it in my face. I wander to the side of the entrance, kicking at the grass despondently.
I haven’t eaten much the past two days, because the very thought of leaving everything behind and coming here made my insides clench up and go, Nope. And now I’m stuck out here, with my stomach telling me I’m a complete idiot. Tears prick my eyes.
Do not cry. Don’t you dare cry.
But I can’t help it. Everything’s coming down in a sudden crush, and it’s just. So much. I’m a thousand miles away from Ibu. Okay, more like eighty-seven miles, but it’s as good as a thousand. I want my mommy, dammit.
I sink to the ground and hug my knees to my chest. “God, I’d kill for some of that pisang goreng,” I moan. Why did I throw it away? My stomach grumbles again. “Shut up,” I say to it.
“Um…sorry. Was I thinking too loud?”
I look up, and whoa. It’s the most beautiful guy I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Everything about him is positively edible, and I swear I’m not just saying that because I’m so freaking hungry. His hair is a carefully crafted mess, his gaze steady in a non-creepy way, and he has that classic, masculine superhero jaw. There’s even a hint of a cleft in it. I’ve never met anyone in real life with an actual butt chin. It’s indescribably, ridiculously cute. Would it be completely awful if I say I fall in love then? Just a little bit of falling. More of a trip, really. People have fallen in love for far stupider reasons, right? Well, I definitely fell in lust, anyway.
Quick, must say something mind-blowing. Something so hilarious and brilliant that he’ll immediately fall in love with me. I open my mouth. “Bwuh?”
Damn it, self!
He smiles. “I said, ‘Was I thinking too loudly?’”
“No.” I stand up, busying myself with brushing invisible lint off my jeans so I don’t have to look at his ridiculously perfect face. “I was just talking to myself. It’s a thing I do sometimes. It helps me think. And stuff.” He’s smirking. He’s smirking at me. I end the sentence in a mumble.
“Sorry, I wasn’t laughing at you. I talk to myself too. Not because it helps me think. More because, you know, I’m pretty charming, so I can’t resist myself.”
I can’t help laughing.
He holds out his hand. “Danny. Danny Wijaya.”
“Wijaya? No way. Are you Indonesian?”
His eyes widen. “Wow, you’re like the first person to get it right. I’m Chinese-Indonesian.”
“Me too!” I cry. “Uh, I mean, I’m native Indonesian. Not Chinese. Well, I’m half-Indonesian. My mom is Indonesian. My dad’s Chinese-Indonesian.” Could I possibly say Indonesian more? But seriously, what are the odds that I’d meet another Indo here?
“Waduh, ngga sangka bisa ketemu orang Indo disini,” Danny says.
“Right? I was just thinking the same thing! What are the chances?”
We both laugh. Then there’s a moment of silence as we both grin widely at each other.
“Sorry, my Bahasa is terrible,” I say. “I can understand it, but when I try to speak it, the accent’s all wrong, and…yeah.”
“Sounds like how I am when it comes to Mandarin. You never told me your name, by the way.”
“Oh. Right. Lia. Setiawan.”
“Did I hear you say something about pisang goreng?”
My instinct is to deny it, but he’s Indo. He’s even pronouncing it right, rolling the r in goreng with the tip of his tongue tickling the back of his teeth so it comes out sharp and thin, not at all like an American r. It reminds me so much of Ibu that my heart squeezes painfully, just for a second. “Yeah, my mom makes the best pisang goreng. She even drizzles homemade caramel sauce and grates some cheese over it—”
“Okay, I need this pisgor right now. You have some, right?”
It makes me grin to hear him do what Indos do all the time—combine two or more words into one short one. “Um, actually, I kind of freaked out a little and threw it away. Sorry,” I mumble.
“Coming here does weird things to people. The first week I was here, I was so homesick, I cried myself to sleep every night.”
“Aww.”
Danny puffs out his chest. “I mean, I cried in a very manly way. Real masculine tears.”
“Oh, I’m sure.”
“I even tried to grow a beard to show my grief.”
“A beard of sadness?”
“Exactly. But I hadn’t really started growing facial hair yet, so the beard didn’t happen.”
“To be fair, you’d probably still struggle now.”
“Ouch.” He mimes a dagger stabbing into his chest. “But yes, you’re right. It’s a curse on us Asians.”
“Speak for yourself, I grow beards just fine.”
By this time, we’re both grinning so hard, my face is actually hurting.
“How come you’re not having dinner?”
“Oh.” This is awkward. “Uh.” Quick, think of a good reason that doesn’t involve me losing my ID on my first day. “I already ate,” I say, just as my stomach gives a growl so loud, it sounds like it’s right next to our heads. Damn you, stomach. Read the room!
Danny raises his eyebrows.
“I lost my student ID.”