Chapter Six
Three weeks after I apply for Alpha Fellows, Lola and I catch a dine-and-dasher at my mom’s restaurant.
When tourists stop by the Lucky Panda, they’re expecting Chinatown in microcosm: red and gold banners dripping from the ceiling, ink paintings of bamboo and plum blossoms pinned on every wall. Oil-glistened platters of duck and rabbit gliding through the air.
As some Yelp reviewers so helpfully point out, the real Lucky Panda is not that glamorous. The table surfaces are wood-grain laminate. There’s always at least one burned-out bulb among the ceiling lights. Peeling off-white paint on the walls, the forever scent of peanut oil clinging to the carpet.
Today, Lola and I do homework in an empty booth, munching on pot stickers while my mother prepares for the evening shift.
Or rather, I’m wrapping up my final report on The Great Gatsby while Lola scrolls through Shein’s prom dress collection, even though she doesn’t have the money to buy anything new.
Prom is early May, and only seniors and their plus-ones get tickets.
Lola’s situationship Rachel invited her.
Apparently it’s to make Rachel’s ex-girlfriend Meredith jealous, but Meredith is going with some sophomore named Esperanza who used to have a crush on Choir Kelly (not to be confused with Stoner Kelly) whom Rachel hooked up with behind the bleachers during homecoming last year.
Unless Meredith is actually going with Choir Kelly?
Honestly, I had some trouble following the saga, although I was still riveted while Lola spilled all the tea.
Cue that Marie Kondo screencap: I love mess.
“Do you think I can pull off a sweetheart neckline?” my best friend says. “Do I have the boobs for it?”
“Your boobs are fine,” I say without looking up.
“I don’t want fine. I want spectacular. Scrumptious. Succulent.”
“Please don’t describe your boobs as succulent.” The English language was a mistake, truly.
“I want, like, Sydney Sweeney cleavage.”
How did I end up in this conversation and how can I get out of it? “YOUR BOOBS ARE FANTASTIC, LO.” I say this too loud, and my mom looks over from the table she’s setting. Wonderful, now she’s walking in this direction.
Lola tilts back in her chair. “Quinn! Love the new earrings.”
My mom gingerly touches the hoops swinging from her earlobes. “Present from Michael.” What she doesn’t mention is that Michael won them in a poker game from this recent divorcée. “How is your mama?”
“Mari’s been wearing this cold cap to prevent hair loss from chemo. Wanna see? She’s the only person I know who can pull it off.” Lola unlocks her phone and shows us a photo of her mom, who’s wearing a navy blue helmet with a matching sweater. Somehow, she still looks like a J.Crew model.
“Mari always pretty,” my mom says.
“Quinn, I’m not paying you to chitchat,” the restaurant manager calls, and my mom stiffens.
“Sorry!” she calls in her lilting customer service voice. She excuses herself and hurries away. I frown. The manager can be such an ass. He once made Mom cover a dine-and-dasher out of her own paycheck.
The evening starts off low-key. A regular couple comes in and flash around photos of their fat-cheeked grandchild at a tulip farm.
Some college kids, sun-dazed, collapse in a booth and linger for hours.
A boisterous toddler spills a bottle of Kikkoman less sodium soy sauce and his embarrassed parents tip two twenties.
An hour passes. I write a concluding paragraph about how striving for the American Dream is totally pointless. Lola looks at more prom dresses she will never buy.
“Char.” She pushes her laptop screen toward me. “You’d serve so hard in this.” The dress is emerald green, with rhinestones sewn into the bodice. My eyes fall to the price—eighty dollars, but hey, at least there’s free shipping.
Jesus. Isn’t Shein supposed to be cheap? Isn’t that the point of their human rights violations? Even if I were going to prom, I’m not going to drop six hours of minimum wage on something I’ll wear once.
I shrug. “Lo, nobody is taking me to prom.” I’m not a girl who boys want to rent a tux for.
They don’t want to gasp after seeing me all glammed up, they don’t want to slip a corsage on my wrist, they don’t want to awkwardly sway to John Legend with me.
And that’s fine. That stuff seems like more trouble than it’s worth. John Legend is overrated anyway.
“Darlin’, forget Drew,” she says, as if I haven’t already forgotten him. “Hey, I know. Wyatt Callahan is going alone. You could be his date.”
“Wyatt Callahan, the dude who got caught masturbating in a supply closet last year?”
“I mean, he’s probably washed his hands by now.” But after Lola sees my scrunched-up nose, she relents. “Okay, okay. I can ask Rachel if she knows any other seniors without dates.”
“Nah, don’t bother. We can go together next year when we’re actually seniors.”
She flattens her lips into a slash. “Char, I need to tell you something.”
But before she can say more, my attention is diverted by a commotion several tables away.
A scowling man—a boy, really, he doesn’t look that much older than me—towers over my mother. “I don’t understand.”
“So sorry, sir, but your card declined,” my mom says. The corner of her mouth wobbles, which is how I know she’s frightened.
“Try it again.”
A crease appears between her eyebrows. “Maybe you have other form of payment?”
He tries to sidestep her, but she shuffles her body closer so he can’t leave. Then he shoves my mother hard enough that she stumbles back. He bolts for the exit.
Both Lola and I jump up. My feet bring me out the door, with my best friend right behind.
The coastal wind ices my throat. It feels like my rib cage is shrinking around my lungs. In gym class, I run an eleven-minute mile. The guy is already so far ahead, it’s going to be impossible to catch up.
But Lola is on the track team, and she sprints ahead.
When he stumbles over a crack on the sidewalk, that gives her enough time to catch up.
She launches herself at him, and they both fall to the ground.
With a renewed burst of energy, I propel myself forward and sit on his legs.
Quick, shallow gasps force themselves out of my throat.
Now that my body finally has permission to stop, it wants to complain about pain everywhere. I can barely collect my thoughts.
Lola sits on his torso.
“Crazy bitches,” the guy mumbles.
For the first time, I see him up close. His glasses rest askew upon his hooked nose. His face is gaunt, his cheeks mottled by ice pick scars. He looks familiar.
My phone rings, but I decline the call.
“Torres?” Lola spits out.
I try to place the name. Torres. Zach Torres. A senior when we were freshmen. Teacher’s aide in my study hall, which meant he played League of Legends while the actual teacher on duty indulged his hairnet fetish by sneaking off with the lunch lady.
Wasn’t Zach valedictorian? I thought he got a scholarship to a private school. Notre Dame or Vanderbilt or somewhere. I guess they must’ve been impressed by his Bronze 2 rating in League.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in college?” I blurt out.
“How’s that your business?”
For someone who’s pinned on the sidewalk, he sure has a lot of sass. I shift my weight on his legs. “Well, given that you just dined-and-dashed on my mom, we can call the cops and make it their business instead.”
His mouth twists unhappily. “Vandy put me on academic probation.”
“What’s that?” One of my mom’s coworkers is on probation for a DUI. But that had very little to do with academics and a lot to do with three too many beers.
“I failed some classes. They asked me to leave for a semester.”
Lola frowns. “But weren’t ya, like, good at school?”
He lets out a bitter laugh. “Acing Chinook Shore is completely different from acing college. At least at a top private school like Vanderbilt.”
“Is Vanderbilt a top private school?” Lola asks. “I haven’t even heard of it. It’s not Harvard.”
Zach scowls. “As if you could even get into Vanderbilt.”
My best friend looks like she’s ready to rearrange his teeth, so I cut in. “Torres, can you just go back to the restaurant and pay your bill?”
He finally has the decency to look ashamed. “I wasn’t trying to steal.”
That’s about as believable as a YouTuber apology video. I scoff.
“Serious! That’s not me. I just… I got an email from Bank of America saying my debit card’s been overdrafted, and I didn’t have enough cash, and I panicked.” Now he looks like he might cry. “I didn’t think I’d end up back here, you know? I was supposed to be the one who made it out.”
God save me. I really don’t need to hear about his crash-out. If his lip starts quivering, I truly may barf. “It’s Chinook Shore, not federal prison.”
Ugh, now his eyes are weirdly shiny. I hate this. I don’t want to feel bad for him. Really, if there is any victim in this situation, it’s my butt, which is starting to go numb from prolonged contact with his knobby knees.
My phone rings again.
“Char, are you sure you don’t need to get that call?” Lola asks.
“Nah, I’ll check my voicemail later. It’s probably a friend.”
She squints. “You don’t have any friends besides me.” I open my mouth, but before I can protest, she adds, “The Advanced Placement nerds don’t count. Half of them are just using you for homework help. The other half are hoping you’ll let them touch your boobs one day.”
Damn. She just obliterated me.
“Get the call,” she says. “I’ll figure things out with this dumbass.”
“You know I can hear you, right?” Zach says.
We both ignore him.
My knees squeak as I stand. I press my phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“I’m looking for Charise Tang?” The male voice on the other end pronounces my name like the syllables are jagged metal.
“Um, yeah, that’s me.”
I cast another glance at Lola, who is still perched on Zach’s chest. She mouths Go, and I take a few steps away from them.
“My name is Edvin Nilsen,” he says. “Is this a good time?”