Page 86 of I Hope This Doesn't Find
A door creaks open and noise spills into the hallway.
I stiffen, squint down the corridor. Caz Song steps out alone, his gaze sweeping right past me like I’m not even here. He looks distracted.
“… all waiting for you,” he’s saying, a rare crease between his brows, an even rarer edge to his voice. Caz has always given me the impression of someone pulled straight out of a magazine cover: glossy and airbrushed and digestible; marketable and inoffensive. But right now he’s pacing in an agitated circle, his footsteps so light they barely make any sound. “These are theparent-teacherinterviews. I can’t just do it alone.”
For one confusing moment, I think he’s talking to himself or trying out some weird acting technique, but then I hear the muffled female voice coming out through his phone’s speakers:
“I know, I know, but my patient needs me more. Can you tell your teacher something came up at the hospital? Hao erzi, tinghua.”Good child. Behave.“Maybe we can reschedule for next week—that worked last time, didn’t it?”
I watch Caz breathe in. Out. When he speaks again, his voice is remarkably controlled. “No, that’s fine, Mom. I—I’ll tell them. I’m sure they’ll understand.”
“Hao erzi,” the woman says again, and even from this distance, I can hear the odd commotion in the background. Slamming metal. The beep of a monitor. “Oh, and just before I go—what did they say about those college applications?”
Applications.
I turn the unexpected snippet of information over in my head. This is news to me. I’d figured someone like Caz would skip the college route, go down the acting path instead.
But at present, the Rising Star himself is rubbing his jaw and saying, “It’s … fine. They reckon that if I can pull off a really great college admission essay, it should be able to make up for my grades and attendance record …”
A sigh hisses through the speakers. “What do I always tell you, ya?Grades first, grades first. Do you think the college admissions team cares if you play lead role in campus drama? Do you think they even know any Asian celebrities other than Jackie Chan?” Before Caz can reply, his mother sighs again. “Never mind. Too late now. You just focus on that essay—are you almost done?”
It might be a trick of the low corridor lights, but I swear I see Caz wince. “Sort of.”
“What’ssort of?”
“I—” His jaw clenches. “I mean, I still need to brainstorm and outline and … write it. But I will find a way to write it,” he adds quickly. “Promise. Trust me, Mom. I—I won’t let you down.”
There’s a long pause. “All right. Well, listen, my patient’s calling for me, but talk soon, okay? Andmake sure you focus on those essays.If you put in even half as much effort into them as you do memorizing those scripts, then—”
“I got it, Mom.”
Something like worry briefly pinches his features as he ends the call.
Then, as he spins to leave, he sees me squatting like a fugitive in the dark of the corridor, caught staring at him for the second time this evening.
“Oh,” he says, the same time I stand up and blurt out, “Sorry!” and the rest of our sentences spill over one another:
“I didn’t see—”
“I promise I wasn’t trying to—”
“It’s cool—”
“Just about to head in—”
“You’re Eliza, right? Eliza Lin?”
“Yes,” I say slowly, and even I can hear the wary edge in my voice. “Why?”
He raises a dark brow, all signs of worry now wiped clean from his face. Fast enough to make me wonder if I’d imagined them there in the first place. “Nothing. Just trying to be friendly.”
An innocuous reply. Perfectly reasonable.
And yet …
She still doesn’t have any friends here.
“Did you … hear what Mr. Lee said earlier?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to retract them. Erase them from existence completely. There are certain things you simply shouldn’t draw attention to, even if both parties are well aware of the issue. Like a bad acne flare-up. Or your homeroom teacher declaring you friendless in front of your entire class.
