Page 20 of Well, That Was Unexpected

“Uh, yeah, good. You? Oh, and it’s Sharlot, by the way.” He nods and smiles at that. God, I’m so flustered, and it’s not just because George in real life is so pretty. I remind myself that Bradley is just as hot as George, and look how that turned out. Doesn’t matter if they’re pretty if we can’t connect on a deeper level, and after reading those chat messages between Ma and George, I already know there’s no way in hell he and I would ever connect on a deeper level.

“Good, good.” He slides a menu toward me and I stare hard at it. It’s kind of really difficult to focus on the words when I’m so fully aware of the stranger sitting in front of me who thinks he’s been chatting with me the past few days but really has been chatting with my mom. I mean, there’s no precedent for this kind of thing! How the hell am I supposed to behave?

I must be taking way too long with the menu, because after a while, George says, “If you’re new to Jakarta, I suggest the Kopi Susu Batavia. It’s basically an iced latte with palm sugar.”

“Um, okay, that sounds good.” I wait as George calls for a waiter and asks for two Kopi Susu Batavias. The menu is whisked away, and now there’s nothing between us but a whole lot of lies. Our gazes meet and quickly dart away, both of us breaking eye contact as though it burned us.

I try to think of what I know about him. “So, you go to SIS—”

At the same time, he says, “You grew up in the States?”

We stare at each other for a second, then George says, “Sorry, you go ahead.”

“Uh.” It takes me a couple of seconds to remember what I was going to say. “You go to Xingfa?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s it like?” I have no idea what private schools are like, never mind international ones.

George shrugs. “It’s okay. Like a normal school, I guess. Really strict. But I think that’s par for the course in Asia—you’d be hard-pressed to find a school here that isn’t strict.”

“How strict are we talking? ’Cause you know, I would describe my school in Los Angeles as strict, but somehow I think you’re talking on a whole different level.”

He gives a little laugh, and I feel my cheeks warm at the sight of the corners of his eyes crinkling. Ugh, he’s even cuter when he laughs. Dimples. Argh, dimple alert. Why does he have to be cute? “How strict…hmm.” He considers it for a second, thensays, “Okay, for example, in addition to our school uniforms, the girls are only allowed to wear black or navy-blue hair bands. No other hair accessories allowed. And the boys have to have hair of a certain length and style. Like, we can’t have a buzz cut or anything like that.”

“Wow.” I’m about to give some smart-ass retort as usual, tease him a bit for being in a school that is so stereotypically Asian, but at the last second, I recall that George isn’t like the people I usually hang out with. Based on the chat messages I’ve read, Georgelovesrules. With some effort, I say, “That’s, uh…nice.”

The dimples disappear completely. Something in his expression closes up a little. “Yeah. It’s nice. Orderly.”

Ugh, gross. I was right. He does like rules. In fact, he probably thinks it’s great that the girls in his school aren’t even allowed to wear cute hair accessories because otherwise it might distract the boys. Asshole. I have to actively remind myself not let my upper lip curl up into a sneer.

“What about your school? What’s it like?”

“Well, we don’t have uniforms, for one. So we can wear whatever we like.” Actually, that’s not quite true. Even without a uniform, there are still a ton of rules that dictate what we can and cannot wear, especially for the girls. But I am not in the mood to get into those details with someone like George. He’d be, like, “Oh yeah, girls should definitely not be allowed to wear tank tops. How would the boys focus on their studies if girls are walking around dressed so provocatively?”

Luckily, we’re interrupted by our drinks arriving. When thewaiter leaves, I take a sip, and holy crap, it’s the best coffee I have ever tasted. It’s creamy and rich and the palm sugar tastes like buttery caramel. “Holy fuck, this is amazing.”

His eyes widen a little and I realize he’s probably taken aback by me swearing. Gah. I bet he’s judging me for being crass or whatever. For being different from his idea of how girls should behave.

“I’m glad you like it,” he says finally. I nod. My head is a mess. The thing is, before I arrived, I’d daydreamed about being so awful to George that he’ll run off screaming and then I’ll cackle about it in Mama’s face. Okay, so that’s a bit of a reach, but I had every intention of being surly and unpleasant toward him. But now that I’m seeing him in person, I’m finding it impossible even though I find his opinions repulsive. It’s a lot harder to be horrible in person. He’s just so…there. A whole other human being. I don’t know how to behave.

An eternity passes before I decide: I’ll be polite, but boring. By the time this non-date ends, he’s going to be so glad it’s over.

I know the stereotype about teenaged boys: we’re awkward, gangly idiots who are led everywhere by our dicks. It’s not wrong, I guess. I am an awkward, gangly idiot, but I like to think I’m led by my actual brain most of the time. Take this poor girl Papa and Eleanor have tricked into meeting me, for example.

Sharlot’s beautiful, no doubt about it. She’s got these huge, expressive eyes and dark brown hair that ends right below her shoulders in thick waves, and her lips are soft and very much the kind of lips I’d like to kiss.

But.

But she’s also really, really boring. See? I can look past the gorgeous exterior and judge her by her personality. Which is sorely lacking. I mean, I even told her about the crazy rules that Xingfa has, and instead of laughing and agreeing that whoever wrote the rules must’ve been on a power trip, she freaking said it was “nice” to have all those rules. Also, it doesn’t help that she even dresses like the kind of girl that Papa has always wanted me to date. She’s wearing the kind of top I see on mycousins and schoolmates all the time—well-tailored, soft pastel shade, pleasant to look at and completely devoid of any character.

Wow, I’m being really mean. I guess I’m in a bad mood. Hard not to be when I’m sitting across from Sharlot in the flesh and knowing that everything that’s led up to us meeting was a lie. It’s so wrong, me sitting here and pretending to be someone I’m not. Whenever I feel the urge to just blurt out the truth, I force myself to take a sip of my drink.

It’s ironic, being the one who’s deceptive for once. A couple years back, I started dating this girl from school, Alisha. Whenever I worked out at the school gym, she was always there. She’d start chatting with me, and before long, I was smitten. Of course, once Eighth Aunt found out (don’t ask me how she found out, she’s basically like Varys fromGame of Thrones—sheknows everything there’s to know about everyone), she told me she didn’t like Alisha. I’d dismissed her concerns. I mean, how the heck did Eighth Aunt know enough about Alisha to know that she disliked her, anyway? Then I noticed the paparazzi were always showing up whenever Alisha and I went out, as though they knew exactly where we were going to be. Then I found out that they did know, because Alisha would tell them beforehand. After that, I never really dated anyone else. Kind of hard to trust people after that whole thing. Which is why this is so, so awful. I’m being such a slime bag, tricking Sharlot like this.

It’s okay, I tell myself for the hundredth time. Just sit here another twenty minutes or so, and then make up some excuseand leave. I don’t have to actually befriend Sharlot; it’s way too weird and I feel too guilty about everything.

“So, is this your first time in Jakarta?”

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