“ONE MORE QUESTION AND I could quite possibly die,” Ham says, doubled over with one hand on his heart, the other on his brow.
“You need stamina, Ham,” I say. “Keep studying. We’re going to miss three days of SAT prep thanks to homecoming.”
“If it takes you three days to get ready for a dance, Linden, you’re not the girl I thought you were.” Ham sinks his teeth into a popcorn ball stuffed with candy corn and chocolate chips. Mrs. Rhee’s newest creation of food art.
I pick at the sticky mass of popcorn and pretend to ignore Seung’s eyes, all over me. He’s been staring so much, so often, since the girlfriend comment, since I declared him the hottest guy in school. Seung’s organizing puzzle pieces in his mind, determining the fit, wondering why they don’t quite link together the way they should. I mean, friends becoming more than friends. Does that actually work? Seung’s organizing a puzzle, struggling to fit a piece of the sky into the ocean because they’re both blue and look like they belong together. He wants them to fit, but he’s unsure I feel the same. I haven’t exactly been clear with my feelings. One minute I want to let Seung wrap his arms around me, the next I’m stomping down the street, baffled and scared. How does a homeless girl date a guy who doesn’t know she’s homeless? And if I come clean now, will he hate me forever?
I look up, trying to meet his eyes, but he whips his head toward the wall. We continue this cat-and-mouse game most of the night.
Seung’s not the only confused person in this relationship. My identity crisis caused me to spend five dollars buying lotion and lip gloss at the Four-Quarter Store. I chose makeup over food. I repeat, makeup over food. I’m uncertain who I am anymore.
“My parents want pictures of us dressed to the nines,” Ham says, a piece of popcorn dangling from his upper lip.
“My mom wants us to meet here,” Seung says. “She wants pictures, too.”
“Yeah, yeah, well, I have a date,” Ham says, all matter-of-factly. “So you’ll need to meet at my house.”
Seung and I lock eyes. Finally.
“Who?” we snap.
“Did I say date?” Ham backpedals, shaking his head. “Not what I meant. I meant Jarrell. He’s meeting us for dinner, then heading back to school for the game.”
Seung chuckles. “So your date plans never formed, huh?”
“No, Seung,” Ham snaps, and falls over on the side of the couch, groaning and covering his head with a pillow.
“Well, I was thinking,” I say nervously, “couldn’t we get ready here? Your parents take pictures before we go to Ham’s house for the same song and dance.”
“Sounds like a huge hassle to me,” Ham says, his voice muffled beneath the pillow.
Seung bounces his foot on his knee. “Linden?” he asks. “Are you worried about your stepdad?”
I immediately see the open window and leap. “Yes!” I slap my lap with both hands. “Totally worried. He blocks all my plans. He’s always in my way, complicating everything.” Which is not entirely false, if my stepdad were a metaphor for my life.
Primping in a mildew-infested locker room surrounded by gray light is not how I imagined homecoming night. Although I never thought I’d care about a dance as much as I care about this one. Details drop into my mind like bombs. How do I curl my hair when I don’t own a curling iron? How do I make my eyes pop with liquid liner when I can’t afford eye makeup? How do I shave my legs when my razor blade’s over a year old? I have to solve these mammoth problems just to feel normal, just to fit in.
“We should ask Kristen to join us.”
Seung’s face scrunches and Ham lifts the pillow from his face and shouts, “Kristen? Why?”
“I think it’d be nice to have another girl around. Maybe you’ll end up with a date after all, Hammy.” Plus, I need help with my makeup, my hair.
Ham laughs. “Date Kristen? No way. No thanks.”
Mrs. Rhee taps the door and pokes her head around the corner.
“What?” Seung snaps, and we all jump.
“You’ve got to stop doing that,” I say.
Seung leans back and tucks his arms sexily behind his head. He pauses, whispers, “Sorry,” then winks. “Bad habit.”
I toss a pillow at his face and he catches it, wraps it in his arms, and squeezes it to his chest. He smiles and I smile back. Puzzle piece securely locked in place. We’re fitting together.
Mrs. Rhee trots over to the ottoman and sits. “How’s the studying going?” she asks as she yanks her front bangs from her ponytail and masters another work of art—the side braid. Her fingers flicker like butterfly wings.
“Good, Mom,” Seung says. “But homecoming’s taking precedence.”
Mrs. Rhee smiles at me. I smile, then zoom in on the popcorn casing stuck on Ham’s lip.
Seung shifts in his chair and clears his throat like he’s ready to say something, but Mrs. Rhee interrupts. “Anything new happening at school?”
“Same shit,” Ham says, “I mean, same crap, different day. Sorry, Mrs. Rhee.”
Mrs. Rhee nods like a mother who’s okay with her kid swearing once in a while.
“Linden’s working on a big story for Mr. George and the school blog,” Seung says.
Mrs. Rhee perks up. “Seung’s shown me your pieces, Linden, and they are wonderful. You’re a good writer.”
Now it’s my turn to shift in my chair and clear my throat. “Well, I’m not exactly working on a big story, yet. Still in research mode.”
“What’s the topic?” she asks.
“Oh. Well. I’m still unsure if I’ve actually committed to the project. What were we talking about, Ham?”
Ham stares at me blank-faced. Two pieces of popcorn remain fixed to his bottom lip. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Linden.”
I huff. “We were thinking of doing an article on gender-based violence. Ham’s helping me.” I wink at Ham. “It’s a scholarship piece.”
Ham snaps his fingers. “Oh, yeah! That’s what we’re doing. Research on gender violence.”
“Heavy stuff,” Mrs. Rhee says.
“Seung’s helping, too,” I say. “It’s a group project.”
Seung shrugs, and Mrs. Rhee walks beside him and drapes her arms over his shoulders. “That’s my boy.” She kisses his cheek.
Seung flings himself back against the chair and groans, but his rosy cheekbones display nothing but love for his mom.
I don’t remember shying from my mother’s kisses. Ever. When she tucked my hair behind my ear and pecked at my cheek with her beaky nose. She’d nuzzle a path from my cheekbone to the bump above my nostrils, then drop a kiss on the tip and swaddle me with both arms. She’d say, “You’re going to do something, be someone, make something of your life.” When I was younger, I’d just stare at her with owl eyes, but when I got older, I’d squeeze her back and say, “We are, Mama. Both of us.”
Mrs. Rhee continues chatting about the paper I’m supposed to create for Mr. George, like I’m writing it, doing it, making strides and pages come alive. But I’m stuck on inspiration. Where it’s supposed to come from? Ham thinks it’s Bea. And maybe it should be. But if this were true, and it’s not, my mind wouldn’t go blank every time I tried to craft the words.
“So homecoming plans are brewing?” Mrs. Rhee asks, and I snap back into the middle of the change in conversation.
Seung clears his throat again. “Can Linden get ready over here?”
Cue the flushed face.
“Of course,” Mrs. Rhee says. “Why don’t all of you get ready here?”
Ham kicks at the carpet. “Can’t. My parents invited relatives to dinner and expect me to be home. Besides, Jarrell’s coming over, too, so you guys can pick me up. I’ll be the white guy stuffed in a tux looking like pre-diet Jonah Hill.”
The week crawls toward Friday. Classes move in slow motion.
My sleep is broken with dreams of Seung, followed by nightmares starring Bea and my mother. All this talk of violence churns up my past. Every night I shut my eyes and watch Bea run while I chase her—or am I running away, too? Once in a while my mom joins us, but she’s always behind me calling for me to slow down. I never do. Then Seung shows up to rescue Bea. But never me . . .
Today the only thing keeping me awake in class is Toby Patters. Ever since I smacked his cheek at the park, I’m fixed in his crosshairs. He seems to be watching me in the halls, tracking my whereabouts. Every time he passes my locker, he scratches his crotch—and I make the mistake of looking down, then wish for a scalding shower. I’m not proud of the slap, but I’m not sorry, either. If he’s hitting a girl, then maybe his antidote is to be clobbered by one.
The buzzer rings and I run to the newsroom to steal a nap in my safe place, away from anyone with eyes. With homecoming, work in the newsroom has mushroomed, but since I’ve slammed the brakes on the scholarship story due to lack of inspiration, I have nothing but time.
I open the homecoming folder and add captions to photos that need to be uploaded. Hinderwood High is ravenous for homecoming buzz.
Tuesday was Pajama Day, which I refused to participate in because pajamas do not exist in my wardrobe. When you sleep in the same clothes you wear to school, every day is Pajama Day.
I click through thirty pictures Ham snapped of Bea and Beth wearing matching silk cotton-candy-colored robes. I stop on a photo of Reed looking like he borrowed a robe from either King Arthur or Hugh Hefner. I zoom and stare at the frown on his face. Apparently Reed chose Pajama Day as his moment to suffer from an existential crisis. He should be the happiest guy on earth with Bea and Beth hooked to either arm. He’s picture-perfect for his arrival at the Playboy Mansion, but a closer view of his face makes it look more like the gates of hell.
I push delete. Homecoming’s supposed to be happy.
Wednesday was Eighties Day. Halls filled with students in hair-sprayed bangs and rubber jewelry in neon colors. Everyone in school took part except me. I barely have money for everyday clothes, let alone things I’d only wear once.
On Eighties Day, Ham wore gold, rust, and purple pants that fit tight at the ankles and wide at the hips. He claimed they accentuated his hourglass figure, but in actuality it was the breakdance attempt outside Mr. Dique’s room that accentuated his everything. He gathered quite a clapping crowd. Typical Ham.
Thursday was Thursday U, where everyone wore college favorites. This was the day I showed school spirit and wore my prized possession. A Willamette University hoodie. The sweatshirt that wraps me in my goals, warmth, and possibility. I also wore the hoodie on Pajama Day and Eighties Day, but on Thursday I finally blended in with everyone else.
Today is Friday. Homecoming. School Spirit Day.
The halls burst with purple and gold, which is royal and regal and shitty on the eyes. No one matches, yet everyone fits in. Well, everyone except me. I’m still wrapped in my college hoodie.
I select more pictures for today’s blog and watch the second hand on the clock bounce. My mind skips through the rabbit trail of items to bring to Seung’s. Deodorant, free perfume samples, and sandwich bags. I bought Ziploc bags with another ten-dollar bill I found beneath my locker. Someone’s lack of responsibility has become a passive income. I plan to stash leftovers from dinner in the plastic bags and stuff my backpack with refreshments from the dance. If I don’t, the weekend will be long and hungry.
Seung and I haven’t spoken since yesterday. If we weren’t best friends, I might think he was avoiding me. I spotted him this morning at his locker. He didn’t notice me, though. He was all ears and smiles, talking to Bea as she pointed at a page in her trigonometry book. As if Seung could help. How stereotypical. I wanted to yell, “Just because he’s Asian doesn’t mean he’s good at math.” Maybe I’m overly sensitive.
Bea is popping up this week more than usual. Unannounced. Even in my dreams. She glares when I pass Seung’s locker and stares when I wait for him in the hall. She mouths “Trailer Trash Bitch” a couple of million times in class, one million more than usual. She thinks I care for all the wrong reasons. I want to say, Bea, we have more in common than you know, or Bea, vulnerability is a place of strength. But I don’t think of these things until after I’ve mumbled how much I hate her, then yell at myself the remainder of the day.
I turn off the computer and collect my blank paper. Nothing’s worth noting on the blog except homecoming. The only buzz at Hinderwood High surrounds the royalty ceremony. I scratch down a title: Who Will Be Our Next King and Queen? Then I draw a line through the words and scribble, Who the hell cares?
I flip the page of my notebook and write my name at the top. Linden Rose, Editor. I draw five bullet points to make Mr. George smile.
I stare blankly at the white space that should be filled with research notes. It’s not that I’m ungrateful for the scholarship opportunity. I’d love to win, especially if it makes Mr. George beam with pride. He’d feel satisfied as a teacher and I’d feel the burden of paying for school lift.
I scratch the words Gender-Based Violence beneath my name and eyeball the letters, forcing them to sink into my brain. I rapid-blink to block the words from blurring. Only Violence loiters on the page.
Linden? Would you hand me that necklace, those earrings? I’m going to be late.
Where are you going tonight, Mama?
On a date. Can you believe it? A real date. With someone sweet. Maybe even special.
Who’s the lucky guy?
He’s in my new computer class. Asked me to go to the library, of all places. I guess I’ll take my books.
Will you be out long?
I’ll be back before you wake.
The library, huh? Wear these. They’re library approved.
You’re sweet, Linden. Sweet like honey.
I love you, Mama.
I love you more.
If only my mother had made it to the library that night. If only she’d left early.
I doodle stars on my paper that turn to spirals, and within moments my eyelids drop and I drift to sleep.
I wake to someone clearing her throat and saying, “Shouldn’t you sleep at home?”
I wipe my chin and instinctually zoom in on my backpack at my feet, zipped and secure. I scoot my bag between my legs and squeeze it tightly in place.
“Shouldn’t you be anywhere but here?” I ask.
Bea turns her back to me and snatches an umbrella hanging on the wall. “Forgot this,” she says in the most normal tone she’s ever used while speaking to me. No hiss, no snicker.
My mouth should be filled with words. I’m Linden Rose, Editor. Words are my job and the subject of my story is in front of me, alone, and speaking in a half-normal tone.
“You going to homecoming?” I blurt out. It’s the only question willing to jump from my mouth.
Bea frowns.
“You’ll no doubt be queen. Right? Queen Bea.” Bad joke, Linden. Incredibly bad.
Bea tilts her head and slow-nods. “Why do you care?”
I flick my notebook. “Story. You know how Hinderwood loves homecoming.”
Again with the slow nod. Then, “I assume you’re going with Ham?” she says flatly.
I laugh. “Well, actually—”
Bea interrupts, “I don’t have a date.”
My eyes widen. “You mean, yet?”
She shrugs. “So who’s Seung going with, and don’t tell me you?”
My eyes are literal plates. And when I’m about to ask, WTF? Mr. George bursts through the door and marches to his desk.
“Linden,” he says, opening and shutting drawers. “You were asleep.”
“Uh, yeah, sorry.”
Bea scoffs at me, then turns and leaves.
Mr. George picks up a stack of paper from his desk and heads back toward the door. With a hand on the light switch he says, “Do you want the room dark?”
I shake my head. Not at Mr. George, but at the thought of Bea and Seung. Is Bea planning to ask Seung to go to homecoming? She has a boyfriend. A larger, meatier boyfriend, who’s already tried to assassinate Seung for no reason. Why actually give him a reason?
Mr. George smiles and winks and squeezes the door shut softly.
I tap my phone two hundred times. I should be thinking about the broken railroad tie I need to wedge beneath the fire-escape door. But Bea’s words buzz in my brain, make me second-guess why Seung hasn’t spoken to me since yesterday. Maybe Seung changed his mind. Maybe Bea knows exactly who he’s taking to homecoming, and maybe it isn’t me.
I draw an oversized X on my notes. Why even consider this article? Bea triggers something, that’s for sure, but not inspiration. This whole idea was Ham’s, not mine. I slap my notebook closed. At least I have the weekend before Mr. George begins breathing down my neck for research notes and outlines.
“Hello?” a voice says at the door. “I’m looking for Mr. George.”
The bouncy blond reporter from Cheese Country stands in the doorway, her blown-out bangs popping inside the room before the rest of her body. The back of her hair is twisted high on her head in the shape of a hoagie, and her lips are the color of cherries.
“Hi. Hello. Mr. George went to class.”
She taps her phone. “No problem. I’ll wait.” She strolls beside Mr. George’s desk and unloads a compact tote. She glances my way. “Ignore me. Don’t want to interrupt your work.”
I scoot closer to the computer and try not to stare. “Editor of the school blog. That’s me,” I say with my back to her. Time to fish for information. “Sort of on assignment right now. You?” I shift sideways so I can watch her.
She half smiles and tilts her head. “Assignment? Not really. But maybe.” Her shoes clomp until her silhouette shows up in my computer screen. “What’s your assignment?” she asks, crouching over my shoulder.
I shift sideways to get a closeup of the woman who’s been asking questions about me. I want to say, I’m Linden, the girl you’ve been asking about, but instead I rattle off words I’m trying to avoid, like I’m an expert in the subject. “Gender-based violence. A big problem at this school.”
She arches an overpenciled eyebrow and says, “Hon, it’s a problem everywhere.”
I nod and there’s silence. She smiles and looks comfortable, like she lives for the long pause.
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for homecoming? My sister said it’s kind of a big deal around here. Right?”
I laugh. “Believe me, I have plenty of time.” Then I ask, “So, Principal Falsetto—I mean, Principal Falls—is your sister?”
Now it’s her turn to laugh. She holds a finger to her lips and whispers, “Don’t let it get out,” then smiles and picks at her plum-colored tights.
“You look nothing like her.”
She chuckles. “Sweetie, I adore my sister, but you’ve made my year.”
“How long are you visiting? Your sister, that is.”
She licks her top front teeth and adjusts her lipstick. It’s as if she’s readying herself for the camera to switch on. Last-minute touch-ups, preparations. She puffs air up to relocate a loose strand of hair slipping into her eyes.
“Not long.” She pecks her phone screen with her finger. “So, do you have a name, Editor of the School Blog?”
I suddenly feel like I’m being interviewed, maybe interrogated. Principal Falsetto’s sister swirls her phone with her finger, waiting, checking email with eyes locked on her screen. She’s showing me she’s not really interested in my answer, or at least pretending not to be. I don’t need a college journalism class to be an expert on that old interview trick. I decide to wait until she makes eye contact, force her to work harder at her job. My mouth shapes my name and she looks up, all ears, and Ham barges in the door.
“Why aren’t you home getting pretty?” he shouts, and plops on top of a table, swinging his backpack between his legs. Ham glances at the journalist and nods. “We meet again, Miss Sunshine.” He holds out a hand.
She nods and says, “Franklin.”
I jump to my feet and announce we’d better go and get ready.
Ham says, “You’re probably the only girl on earth who’d rather work on a story than get ready for homecoming.” He holds his phone in my face. “Three hours until go time and you need three hours of work.”
I tug at Ham’s sleeve and pull him toward the door. He looks over his shoulder and says, “Good-bye, Miss Sunshine.”
She wiggles her fingers in the air, still staring at her phone. “Good-bye, Franklin. Let’s talk soon, Linden.”
My chest tightens. She knows my name. Is this a big-city-journalist tactic, or is she just being coy?
“You know who I am?” I ask at the door.
She unlocks her eyes from her phone. “Linden, right? Editor. Isn’t that what you said?”
I nod. “I’m the one you were asking my friends about?”
She smiles, and there’s another long pause.
“Was there something you needed to talk to me about?” I run my fingers along the doorjamb. Now it’s my turn to act coy.
Again, the pause. “Nope,” she says. “Not today. You’re getting ready for homecoming. Maybe the next time I’m in town. We can chat about journalism. According to my sister, you’re damn good.”
I snap my fingers. “Sure. Journalism. Next time you’re in town.”
She waves, still smiling. “Until then.” She glances back at her phone.
I swing the door shut and slap Ham’s chest. He falls against the lockers like he’s been shot.
“What the hell, Linden?” he shouts, and rubs his chest.
“That’s Principal Falsetto’s sister. Miss Sunshine? Is that really her name?”
“Nickname I gave her,” Ham says, his arms beginning to whirl. “Fitting, I think. When I first met her, I was like, ‘Damn. What’s that smell?’ and she was all, ‘My perfume, perhaps.’ She has a scent like oranges and caffeine and something else I can’t quite figure out.”
“Sunshine?” I mumble, my annoyance meter plunging off the chart.
Ham snaps his finger. “Exactly. If sunshine had a smell—”
I shush Ham’s lips with my finger, the way a mother hushes her infant. Only my big baby won’t take the hint.
“She’s that lady on TV. KOIN 6. You know, that Portland news station with the slogan ‘Watching out for you.’ Like if they don’t, who will?”
I interrupt Ham’s ramble. “What do you mean when you first met her? Why did she meet with you, and not me?”
Ham’s cheeks droop and his voice rises. “Are you being condescending? Like I’m not good enough to speak to Miss Sunshine? Like I’m not the blog editor, so why is she talking to me? Nice, Linden. Real nice.”
“Hammy.” I tap his shoe with mine. “That’s not what I meant.”
Ham stares at his feet and shuffles his steps.
“I’m sorry,” I say to his back.
Ham turns sideways. “Well, I was going to have my dad take you to Seung’s, but now maybe I won’t.”
I chase after him and snake my arm around his waist. “I’d love your dad to take me to Seung’s if it means spending more time with you, buddy.” I tickle his stomach and he giggles. “Can we talk about this later? I just didn’t understand why Falsetto’s sister was talking to you and Kristen about me. Why didn’t she just talk to me?”
“She didn’t talk to me about you, Linden. Wow! Your ego. She asked me about me.”
I nod, somewhat satisfied with Ham’s answer. Maybe she wanted to know who the journalism team was at Hinderwood High. Maybe her sister was the one who started the conversation. Principal Falsetto’s always been the biggest supporter of the school blog. Maybe I’m worrying for nothing.
The front doors of the school blow open and wind whips my hair. I shove my hand into my pocket and jam my nail on metal. Shit. Could I be more forgetful?
“Wait for me, Ham. There’s something I need to do.”
Ham grunts, but I’m already racing toward the gym, skipping up the stairs.
At the top landing, I shove the metal shank into the fire-escape door and fold my hands like I’m saying a prayer. I need this door to stay cracked so sneaking in after midnight is a cinch.
On the way down the stairs I stomp on an unopened pack of fruit snacks, reach down, and smile. I tuck the packet into my bag for later. I don’t even care that they’re grape flavored.
At the front of the school, I’m met with a white SUV parked beneath the overhang. Ham’s dad beeps the horn twice to signal he’s here, although he’s the only car in the entire parking lot.
Ham’s already in the front seat, so I slide into the back.
“Hello, Linden,” Mr. Royse says at the rearview mirror.
I smile and mouth, “Hello,” slightly out of breath. My mind’s smacking me with questions I could have, should have, asked Miss Sunshine. But Ham’s right. I need to settle down and focus on homecoming.
“Take Linden to Seung’s,” Ham orders in a stern dad voice. “She’s getting ready there.”
Mr. Royse nods and puts the SUV into drive. We turn onto the highway and Ham flips around in his seat. “I have plans for tonight.”
I slow-nod and say, “Yeah, Ham. We all do. Homecoming.”
Mr. Royse interrupts: “Ham says he has a date tonight. How about you, Linden?”
Ham slams the side of his head into the headrest. “Interrupting, Dad. Please stop.”
Mr. Royse chuckles.
I tap Ham’s shoulder and mouth, “Who’s your date?” and he shakes his head like an animal.
“Homecoming is such a memorable event,” Mr. Royse rambles. “Who’d you say your date is, Linden?”
Ham shouts, “No! Nobody’s talking about dates, Dad. We just need you to drive. You have one job.”
Mr. Royse smiles at Ham, although I’m not sure why. I sort of feel sorry for him, but then Ham says, “Sorry, Dad,” and pats his arm. “I just need to talk to Linden and you pretend you’re not listening.”
Mr. Royse’s mouth droops. “Sure, Son.”
“Look,” Ham says as he turns around, his seat belt cinching across his neck, “we’re going to make Toby Patters wish he’d never fucked with me, I mean, with us. The whole Triangle.”
My face scrunches and Ham amps up.
“Don’t give me that confused look, Linden. He’s already tried to kill Seung.” Ham points at his dad. “You’re not listening, remember?” Ham yanks the seat belt and inches forward. “He tried to kill me when I was a kid, and we’re pretty sure he’s trying to kill Bea. Am I right, or am I right?”
I nod.
Ham sighs. “It’s time we get him back. Make him pay for all the pain he’s caused us.”
“Interrupting,” Mr. Royse announces, and Ham and I break our gaze. “Your destination, Linden.”
I swing my bag over my shoulder and Ham grabs my arm. “Are you in?”
I stare at Ham’s shiny face, the sparkles in his eyes. “Sure. I guess. I’m in.” And suddenly, uneasiness settles in my stomach.
Ham slaps the seat. “I knew it, Linden. You’re always on my side.”
As I slip out of the SUV, Ham motions me to his window.
“So,” he whispers, “I do have a date. But I need you to just be cool.” He reaches for my hand on the door and squeezes. “Don’t overreact. In fact, don’t react at all.” He pats the top of my hand and winks. “We’ll chat more tonight.”
I hitch my bag over my shoulder and say, “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Royse.” I pat Ham’s hand and head toward Seung’s house.
Ham shouts, “You guys don’t be late picking me up! Remember, Dough Boy in tux!”
When I wave at Ham from the steps, he’s drawing a heart around his name written on the fogged-up glass.