Trade Me Page 4

  It was also supposed to mean that Mabel would get the meds she needs.

  “Mom.” My voice is thick. “I didn’t give you that money for Jack Sheng. I gave it to you for Mabel.”

  “But Jack Sheng practices Falun Gong,” my mother says, as if that’s the end of the conversation. And for her, it is.

  “Yes, but I don’t,” I snap out.

  I can hear the silence on the other end of the phone.

  “Oh?” my mother asks.

  I don’t say anything.

  “It’s true,” she concedes. “When your father was in prison in China, you were not practicing Falun Gong.”

  There is no response I can give to that.

  “When our neighbors hid us so that I would not be taken away and tortured, too, you were not practicing Falun Gong.”

  I shake my head. I was six. I remember almost nothing—nothing except a thick blanket of guilt, a dark wave of feeling that this was all somehow my fault.

  “Falun Gong practitioners raised the money to bribe the authorities, smuggle us out of China, and fly us to America. You don’t practice Falun Gong. You don’t need to; they just saved your life, that’s all. But it’s okay if it’s not so convenient for you to remember that any more.”

  “You said you wouldn’t guilt trip me,” I manage to choke out.

  “That,” my mother says quietly, “was only the truth. Any guilt comes from you, not me.”

  I don’t know how to answer. So far, I’ve managed to get everything right, even working as much as I do. This year, though, my classes have reached a new level of hard. I thought Organic was hard, but physical chemistry is that much worse. And if I thought introductory programming classes were difficult, now I’m drowning. Instead of turning in assignments that search and sort lists of numbers, we’re designing our own programming languages. There aren’t enough minutes in the day, and I’m not sure I can maintain the grades I need to make everything come together.

  I can feel my entire future slipping from my fingers.

  I don’t know Jack Sheng, but right now, I hate him. I hate him so much for needing my money. I hate him because I’ve heard his story a hundred times before—tortured because he practiced Falun Gong in China, escaped to the US, and is now being sent back home.

  This is what Blake Reynolds will never understand: that when he and his father give money to charities, it never hurts them. To them, it’s just a check. It makes them feel good. It’s a pat on the back. He will never understand what it means to hate someone over thirty dollars. He probably spends more than thirty dollars on his jeans. Fuck. I don’t know what rich people spend on jeans. He would probably scoff at the idea that you could get a pair of jeans for thirty bucks.

  “Mom,” I say. “You have to get Mabel her medication.”

  “Next month, maybe.”

  “No.” I swallow. “It’s not fair to her to skip around like that.” When you have as little as I do, you know it to the last dollar. I had thought about splurging, about getting my sweater dry-cleaned. But this is it; I can’t afford my superstition any longer.

  “I can send you a little more,” I say. “But you have to promise you’ll get her meds. Okay?”

  I can manage twenty dollars. That should be enough. It’ll leave me with twenty-three bucks for nine days. That’s not that bad. I still have most of a twenty-five pound bag of rice. I’m practically rich, as long as nothing comes up.

  There’s a long pause. From that, I gather that Mom didn’t just sign over my check to Jack Sheng’s appeal account. She’s given more than my parents can really afford. I’m not going to be the only one figuring out how to eat on dollars a day.

  “Please,” I say. “It’s really important.”

  People say that money doesn’t buy love, and maybe they’re right. I don’t need money to love my parents or my sister. I love them so fiercely and so much that it hurts sometimes. I love them so much that I think of them every time I want to give up, which is practically every day. If I play my cards right, if I don’t mess everything up, by the time Mabel is in college I can make sure that she never has to feel like this. I won’t have to worry about my parents’ nonexistent savings. I won’t lie awake at night wondering if they accidentally forgot to pay their health insurance premiums this month. I’ll just be able to take care of it all.

  Money may not buy love, but it buys something like it. Not having any money makes love complicated. No matter how much I love Mabel, I can’t quash the part of me that resents her existence. Part of me remembers that in China, she wouldn’t even have been born. And while I would never want that—while I would take on anyone who tried to hurt my little sister—sometimes I think of a world without anyone who needed me. I imagine being able to breathe, being able to rest. I imagine being able to get pizza with my friends after class instead of making polite excuses. I imagine getting coffee with Blake Reynolds.

  I don’t want a lot out of life. I just want enough money to love without being tangled up about it.

  “Okay,” my mom finally says. “I promise.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And you… You are taking care of yourself? You are eating enough? Getting enough sleep? I hear about college students, and the…” She pauses. “The all-nighters. You aren’t having all-nighters, are you?”

  “No,” I lie. “I sleep well, Ma. I have to take care of myself, right?”

  “Good,” Mom says. “And maybe, you’ll meet a rich boyfriend.”

  I let out a snort. “Right.”

  But as I speak, my gaze strays back to my laptop. I can see the little rectangle where I paused Blake’s video. I saw you the first day we crossed paths, and I’ve been seeing you ever since. That little burn in my stomach comes back.

  Stupid. He doesn’t know me.

  At that moment, my laptop dings—the two-tone note of a Facebook notification.

  It has nothing to do with him, I’m sure. Still, my heart jumps. I stand up and move over to the computer.

  “Right,” I say more slowly, and I hope, very sarcastically.

  I switch to the Facebook tab. I have a new friend request. My heart thumps as I click on it. It’s from Blake Reynolds. I let out a little gasp.

  Confirm. Ignore.

  “Right,” I repeat a third time, this time to remind my stupidly accelerating pulse. “Don’t hope too hard, Ma. I don’t have time for any boyfriends at all, let alone a rich one.” I shake my head and push away from the computer. “Is Mabel there? Can I talk to her?”

  My mind races as I talk to my sister, though. What does this mean? Why did he send me a friend request?

  I sigh. Better question is: Why am I being so dramatic? I don’t let myself think about Facebook for ten minutes. When I finally hang up, I tell myself I should start on homework. I should definitely not think about Blake Reynolds. And I do close the other tab without watching the interview.

  But that brings the Facebook tab to the forefront. The request is still pending.

  Confirm. Ignore.

  Those are my choices. My heart is still beating at an accelerated rate, and I’d like to pretend I don’t know why. The truth is, there’s a part of me that’s following my mother’s wishful thoughts. A rich boyfriend would make things a lot easier for me. If I were the kind of person who could let someone take care of me, that is.

  But if there had ever been any chance of that—and there never was—I bashed that over the head for good today.

  Confirm. Ignore.

  I should just ignore him. Ignore this. He’s nothing but a distraction, and I don’t need more distractions.

  But instead of clicking ignore, before I let myself think what I’m doing, I click “send a message” and type out a short sentence.

  Does your dad know the meaning of the words “age appropriate?”

  He responds a few moments later. He doesn’t ask why I want to know. He knows his life; it’s obvious why I’m asking.

  Of course he does, Blake writes. He just
didn’t believe it applies to me. And then there’s a box with a question mark—undoubtedly some emoji that my computer is too old to decipher. It could be a smile. It could be an eye roll. It could be anything, and I’m not going to find out what it is. Because I don’t have the money. And—I tell myself—because I don’t care.

  It’s not very convincing. I turn away from the computer instead and go make dinner.

  The request is still waiting when I come back.

  Confirm. Ignore.

  I close the tab.

  Confirm. Ignore.

  Two days later, I still haven’t responded to Blake’s friend request. I don’t know what it means and I don’t have the time or the energy to think about it. Truth is, I’m a little too attracted to him to allow myself any closer. And yes, I understand that Facebook friendship is to real friendship as cigarette lighters are to intercontinental ballistic missiles. But somehow, this seems to represent a line. If I cross it, it will lead to…

  Admittedly, whenever I try to map out the progression, it never seems terrible. Step one is Facebook friendship. Step two is unreadable emoji. Step three is probably going to be occasional head nods in each other’s direction, not the destruction of the world as we know it.

  But my feelings aren’t logical. Every time I tell myself to accept the request, I cycle back to that memory of Blake looking in my eyes and telling me that I’ve never been invisible to him.

  And yes, my attraction makes a little too much sense. Blake has symmetrical features and meets generally accepted standards for masculine appeal. In addition, he’s rich, smart, and powerful. I can tell myself that it’s ridiculous as often as I like, but I’m fighting years of social programming. Even a hint of interest on his part is enough to spark my subconscious desire.

  That’s precisely why—logically—I want nothing to do with him. Television and books have all led me to hope, to believe that magic happens. Experience tells me that fiction is fiction and that hope leads to disappointment. Even assuming that he liked me, we’ve already proven that we’re too different to get along in reality. Nobody will ever take care of me but myself, and I can’t let myself believe anything else.

  Friendship with Blake is not safe. It’s not even Facebook safe.

  I slip into a seat in the hall for the class we share a minute before lecture is scheduled to start. Blake always sits in the third row. Not that I’ve looked for him before; it’s just that he’s the kind of guy that I can’t help but notice.

  I’m taking out my notebook when there’s a rustle beside me.

  “Hey.”

  I swallow at the sound of that voice and turn my head. Blake is tall—so tall I have to tilt my head back to look at him. He’s standing beside my chair. I have nowhere to run, as I’m locked in place by the little desk arm in the theater seat. And it’s just as well, because running away right now would be ridiculous.

  “Mind if I sit next to you?”

  I do mind, actually. Next comes duck emoji and, according to my mental progression, the zombie holocaust. I wrestle with myself for a few moments before I decide that it’s better not to admit that I care.

  I shrug. “Go ahead.”

  He sits.

  There aren’t many students in the very back row. Blake sits immediately next to me, not leaving an empty seat between us, and that feels weird. It’s a violation of the rules of personal space. When there’s only one other person on the bus, you don’t sit right next to her. Not unless you know her.

  And it feels like Blake takes up a lot of room. Even though I can’t point to a single physical point of contact, I can sense him next to me. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t look at me. I can’t even smell him. He’s just…there, being Blake Reynolds, taking up a lecture hall’s worth of personal space in one single seat.

  When the professor begins, I have every excuse to ignore Blake. I try to do so. But he’s not ignoring me, and I can’t help but notice him noticing me.

  He takes desultory notes on a tablet, but mostly he listens. His head tilts in my direction occasionally.

  Nope. I’m not going to care. I ignore him harder, concentrating on the professor at the lectern below.

  I’m trying so hard not to pay attention to him that I jump when he slips a folded piece of bright yellow paper under my arm.

  It’s a flyer for some meeting. On the back, he’s scrawled a single sentence.

  After considerable thought, I have decided to take back my apology from the other day.

  My heart begins to beat a little more quickly. I’m not sure what he means by that. By the way he glances at me, he wants me to ask for an explanation.

  Still a nope. Not going to let Blake distract me. Especially if he’s decided to be a jerk. As soon as class is over, I’m going to click “ignore” on that damned friend request. And I’m not going to be distracted by him ever, ever again.

  I stare at the professor for five more minutes, not hearing a word of the lecture, until finally I give up.

  Are we nine, I scrawl in return, and passing notes in class? Apparently we are.

  Instead of frowning when I hand this to him, the corner of his mouth lifts in appreciation.

  Don’t blame me, he writes back. If I had your number, I would have just texted you.

  He catches my eye as I look up from the paper. He holds my gaze, and a hint of electricity arcs between us.

  I swallow and scribble out a response. I can’t tell if that’s a hint that you want it or a statement of fact.

  He ducks his head. Cut me some slack. My media training didn’t cover the old-fashioned art of paper-based flirtation.

  That last word hits me first—flirtation. I feel a wave of heat. Is that what he’s doing?

  Maybe. I look over at him, look back at the paper, and feel that stupid, illogical flutter.

  Okay, definitely.

  And that’s when the first part hits me. Media training?

  If I needed proof that we are totally different animals, this is it. I’m not sure what media training entails. Thousands of dollars, I suspect. At least. And I can’t even afford a smartphone.

  I remind myself of all of this, and still I find myself responding—not just to his words, but his tone. Poor Blake, I write back, a little more slowly. Was that not age inappropriate enough for your dad?

  He presses the back of his fist into his mouth as if biting back a laugh. But he writes back immediately.

  See? If I weren’t me, we would totally be friends.

  I glance over at him. This, this, is exactly why I haven’t accepted that damned friend request. Because he is him. He’s the same guy who opines about the social safety net when he’s never, ever needed it. His father owns a company that has an annual revenue larger than the GDP of most countries. We’ve barely spoken. We’re not friends. I’m just fighting my stupid, social programming, and he’s…

  I tilt my head and glance at him. He’s smiling at me. Making my social programming act up. It’s hitting me on the head and saying, see? I told you so.

  I shake my head. If I weren’t me, I write back, we would be. I’ll accept your apology, but that’s all that’s happening.

  He frowns when he reads this. Too bad, he writes in response. Apology already withdrawn; it’s too late to accept it now. I, on the other hand, have magnanimously decided to accept the offer you made on Monday.

  I consider this.

  1. You spelled magnanimously correctly without autocorrect. That paper-based media training must be good for something.

  2. WTF? What offer?

  He looks over at me and raises an eyebrow. When he passes the paper back, I get: You said that I wouldn’t make it two weeks if I had to live your life. I don’t want two weeks. I want the rest of the semester.

  I look over at him. He’s watching me intently, his eyes narrowing on mine. I look down at the paper. I don’t want to be intrigued. I don’t want to be interested. I don’t want to wonder what he means, what this entails. I don’t want to k
now about him.

  My pen moves up the page and slowly, very slowly, circles the WTF I wrote earlier. I draw a few arrows pointing to it and add a smattering of exclamation marks around it, just in case he misses it. In case he’s not watching over my shoulder. I pass this over to him.

  Come to lunch with me, he writes back. I’ll explain everything.

  4.

  TINA

  Blake stops by his car on the way to lunch. “I have to put on my disguise,” he explains.

  “Your disguise?”

  He doesn’t answer. Instead, he walks to the car. He doesn’t take out a key. He doesn’t need to. As he approaches, the silver handles—which used to lie flush against the door—extend toward him. He opens the back door, revealing a surprising jumble of stuff: bright red running shoes, a crumpled towel, a handful of books, and myriad old receipts.

  “Apparently,” I say dryly, “your media training also failed to include the old-fashioned art of cleaning up after yourself.”

  He just laughs. “You sound like my dad. He’s a neat freak. I drive him crazy.” He pulls off his coat and then, as I’m watching, takes off his tie and unbuttons his blue-collared shirt. He removes this all in front of me. I catch a glimpse of a silver watch at his wrist.

  Now that he’s stripped to nothing but a white undershirt, I can see his upper body. Blake is all lean muscles. That tattoo I glimpsed before is a complicated computer circuit board. The artist who did it has imbued the tat with a sense of a subtle glow, making it seem like those are real circuits embedded just below his skin. Despite myself, my fingers itch to touch it, to make sure that’s all real muscle and not actual metal. The art climbs from his wrist all the way to his shoulder; from this angle, it makes him look like he’s a cyborg in some science fiction film.

  It’s freaking brilliant.

  He rescues a dark blue Cal sweatshirt from the pile of crap and pulls it on. The shirt is overlarge; it completely swallows his wrists.