Chapter Fifteen
We end up in a boba shop near Harvard Square, nursing our drinks as I spill my soul to him.
I don’t tell him everything. I skip the Chinook Shore backstory.
But I give what I’m sure is a riveting recap of all my classes today and how difficult they were, and how overwhelmed I am, and how stupid Lucas’s knit beanie is.
“I’m sorry,” he says when I’ve finally finished rambling. “There are a lot of kids here whose parents have always paid for the best schools, the best after-school programs, the best tutors. Like in that movie Parasite.”
I take a sip of my boba. It tastes like a liquified rose. “Wasn’t the tutor in Parasite actually a fraud?”
“Maybe? It’s been a few years. Also, I saw it on a plane and the baby behind me was wailing its lungs out, so I wasn’t really focused.”
“I’m pretty sure that the tutor being fake is, like, a big part of the plot.”
“Okay, my point is that other students are coming into this thing with privilege you didn’t have. And it sucks. But Char…” He chews on his bottom lip. “Feeling sorry for yourself isn’t going to help you win.”
The bluntness of his words surprises me. Honestly, Khoi always seemed so sunshine-y. I didn’t think he had this side to him.
Then I’m irritated. Wow. So helpful. As if I didn’t already know. Why did I even bother confiding in him? “Easy for you to say. You made a viral video game that you sold for a million dollars. You didn’t even bother going to class today.”
He raises his palms up. “Don’t lash out at me.”
“Sorry.”
“All good.” He slurps a few tapioca pearls. “You know, I could help you.”
I blink. “You would do that?”
“Why not? I have plenty of time. Perks of cutting class.”
Why not?
The answer arrives easily. Because I’m freaking terrified.
I’m scared I’ll get all hyped up, and then he’ll realize I’m too smooth-brained or too far behind to teach. And I’ll feel even more hopeless than I do now.
But I don’t say any of that. Instead I say, “It’s a lot of work for you.”
“I don’t mind.” He smiles. It’s such a sweet, earnest smile.
Something catches in my throat—a sudden knot of emotion I wasn’t prepared for.
It’s pathetic. I’m not used to being shown kindness like this.
“Thanks,” I mumble, half-expecting him to change his mind.
For a while, we wander around Harvard. Everything is so pretty—red brick everywhere, high-end storefronts casting a warm, buttery glow over the sidewalk.
The campus itself is so different from MIT, with old-timey architecture reminiscent of a classic fairy tale.
Even though the two schools are only a mile apart, they may as well be trapped in different centuries.
Khoi shows me the famous John Harvard statue in the Yard.
Apparently the students pee on the same golden feet that tourists rub for good luck.
We manage to sneak into Widener Library even though it’s not open to the public.
The whole place smells like old books and old money.
The interior is carved from white marble, with soaring ceilings and reading rooms full of mahogany furniture.
It’s the most beautiful library I’ve ever seen.
Once the sun is starting to set and it’s about time for dinner, we decide to go back to our own campus. Even that thought feels like a small astonishment. Our campus, as if it’s mine, too, at least for now.
As we’re passing Bow Street, I notice that across Massachusetts Ave there are two girls walking. One South Asian and one white, both in sports bras and yoga pants. The white girl has hair the color of pink cotton candy. The South Asian girl looks familiar…
I point. “Hey, it’s—”
Khoi yanks me behind a bush. “Get down!”
I oblige, more out of confusion than anything else. We’re smushed up against each other, because this bush is not big enough to shroud two people from view. He smells like sandalwood soap. His too-quick heartbeat is on my skin. My entire body feels jittery.
A curious turkey approaches us. It’s my first time seeing one IRL. Beady eyes, razor-sharp talons. Those cute hand turkeys I used to draw in elementary school were a total lie. This thing looks like it eats other birds’ dreams for breakfast.
“Don’t touch the turkey,” Khoi whispers. “They can attack if provoked.”
I want to ask why Harvard has turkeys, but there’s a more urgent question on my mind.
“Why are we hiding from your girlfriend?” I whisper. “I thought you needed to talk to her. Isn’t that why you came to our room?”
“Yeah, but I needed to talk to her at MIT, not at Harvard. Does that make sense?”
“No, not at all!”
Why is he acting so sus? Maybe this isn’t about Aisha. Maybe this is about the person next to her. “The girl she’s with, is that your ex or something?”
“Why is that your first thought? How many ex-girlfriends do you think I have?”
“I don’t know, ten? Twenty?” Khoi could be a secret fuckboy. The sandalwood soap is a pretty damning piece of evidence.
“Twenty?” He seems genuinely offended. “Am I the world’s first underaged Bachelor star? Should I get ready for the next rose ceremony? Choose who I want to take to the fantasy suite?”
“You seem to know an awful lot about The Bachelor.”
“My aunt is a die-hard fan!”
“Khoi, admitting you have an addiction is the first step to recovery.”
“I’m—it’s not—I don’t—I hate-watch it—ugh!” He shakes his head. “Okay, they’re gone. Let’s go back to campus.”
We hop on the 1 bus, and Khoi makes the mistake of answering yes when some woman asks if we have a moment to talk about our lord and savior Jesus Christ, and then he’s too polite to interrupt so we miss our stop.
We end up in Boston. He offers to call an Uber, but I’m morally opposed to using rideshare services for walkable distances, so we trudge back across the bridge spanning the Charles River.
By the time we get to Simmons, dinner has ended, so he buys us burritos from a nearby food truck.
And he never explains why we had to hide from Aisha. And he never denies that the other girl was his ex.