that poem . . .”
I know exactly which boy, my boy. The familiar tidal wave of nausea. I fight it by pacing. Forget standing still and jiggling, I’ve got to pace to buffer against mosquitoes and dread. “You can’t be at the beach already, with Hadley?”
“Yeah, I said I didn’t like her but you always have, so I’m, like, fine.”
“You know I’m calling from across the world. You know I didn’t call to talk about Hadley.”
“Guess who’s here?”
“Why are you at the beach at ten in the morning?”
“It was supposed to be so awesome, a huge pod of dolphins was spotted really early, but by the time we got here . . . Hey, you can’t be leaving?”
“Me? No.”
“Not you. I’m talking to Poet Dude. Hadley is all wrong for him, don’t you think? Hey, come here, stop walking away, talk to Mia, she’s calling all the way from Vietnam, that’s where she’s from. . . .”
I didn’t think it was possible, but I feel sicker than I did just a minute ago. I’m clutching the phone so hard the veins on my hand pop. I pace, fast. Montana is telling HIM what a great idea my trip is, as if she could last a day here. She’s babbling, meaning she’s nervous. We have that sad trait in common.
“Talk to her, talk to Mia,” she keeps saying, like she’s in sales. Her breathing gets louder. She must be running after HIM.
“Hey.”
I stop pacing, knowing that “hey” well. There’s no mistaking the speaker.
“Hey,” I manage. That came out dry and pained, as if an army of ants were crawling down my throat.
“What’s it like there?” HIS first sentence directed at me, ever. What a beautiful sentence.
“Hot.” Have the ants eaten all my words? The mosquitoes sure are. Jiggle, jiggle.
“Here too. We’re in the middle . . .”
I hear scratchy noises, then we’re cut off. Why, why, why? HE was talking to me. And I was getting ready to talk back. I redial and get voice mail. I call again. Voice mail. I text. Wait. No response. Being across the world sucks.
How can a conversation lasting 2 minutes, 12.8 seconds leave me this jittery? What just happened?
HE and I exchanged words. Excellent.
HE was trying to walk away from Montana. Good.
Montana was nervous, that means she’s plotting for HIS attention. Dangerous.
Hadley likes HIM, that means Montana will try even harder. Dire.
Montana didn’t ask one question about my trip or say that she misses me. Rude.
If only I could confide in Montana and get her to fish around for HIS feelings for me, but that’s never going to happen. Depressing.
So many emotions are crashing into one another that my whole body hurts. I run into the house. Things will clear up when I’m rested and energized. They have to, right?
CHAPTER 10
T ense voices wake me up. Bà’s and a man’s. Not Ông’s Brother. Definitely not Anh Minh. Not Dad’s. I wish. OMG, it’s our detective.
I scramble out of the net, which is harder to do than you’d think, and run into the front room. He’s here, as leathery and wordy as ever. I’ve only marked four days off my Trip of Torment calendar. This man is a genius. I will be at the beach blocking HIM from Montana’s butt bow very soon, la la la. Then I look around. Wait, where’s the guard?
I look at Bà with a desperate expression that surely conveys, “Where’s the guard?” but Bà just frowns.
“Please forgive my granddaughter, she has not awakened enough to employ her manners,” Bà says to him. To me, “Your clothes? ”
As if her pajama-ish matching silk set looks that different from my real pajamas matching silk set. But I obviously do not possess the magical powers to tell loose day wear from loose night wear. I go change, returning in proper mosquito-bait capris. Bà shakes her head just the slightest bit. I get it. Go outside, away from adult conversation.
Not to worry, I have major spying skills. They’re talking in the front room, so by squatting outside under the open window I can hear
I know exactly which boy, my boy. The familiar tidal wave of nausea. I fight it by pacing. Forget standing still and jiggling, I’ve got to pace to buffer against mosquitoes and dread. “You can’t be at the beach already, with Hadley?”
“Yeah, I said I didn’t like her but you always have, so I’m, like, fine.”
“You know I’m calling from across the world. You know I didn’t call to talk about Hadley.”
“Guess who’s here?”
“Why are you at the beach at ten in the morning?”
“It was supposed to be so awesome, a huge pod of dolphins was spotted really early, but by the time we got here . . . Hey, you can’t be leaving?”
“Me? No.”
“Not you. I’m talking to Poet Dude. Hadley is all wrong for him, don’t you think? Hey, come here, stop walking away, talk to Mia, she’s calling all the way from Vietnam, that’s where she’s from. . . .”
I didn’t think it was possible, but I feel sicker than I did just a minute ago. I’m clutching the phone so hard the veins on my hand pop. I pace, fast. Montana is telling HIM what a great idea my trip is, as if she could last a day here. She’s babbling, meaning she’s nervous. We have that sad trait in common.
“Talk to her, talk to Mia,” she keeps saying, like she’s in sales. Her breathing gets louder. She must be running after HIM.
“Hey.”
I stop pacing, knowing that “hey” well. There’s no mistaking the speaker.
“Hey,” I manage. That came out dry and pained, as if an army of ants were crawling down my throat.
“What’s it like there?” HIS first sentence directed at me, ever. What a beautiful sentence.
“Hot.” Have the ants eaten all my words? The mosquitoes sure are. Jiggle, jiggle.
“Here too. We’re in the middle . . .”
I hear scratchy noises, then we’re cut off. Why, why, why? HE was talking to me. And I was getting ready to talk back. I redial and get voice mail. I call again. Voice mail. I text. Wait. No response. Being across the world sucks.
How can a conversation lasting 2 minutes, 12.8 seconds leave me this jittery? What just happened?
HE and I exchanged words. Excellent.
HE was trying to walk away from Montana. Good.
Montana was nervous, that means she’s plotting for HIS attention. Dangerous.
Hadley likes HIM, that means Montana will try even harder. Dire.
Montana didn’t ask one question about my trip or say that she misses me. Rude.
If only I could confide in Montana and get her to fish around for HIS feelings for me, but that’s never going to happen. Depressing.
So many emotions are crashing into one another that my whole body hurts. I run into the house. Things will clear up when I’m rested and energized. They have to, right?
CHAPTER 10
T ense voices wake me up. Bà’s and a man’s. Not Ông’s Brother. Definitely not Anh Minh. Not Dad’s. I wish. OMG, it’s our detective.
I scramble out of the net, which is harder to do than you’d think, and run into the front room. He’s here, as leathery and wordy as ever. I’ve only marked four days off my Trip of Torment calendar. This man is a genius. I will be at the beach blocking HIM from Montana’s butt bow very soon, la la la. Then I look around. Wait, where’s the guard?
I look at Bà with a desperate expression that surely conveys, “Where’s the guard?” but Bà just frowns.
“Please forgive my granddaughter, she has not awakened enough to employ her manners,” Bà says to him. To me, “Your clothes? ”
As if her pajama-ish matching silk set looks that different from my real pajamas matching silk set. But I obviously do not possess the magical powers to tell loose day wear from loose night wear. I go change, returning in proper mosquito-bait capris. Bà shakes her head just the slightest bit. I get it. Go outside, away from adult conversation.
Not to worry, I have major spying skills. They’re talking in the front room, so by squatting outside under the open window I can hear
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