Page 21 of You Had Me at Hello World
Now I regret showing him the bruise.
Chapter Ten
Khoi, of course, knows exactly how to get to the dorm.
Unfortunately, he also has this insanely frustrating habit ofmeandering. He strolls like he thinks we’re an elderly couple on the beach. Sometimes he even pauses to check out various posters papering the infinitely long corridor. By the time he tears off a tab from some flyer looking for volunteers, I’m ready to ditch his ass. At this rate, we’re going to be eligible for senior discounts by the time we get to Simmons.
We pass a tourist group posing for photos. For no reason, my brain goes,They look like me. But I push that thought away. They don’t look like me. They’re just Asian. So actually, maybe that makesmeracist?
But I guess I’ve hardly ever seen so many Asians together in one place before.
As we finally reach the end of the hallway and pass through a sun-drenched lobby, I have a stroke of genius. Which is rare for me. “Wanna play a game?”
“I love games!”
I reach to push the door, but it glides open on its own. We step outside into the crisp evening. Majestic ivory columns tower above us, stark against the deepening sky. I recognize those columns. They’re on all the MIT marketing materials.
For a moment, I forget about whatever I was saying. I’m here. Actually here. Standing on the same steps where so many geniuses (genii?) have laughed and cried and dreamed. What even.
Khoi’s staring at me.
Right. The game. “Let’s race to the dorm.” I’m totally going to lose—he has longer legs than me and my lungs malfunction at speeds faster than five miles an hour—but at least this way we can hustle faster.
He gauges the distance, then gives me a once-over. “Loser owes the other a boba.”
I haven’t had boba in years. The Lucky Panda sells it, but it’s a cheap white-people imitation made from powder, and they call it “bubble tea.” And it’s chocolate-flavored.
“Fine. We’ll start after we cross this road.” We shake on it. His grasp is surprisingly firm. It’s nice when someone has a good handshake. I hate it when it feels like I’m grabbing a floppy, dead fish.
We descend the steps and wait in front of the intersection as cars soar past. The lights change, and the crowd surges onto the crosswalk.
He counts down. “Three… two…” Before he gets to one, I kick off and propel forward.
“Hey, that’s cheating!” he yells, but he doesn’t sound very mad.
I ignore him and weave around a pack of tourists wearing Harvard sweaters—yikes, hope they’re not too lost. I dodge a wayward drone, but behind me, Khoi yelps.
My legs are flying and blood roars in my ears. There’s a stitch stabbing into my side. But soon he’s caught up to me anyway. I hate tall people privilege. Actually, he’s not even that tall. I’m just short. “Oolong, lychee jelly, one hundred and fifty percent sugar, no ice,” he calls over his shoulder as he passes by.
“What?” I huff. I can barely get the word out.
“My boba order.”
Which is just an unhinged amount of sugar. I may have unwittingly gotten mixed up with an actual sociopath. But I can’t think too hard about that when my lungs are on the verge of collapse.
Once we cut across to Vassar Street, the dorm finally comes into view. It looks like a sponge. A futuristic sponge. It’s a colossal silver block with thousands of tiny square windows.
When I finally reach Simmons, Khoi is leaning against the building, arms crossed, grinning.
I double over, hands on my knees, heart in overdrive. My mouth desperately seizes for air like I’m a goldfish.
“Stop doing that,” I force out between gasps.
“I’m not doing anything!”
Before I can answer that, I focus on not dying. Charise Tang is fully in her being-alive era.
Once my body feels more like it got hit with a grenade than a nuclear bomb, I straighten up. “Your face. It’s too smug.”
