Page 62 of You Had Me at Hello World
“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 doyouknow 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.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
As we screech down Massachusetts Avenue, wind whipping our faces, I shout in Khoi’s ear, “Do you really think we can get there before the Chadhas?”
“It’s difficult to find parking around Harvard Square. And maybe they won’t be able to locate the exact building? It’s not that easy if you’re unfamiliar with the campus.” Sounds like he’s huffing hopium, but I say nothing.
He’s unbelievable with the motorcycle. Unbelievably atrocious. He makes sharp turns and sudden swerves that send my heart into overdrive. Weaves past other cars, which should be a violation of traffic law. It’s like he hasn’t improved at all since he was ten years old. And we’re not even wearing helmets, so that’s just brain damage waiting to happen.
A horrible thought occurs to me. “Khoi, do you have a license for this?”
“Nope,” he chirps cheerfully.
I cling to him tight and squeeze my eyes shut. On the brightside, if I’m going to die, at least I’ll die doing what I love: holding on to a cute boy.
Ten terrifying minutes and several near-death experiences later, we’re in front of the brick building where Aisha rehearses. As we dash up the stairs, I glance over my shoulder to see an older South Asian man and woman across the grass, marching in our direction.
“Khoi, hurry. The Chadhas are right there.”
He follows my gaze. “We better make this count, then.” His mouth is a grim slash.
We run.
The dance studio is on the second floor. When we burst in, the dancers are on a water break. There are clusters of girls standing around. Aisha is chatting with someone with pink hair. Trinity.
My roommate’s face is flushed and happy until she sees us. “Khoi? Char? What—?”
“Your parents,” I pant. By the way, running? Still the worst thing ever invented, thanks for asking. “They—they’re here.”
“Here where?”
“Herehere. They caught Char and me,” Khoi says. “They found out about the dance program. They’re going to be here any minute.”
Horror floods Aisha’s expression.
Trinity immediately understands. “Probably best if I make myself scarce, right?”
“Y-yeah.”
