Chapter Twenty-Seven
The next two weeks of July are an absolute whirlwind.
Once, at the aquarium, I saw this swarm of fluorescent fish.
My parents—this was back when they were still together—were busy amusing themselves by pointing out which creatures were good to eat, but it was the bright swirling school that caught my eye.
It astonished me, how they swam as one shape.
But now that’s Khoi and me as we write lines upon interlacing lines of code.
The hours pass by quickly. Khoi—Khoi’s good. He’s quick and experienced. He anticipates problems, thinks three steps ahead. Working next to him makes me all amped up, like I’ve downed too many espresso shots.
And when we get bored or tired, we make out.
It’s nothing like making out with Drew. With Drew, I was always hyperaware of our surroundings.
My brain had plenty of RAM for non-Drew-related thoughts, even when we were kissing.
But with Khoi, it’s like everything else falls away except for this pink-and-gold bubble we’ve made for ourselves.
I think I could spend my entire life inside of the bubble.
Tuesday afternoon, Khoi and I are on my bed. His mouth is hot and tender. He kisses each mole on my chin, my neck, my collarbone, and each kiss feels like the first. Our limbs are entangled, but I pull him even closer.
He tugs at the hem of my top. “Can you take this off?” The urgency in his voice stokes the fire within me.
“No,” I say.
His eyes widen. “Sorry, was that—”
“You take it off for me.” I give him a wicked smile, and he blushes.
We take turns removing each other’s shirts. And he’s beautiful, which is a word I never thought I’d use to describe a boy. His skin is so smooth. It reminds me of a marble sculpture at an art museum.
I’m leaning down to kiss him when the doorknob rattles. There’s this scraping sound like somebody is working the key into the lock.
Khoi calls, “Aisha, give us a minute!”
The door opens anyway. I dive for the blankets, because there’s no time to put my shirt back on.
It’s not Aisha. It’s her parents, clutching Tupperware containers full of food.
Oh my God oh my God oh my God. How did they even get in here? How do they have a key? Maybe they’re allowed to trespass, or maybe Aisha gave them a copy? I zoned out when HellomynameisBrenda gave parent-related info, since that stuff was irrelevant to me.
The adults stare at us. “Khoi?” Mr. Chadha asks. “What are you doing?”
We’re half naked. Barring some laundry emergency, it’s fairly obvious what we’re doing. I burrow deeper into the blankets. Khoi reaches for his shirt.
“How can you do this to our daughter?” Her mother demands. “And you!” She glares at me. “You—floozy—”
“Stop. Stop. Don’t insult Char. Aisha and I… uh…” Khoi improvises as he yanks his shirt over his head. “We broke up.”
Her father shakes his head. “Sorry to hear, but perhaps it’s for the best. You both should focus on college apps.”
Mrs. Chadha is still staring at me like I might try to steal her husband too. “And where is Aisha? Find My Friends says she’s here.”
“She’s probably… somewhere?” Khoi offers.
“Indeed. Thank you for that helpful contribution.” She checks her phone. “It says her location is right here. Simmons Hall. This very room.”
“You know, the GPS on Apple devices can be super inaccurate,” I say. “I read a Wired article about that.”
“I’m going to call her.” Mr. Chadha speed dials. A second later, Khoi’s backpack vibrates.
Without asking for permission, Aisha’s mom kneels down and unzips it. She digs out Aisha’s rose-gold iPhone. “Why is her phone here?”
“Maybe she… forgot?” God, Khoi is so bad at coming up with these answers. We’d be better off with ChatGPT. Or a Magic 8 Ball.
“She forgot her phone in your backpack?”
“Do you mind if we take a look around?” Mr. Chadha asks me.
It doesn’t feel like there’s much of a choice. I nod. I’m just praying this interaction ends without anyone seeing my boobs.
They sort through Aisha’s dresser, shake out her bedsheets, sift through the scattered papers on her desk. It’s like they’re FBI agents. I wouldn’t be shocked if someone busts out a fingerprinting kit.
“Priya,” Mr. Chadha says. “Look at this.”
When I see what he’s holding, my heart sinks. It’s a program for the Harvard dance showcase from June.
“Her name is here. See?” He jabs his finger at the page. “This is for some high school dance camp.”
Mrs. Chadha’s face is stormy. She mutters something in Punjabi.
“Wait,” Khoi says. “That’s, um. That’s not…” But his voice dwindles, because there is no lie that might explain this away.
“The situation is clear,” Aisha’s dad says. “Our daughter’s been lying to us about where she’s going. Did you help her with this deception?”
Khoi opens his mouth and then closes it again wordlessly.
“Google Maps says this building is a twelve-minute drive from here,” Mrs. Chadha says, looking up from her phone.
“I’m disappointed in you, Khoi,” Mr. Chadha says as they leave. “I thought you were a good kid.”
He is a good kid, I want to say, but don’t.
The door slams shut.
As soon as they’re gone, Khoi jams his feet into his shoes. “Char, let’s go!” Without waiting for me, he starts running.
As soon as my shirt is back on my torso where it belongs, thank you very much, I chase Khoi down the hall. “Where are you going?” I holler.
“We have to get to Harvard before Aisha’s parents. We have to warn her!”
My brain connects the dots. Oh, hell. It’s one thing if the Chadhas discover that their daughter is at dance camp. It’s another if they discover that she’s queer before she’s ready to come out. And we can’t even call or text her, since she doesn’t have her phone. We’re basically prehistoric again.
He suddenly halts in front of a room and pounds on the door.
Haru answers with a yawn. “What?”
Khoi’s all, “We need to borrow your motorcycle.” No greeting. No explanation. Not even a pretty please.
“No thanks.” Haru moves to shut the door.
“Please!” Khoi wedges his foot in the doorway. “This isn’t for me. It’s for Aisha.”
“So? I barely know that girl.”
“Okay. How about this. Let us borrow your motorcycle and I’ll debug your code for you.” Khoi smiles big, as if this is some incredible once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Jesus. If I’m ever in some hostage situation, he better not be the one negotiating for my release.
“Yo, you think I care that much about this dumb competition?”
My teammate seems stumped, so I jump in. “You like Jenni, right?”
Haru reddens. “How do you know that, Oregon?”
I ignore the question. “If you were kind enough to let us borrow your bike, maybe I’d be tempted to mention how amazing you are…”
Three minutes later Khoi and I are on Vassar Street next to Haru’s motorcycle.
“How did you know that he likes Jenni?” Khoi asks as he swings his leg over the seat.
I slide in and wrap my arms around his waist. “I’ll explain later. How do you know how to ride a motorcycle?”
“My most recent visit to Vietnam, my cousin taught me. Everyone there rides. Even the kiddos.” The keys jangle. Of course Haru has a pot leaf keychain.
“When’s the last time you were in Vietnam?”
Khoi frowns. “Maybe age ten?”
Ten-year-old Khoi on the roads. That’s so cursed.