Page 44 of How We Play the Game
For once, I decide to have mercy on him. As much as I’d love to continue down this color rabbit hole, I’m willing to meet in the middle. It already seems like positive progress that we’re able to effectively run a virtual kitchen together, and if I can resist the urge to banter with him to avoid meaningful connection, then we’ll have made moreprogress in an afternoon than I thought we’d be able to make in a month.
“Favorite ice cream flavor?” I ask instead of pushing him to defend his (incorrect) favorite color more than he already has. Because I’m listening and learning. “Mine is cookie dough.”
“Mint chip.”
“Favorite video game character? Mine’s Bayek of Siwa.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he says, pausing the game and tossing down his controller to hold his hands up in the air like he’s under attack. I freeze in place—what did I do? I rack my brain, trying to remember the last few minutes, but all the brain spits out isGLRtrivia and the squeezy, uncomfortable feeling I’ve done something wrong again. “Don’t you think we’re moving too fast?”
I unfreeze when Ivan leans toward me, his expression morphing into that teasing, cocky smile that would be almost very cute if he meant it. But he doesn’t.
“No?”
“But … my favorite character is Sonic the Hedgehog.”
My jaw drops.
“So we gotta—”
“Gotta go fast!”
The joke wasn’t even that funny really, but it breaks the tension better than anything we’ve tried before. Within seconds we’re doubled over, tears clouding my vision until Ivan’s just a blurry outline. It just feels so good to have some kind of release. To let everything out in one long, cathartic, gasping laugh. Slowly, all of the stress that had built up on my shoulders throughout the day melts away. The pressure ofknowing I’ll be watched by thousands of viewers. Performing for them—to be not just likeable but the perfect girlfriend as well. My senses chill out for once, and I’m somehow calm even though Ivan paused our game two frames before my alligator was about to get hit by a taxi. For a blissful few seconds, it’s just me, Ivan, and our laughter echoing through the room.
A familiar ringtone cuts the fun short, though. It’s like I’ve plunged into an ice bath when I realize that Clive is calling, not even needing to look at the screen to know who it is.
“Shit,” I mutter, pulling my phone out of my pocket to confirm what I already knew. I don’t have time to dwell on how Ivan and I managed to close the gap between us again—our arms pressed together and knees touching as if they’re drawn in like magnets—as I lunge off the couch.
“Everything okay?” Ivan whispers, sticking close behind me as I head back into the main student lounge area.
“It’s my uncle,” I murmur to him before standing directly in front of the TV to get the rest of the party’s attention. “It’s a video call!”
Cass sits up as soon as he realizes the direness of the situation. Kavi shoots me a nod before taking my place at the front of the room, wordlessly gesturing for everyone else to shut the hell up while I step out into the hallway and finally accept the call.
From the bright light when I pick up, I can tell that Clive is taking one of his many walks around our neighborhood in East Orange on this stunning summer afternoon. Even with his knees, he’s terribly conscious of staying in shape. He’s also doing a terrible job holding the phone steady as he walks,which is why I don’t get a good look at his face until a few moments after he picks up.
“Hey, sorry, just got out of a seminar. What’s up?” I don’t have to pretend to be breathless—the rush of trying to get everyone into position ASAP does that for me.
“Just wanted to make sure my niece didn’t vanish off the face of the planet, since she hasn’t been answering any of my calls,” Clive says, his tone more concerned than angry. He would prefer for me to call him more often, but he also knows how much I hate talking on the phone. Of course, I also could be texting him more often, but I keep getting so caught up in my days that two or three go by before I realize I haven’t sent him so much as an emoji. Also, every time I text him, I’m perpetuating the lie that I’m at coding camp, which should feel less icky compared to everything else I’m lying about this summer, but doesn’t.
“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” I say to cover my bases. And I don’t need to do much pretending there either. Lying was one thing, but actively avoiding having to talk to him is another. Complicated relationship aside, I didn’t mean to make him more worried than he already was about sending me off on my own. “Our schedule’s just been super hectic; we barely get any time to ourselves.”
“That’s good,” he says, voice still unreadable. “Means you’re learning new skills to make you more competitive.”
“Exactly.” He has no idea how right he is.
Awkward silence is better than anger, right? I’d offer up some other tidbit about “coding camp” except that throwing in more unnecessary details will just open up more possibilities for me to mess up later down the road.
“Well, I won’t keep you. Just wanted to check in and make sure you were doing okay,” Clive says. This time there’s a softness to his tone that signals that everything is still okay between us. That he hasn’t managed to see right through me from a barely twenty-second conversation.
“I’m doing great,” I reply, my lips pulling into a smile without me even having to try. I look over my shoulder at the entryway to the student lounge—Kavi’s hand clamped around Trieu’s mouth while Ivan is practically red in the face from trying to hold in his laughter. Probably laughing at his own jokes. I’ve noticed he does that, but only when he’s being especially corny. If it’s a real stinker, sometimes he can’t even make it to the punch line without cracking himself up. The same feeling from earlier—the warm flutter in the pit of my stomach—ignites as I take it all in. My friends. My party. “Better than great.”
“You sure? You know you can always call me if you need anything,” Clive insists.
“I know, Unc, but I really am fine. I swear.”
“Got any plans for the Fourth of July?”
“Uh.” I look around the hallway, hoping someone may have written a good excuse in Sharpie on their door. “Not really. Might get a hot dog, watch the fireworks.”
