2

THERE IS A KNOCK ON THE DOOR. THREE STACCATO TAPS AND Aclearing of throat. Even without speaking, I know who it is.

"Agnes, dear, I bought you food. Can I come in?"

"Berghhhh," I say in reply, which every mother understands as "Yes, please enter at your own risk." I can smell what she has brought, and it is not food. It is punishment.

The door opens and my posture automatically rights itself. From the mirror I'd fixed on my desk I watch as my mother enters head-first, eyes wary, before the rest of her appears, clutching a tray of something that smells so foul I know it has to be expensive traditional Chinese herbs of some kind. She blinks a little as her eyes adjust to the dark, pierced only by the light from the laptop screen; then her lips curl when she smells me. My room has not been aired since I was discharged from the hospital two weeks ago; that, and the fact I have been marinating in my despair and rage at the hit-and-run driver and barely showering, must have been a potent mix.

She approaches me gingerly with the tray as I continue to ignore her. Her body language is that of someone approaching an area dotted with land mines. She's trying to ignore the bestial howls coming from the speakers, thinking it's coming from the computer game I'm playing, but it's actually an experimental emo band I found on Spotify called Holy Yeast.

"You look well," she says in her sunny, Encouraging Mom voice.

I don't look up from my killing of insurgent militia in CounterFlash: HardBoiled. I'm in the same sweats I've been wearing for the past few—days. "Mmfffph." I probably should change, but inertia tells me why bother. Come to think of it, I've not moved from my chair, much less my room, since I got back from the hospital, aside for toilet breaks and my twice-weekly physiotherapy sessions. It's possible that the gaming chair and I are one now. I am Chairperson.

"So, Agnes, how are you feeling today?"

One of the enemy soldiers I'm grappling with shakes me off and tries to shank me and I dodge. I drive my Superior Huntsman Knife into his body, aiming, as all experts know, for the mid left of the abdomen, around the one or two o'clock position from the umbilicus, where the abdominal aorta lies. Die. Die. Die. Blood fountains. He dies. I grunt, satisfied. "'Kay, I guess."

"So, tomorrow you start school again, isn't that fun?"

Grunt.

"You must miss school so much after two weeks of resting at home."

"Uh-huh," I say, which is a neutral way of responding to this question.

Because the truth is I'm afraid.

Come tomorrow, I'll know for sure what will happen to my track career, the one thing I'd been building with intention since I was eleven; it's also the one thing that really gave my mother motivation to lift herself out of the mist that engulfed her for so many years, leading her to seek the professional help she needed, and—by fate, chance, whatever you believe guides our paths—to Stanley. To our fragile new life.

My phone screen pings with a notification, and I ignore it after a quick check. It's Zalifah "Zee" Bakri, my closest friend from school. REUNITING IT FEELS SO GOOD!

Which is all great and everything, but I wish the other Hot Flashes would show more concern. After the accident, the texts from my teammates quickly tailed off—I'm hoping they'll pick up again once I get back in school.

My mother perches on the bed. "Do you…do you want to talk about your meeting with Coach Everett and Coach Mellon tomorrow?"

"What's there to talk about?" I say as I hack another soldier's arm off on-screen with a Dirty Bone Cleaver. Mirror Mom cringes, so I stop playing and save the game. I keep my face impassive as I turn to face her.

"Agnes, you can tell me anything."

I take a deep breath. "There's nothing to tell. I feel fine."

"But Dr. Koh says"—she stops when she sees me blanch at the name of the surgeon—"things might not…be the same with—"

"Shhhhhh!" I say, bringing my hands to my ears. "Choi, choi, choi! Mom! We don't talk about the Bad Thing unless it's come to pass. I told you!" I cross my toes under the chair.

"Okay, okay," she says, alarmed at the high-pitched note in my voice. "We won't speak about it until your next review."

I calm down. "Thank you," I say, regretting my outburst at the pinched look on her face. I force myself to smile, painfully. It does not reassure her at all. Strange.

"There's, erm, something else you should know before you go to school tomorrow," Mom says, looking a little discomfited.

"What is it?"

My mother has on her faux-casual voice. "The Taslims kind of offered to pay for your surgery and physiotherapy."

I tighten my grip around the arm rest of my chair. "What?" Then, hiss-ily—as far as it is possible to hiss when a word has no S. "When?"

"Coach Everett told me this when he called me to check on you last week. Said Ming Taslim, who's on the board of that sport charity of theirs, Rebuilding Champions, the one similar to the Make-A-Wish Foundation but for sick or hurt athletes from…well, disadvantaged backgrounds—says all you have to do is officially submit a request for assistance."

I'd rather crawl through a field of glass, I don't say out loud.

"And what did you say?" I ask, deadly calm.

"I told Coach Everett our insurance is taking care of it."

Bullshit. Or, well, half bullshit.

I exhale in relief, not bothering to counter her white lies. "Good. Don't ever take her money," I say. "It's blood money, siphoned from the veins of orangutans." I wrinkle my nose. "Also, come to think of it, I'm not exactly the neediest person she could throw money at, so there's probably an ulterior motive." I snap my fingers as epiphany strikes. "Aha! She's probably worried I'll say something in the press and implicate Taslim, who was talking to me when I crossed the road. Sure, I literally walked in front of traffic and forgot to, like, look for traffic, but Taslim was still somewhat involved. The whole world knows she's launching her Modern Asian Parent platform and app next month and it would be bad press to have her son linked to this, so she's trying to buy my silence."

"Agnes," my mother says.

My phone pings again. I glance at the screen: Coach Everett. Speak of the devil.

Hey, Chan, hope all is well. Looking forward to our meeting on Monday.

We are supposed to have a video call with Coach Mellon, my recruiter at the University of Maryland, to receive the verdict of what would happen to my place on the team in light of my latest checkup a few days ago with Dr. Koh, my orthopedic surgeon. Given that Coach Everett needed to plan for the upcoming meets during my absence, both my mother and I had given Dr. Koh permission to brief Coach Everett over a call last weekend on my condition, as far as it related to my ability to participate competitively. Now, I'd encouraged Dr. Koh not to panic Coach Everett—I believe my exact words were "Let's gently massage the truth and present the bestest-case scenario, how-about-it"—but who knows what the stupid Hippocratic oath requires physicians to do, urgh.

Yup, see you, I reply. I'm worried. If Coach Mellon rescinds my offer—

I shake my head, trying to stay positive, or at least look positive in front of my mother, who is hovering. I need to be on the team, other-wise all my college plans would have to be reset. I'd been recruited by University of Maryland early in junior year, and everyone knew that meant I was a star. If that is taken away, I'd have to scramble and apply to schools just like everyone else, based on my grades, which is not ideal. I'm just good at running. I'm not an all-rounder like Tavleen, who's a flautist and a mathlete, or Suraya, who is a concert pianist. I'm a B+-student at best. It's my fault—I don't apply myself the way I do to sports. When it comes to sports, I've always been all in, tunnel-vision style. And now I have nothing else.

Nothing.

The soup smells sour and earthy; bone, crushed root, and what looks like slivers of keratin swirling in the liquid. I wince and push the concoction away from me on the tabletop. "Yuck. Do you even know what this soup does?"

Her smile wobbles on its axis. "I think the man in the medicine hall said it'll help with the muscles, increase qi and blood flow."

"It's not my muscles that need help." I throw this sentence out like a gauntlet. Her face, always an open book, flutters shut.

I close my eyes and take a beat. It's not my mother's fault that I fractured my fibula like a jackass. It's not her fault my career in senior year is possibly over—and that probably means any collegiate running career is jeopardized, too. By one stupid mistake. Just likewhen Mom— I shake my head to clear it. "It's cool. I'll drink it." Then, with my eyes still closed, add, "Sorry." I'm usually very careful with Mom, controlled.

"It's okay," she says quietly. Seems like being a parent is 90 percent eating the shit your kid doles out and saying it's fine, at least in my case.

She reaches out and musses my long, greasy hair, something she hasn't done in ages. I don't protest. Then she leaves. I sigh and contemplate the soup, knowing my mom probably went out of her way to find the best medicine hall, the most reputed herbalist. I take the spoon and let the steam waft off the bark-brown liquid in the porcelain spoon. The first sip of the soup hits my senses, hot and bitter, as love does.

~

On an overcast Monday morning, Stanley fires up the family minivan—his words, not mine—and begins the arduous rush-hour drive to school, with me riding shotgun and Rosie, my eleven-year-old stepsister, at the back.

"Agnes, you look like poop," Rosie tells me cheerfully, pushing her dark bronze ringlets out of her eyes as she meets my gaze in the rearview mirror. I have not made any effort with my appearance on my first day back to school. It's not as though someone's going to comment on how shiny my hair is in its regulation ponytail—it's still not—when my right lower leg is in a bulky gray splint and I'm hobbling around on forearm crutches that my doctor insisted I use for at least a month, with two more weeks to go.

"Language," Stanley says mildly.

"Rosie, what have I been saying? If you want to hurt someone, you have to be more specific. Details matter. Don't shy away from being descriptive. For example, instead of saying The sight of you annoys me you got to say something like That nose of yours belongs on a butt, it should be kept out of my sight."

Rosie giggles. "Butt. Ha-ha-ha."

"Originality would get you more points," I continue with the full wisdom of my years. "Maybe instead of just butt, say, a yeti's butt or—"

"Enough butt talk," Stanley says crisply. "Rosie, that wasn't nice. Don't be a bully."

"We're just kidding ar—"

"Words cut deep, girls, deeper than flesh wounds, sometimes; remember that a pen is mightier than a sword?" Stanley says. We roll our eyes at him in response but stop. My stepdad has a way of commanding obedience that, to me, is way more effective than my mother's anger. It's probably because he's been a teacher for almost two decades, to teenagers to boot.

"Whoever said that obviously never bled out from a swordfight," Rosie whispers. Her father ignores her.

"I agree," I stage-whisper to Rosie. She grins.

On the road the traffic starts getting dense. I sigh. When my mom drives us, we always get to school in twenty minutes, avoiding the jam and speeding tickets, all at once.

"Dad, can you hurry up," Rosie whines. "I want to get to school before Jasmine does."

"Slow and steady does the trick," Stanley says. We roll our eyes again—he and his Stanley Sayings. At the rate Stanley is driving—a snail's pace in moving traffic—I almost wish my mother was at the driver's helm. Almost. But Stanley more than makes up for it in other ways. He lets Rosie and me choose the music for the drive, and we can sing along as loud as we want. If you see a beige Nissan Serena—with one adult wincing while two adolescent girls howl, wolflike, to Taylor Swift and BlackPink—crawling through the streets of Kuala Lumpur—that's us, although at first glance you might not have guessed that we're a family. Stanley and Rosie are biracial white Haitian American, while I'm Chinese Malaysian, but spend two minutes with us in the minivan and it's clear that we know far more about each other's toileting habits than we care to admit. Besides, the fact is Rosie and I are far too blasé about Stanley's off-key singing for us not to be a family. We also know that every Thursday night is Date Night and to never, ever, walk down the landing in front of their bedroom after ten p.m., for various reasons.

"Agnes, you have your meeting with Coach Mellon and Coach Everett later to discuss your spot, correct?"

I nod. A slim flame of hope rises in my chest. Maybe, notwithstanding the scans, he thinks—I give my head a shake, unable to even hope against hope that I could still run for the interschool meet, not after what I'd heard the surgeon say. But in five months—three, if I have my way—could they wait for me to heal, field me for the state championship and nationals at least?

The minivan slows to a stop at the traffic light, almost imperceptibly. Stanley turns around and looks me in the eye. "Hey, Agnes?" Stanley has on his Stern Face, although the effect is ruined by his kind eyes and ready-to-smile lips. Stanley once tried to call me sweetie when he first met me four years ago, but my growl dissuaded him from trying ever again.

"Yeah, Stanley?" Rosie calls my mother Mom, but I call Stanley Stanley, which he's fine with. I've never had a dad growing up and the word Dad fills me with a dread I don't quite comprehend. I suspect my mother would prefer I call him Dad, though.

"Even if you aren't a runner, you're still special," he says, fibbing with the conviction of an educator.

My eyes blur with tears and I have to look away. Family will tell you lies to keep you.

We stop in front of the drop-off point for high schoolers first. I get out with Stanley's and a traffic warden's help, wincing but stable. "I'll pick you up after school, so just text me when you're ready to go, okay?" he says.

I nod and start my careful way to the gates.

Just then, a scream rends the air. I close my eyes and wait for the torrent of energy that is Zee as she flings her arms around me in a squeal of delight. "Agnes!" she sings. "Welcome back!"

"Zee," I say, laughing, swaying a little on my crutches. She makes a big show of sniffing my face and hair and saying how she misses the stink of me. In spite of my current doom-and-gloom mode, seeing her immediately cheers me up; I can't help it. I'd describe it as being hit by a Care Bear Stare in the gut—my shoulders loosen and a smile involuntarily etches across my grump face.

"Baby dear," she says, drawing back from me gently. She steadies me by my shoulders, then turns and lightly nudges my hip with hers and takes my school bag after some resistance from my part. It crosses my mind that this might be the first time Zee has ever carried someone else's literal burden on their behalf—as a child of a chief minister and one of the great-grandchildren of one of the founding fathers of Malaysia, she is always hemmed in by help, even the unhired kind, at school. Sucky-phants, as she calls them.

We're an odd pair, if you examine us individually. Aside from going to the same classes, we don't have much else in common, in terms of background, class, family, interests, music, etc. We don't even like the same food (I'm not a bread person, and she is, for example). But we do share a hate of sycophants, ball polishers (her words), and people who think woof is a good response to anything.

Zee and I met when I first arrived at Dunia four years ago, after Stanley and my mother got married and I transferred to this school. We happened to sit next to each other in my first class, and the teacher assigned her as my orienteering buddy. After class ended, she introduced herself and waited for the calculative light of recognition to flare in my eyes, but it never came. I didn't know what her name meant, didn't recognize her from the society mags her family appears in, and even after I knew who she was, I didn't change how I interacted with her, that is to say with polite disinterest, until she made an offhand comment on our fourth day together that made me snort-choke so hard I almost peed, and I responded with a quip that made her eyes bulge, and a friendship was cemented. She comes from old money, from a political dynasty, and my genuine disinterest in all that came as a relief to her. Four years later we're still great friends, which is a miracle when you understand how big the power imbalance—if you're one who thinks in such terms when it comes to relationships—between us is: She has all the networks, power, money, and I have nothing to offer her in return. Yet she knows that if her connections and money were the only way to get me out of a situation, or to improve my lot, I'd be too proud to use them. In fact, I'd once joked that I would rather show my junk on OnlyFans. "Though," she had conceded the first time I said that, "one has to have something worth showing in order to make any money on OnlyFans, n'est pas?" She is not wrong. Anyway, it has become kind of our running joke.

There's still another hour before school starts, so we cut across the quad—the "scenic route" according to Zee—to get to the auditorium for a special morning assembly, Zee in her dark green hijab and long mint-green baju kurung–style uniform, me in my knee-length, dark green skirt and mint-green polo shirt.

"I can't believe I haven't seen you in over two weeks! That's a lifetime!" Zee is complaining. "And you didn't even let me visit you at yours."

"It's complicated. Termites," I say evasively. The last couple of times she asked to drop by, I had the entire global pandemic as an excuse, and then I said we were renovating the place and sawdust, etc. "Maybe during Christmas break."

"Oh-kay," Zee says, raising an eyebrow but deciding not to pursue it, not least because I faked a stumble.

There are a couple of reasons why I don't let anyone visit me at mine, and I can't deny it's because I don't want my closest friend in Dunia to see how modest and unremarkable my place is compared to her home, which I've been to a few times, even for the occasional sleepover. I'm not trying to put on airs at all—everyone knows I'm Stanley Morissette's kid and I go to school almost for free unlike the exorbitant fees the others pay, but there's a difference letting them guess how big that gulf is and actually showing them.

We stroll past the immaculate athletics field under the morning sun, where a few diehards are performing drills before class. I spy Royce Taslim, alone (surprisingly) by the field, stretched out on the ground doing one-handed push-ups in a black-and-gray camo print running vest and tights that are an approximation of clothes, all clingy and filmy. Urgh, show-off.

I might have said this last sentence out loud, but Zee doesn't notice, because—following her gaze—Royce Taslim has started doing jumping jacks. My so-called friend is staring at Royce's pulsing…thighs.

"Zee!" I snap my fingers in front of her face, and she comes to herself with a start. Honestly, does she have no taste in boys at all?

"Sorry," she apologizes, the tips of her ears reddening.

"God is watching," I remind her.

"Says the infidel who is thinking of getting an OnlyFans account," she mutters.

She grins, and I grin back. We link hands and walk toward the auditorium, Zee gossiping at breakneck speed while I try not to think about my meeting with Coach Everett in three hours, just before lunch break.

~

Coach Everett's office is on the second floor of the glass-steel-and concrete admin center, and I have to take the elevator. I arrive a little earlier so that I would have time to compose myself and to check for evidence of panic sweats. I knock, entering when he tells me to. Coach Mellon is already on the screen, dialing in from Maryland. I give my best smile and practically shout my greetings.

"Agnes, please sit," Coach Everett says neutrally.

I sit in the uncomfortable wooden chair before him, trying not to bounce my left leg as I'm apt to do when I'm excited and/or nervous.

"So," Coach Mellon says, "how are you feeling?"

Like crap, I say archly in my head. "Just fine, Coach," I say, straightening up and adopting my favorite expression: resting winner face. Even if I were in pain at that moment, you'd never guess. I am the picture of health—from above my waist.

"When will you make a full recovery?" he asks.

"The surgeon says it's a mild fracture, so probably in three months I can start training again." It was five or six months, minimum, but like I said, I'm feeling optimistic.

And it isn't really a mild fracture—it's more complicated than that, and we'd have to monitor my progress over the next few months to know if I'd be able to run competitively again. I'm trying not to let my thoughts stray down that path. If I don't think about the worst-case scenario, it might not happen.

I need to get to the NCAA and run. My glorious future depends upon it.

Coach Mellon sighs. "That's almost half the season, Chan. You won't be able to participate in all the big meets and we won't be able to track your performance from over here. And we're not even sure you'll be performing at optimal level when you're back."

"All I need is some time, really, I'm c-confident—"

He shakes his head and drops his eyes to his lap when he says, "I'm sorry, Chan, but we'll have to rescind our offer."

An icy numbness spreads across my face, my body. "B-but…but, Coach," I say. It is all I can say when I feel like screaming.

"I'm really sorry, Agnes," Coach Mellon says in a gentler voice, "but I can't change the rules. You knew your spot was contingent upon your meeting those requirements. I wish you the best of luck with your recovery and your career." He nods at Coach Everett. "Tom, I wish I had better news. We really wanted Agnes here."

Coach Everett sighs. "Sure, Chris."

He signs off. I sit there, wrestling with shock at the turn of events.

Coach Everett rubs his eyes with a large, calloused hand, before fixing them on me. They are compassionate. "I'm sorry, Agnes." He never calls me Agnes. "You have no idea how much this hurts me, too. You're one of our best runners…you're my best runner, bar none. But if you can't run, we'll have to take you off the team here, too."

This second punch breaks me. If I'm not on the school team, I will not be eligible for Student Athlete of the Year—I wouldn't even have the consolation of that title. Nothing to mark all I'd given of my time, my effort, my joy.

A sob erupts out of me. I try to stuff it down my gullet, but it pops out of me like bubbles from a freshly opened can. I can't believe I am crying in front of this man. I mean, I used to hold in my farts in his vicinity.

Coach Everett is called Coach Everest in jest for a reason: He is a stoic mountain of a man, but at the sound of my crying he blanches, grabs a fistful of tissues, and offers them to me, which I decline with angry shakes of my hand. "Th-this was s-supposed to be my year," I choke out. "Now everything is ruined."

He fumbles with the box of tissues. "Well, um, Agnes, I could put you on the reserve team, but even that's not guaranteed."

"You don't need to do that," I say, standing up with difficulty—I'm no benchwarmer, and I don't need scraps of pity. He tries to help me stand, but I wave him away, wanting to preserve the last shred of my dignity. "Thank you for your time," I say, turning to go.

"Agnes…"

"Please, don't feel bad." I wipe my tears away and attempt to smile. "I understand, really."

"I'm here if you need to talk," Coach Everett says awkwardly. "And, Agnes?"

"Yeah?" I say, driving my fingernails into my palm. Get ahold of yourself. Don't look weak in front of Coach.

"If you need anything, especially help with your grades, now that…now that you're in this position, please don't hesitate to reach out to me…any member of the team…we're here for you, always."

Platitudes. Great. Just what I need to get through this nightmare.I nod, attempting the world's most hideous grin, before stumbling out of his office, past the door leading to the office of Coach Fauzi, assistant boy's track and field coach, half-blinded by my tears—and into a man-wall.

"Aahhh!" I squeak, thrown backward by the collision and falling with a hard bump on my butt, my crutches skidding away.

"Oof!" Royce Taslim says, tripping over my crutches and losing his balance, landing awkwardly near me and pinning my left uninjured leg with his…his…

Pulsing thighs.

I howl. The person who had caused this entire mess in the first place, by distracting me, was now trying to injure me further? "You," I say, my voice thick with loathing.

"Oh shit, are you okay, Chan?" he says, horrified by either his monumental incompetence or the state of my resting winner face. He leaps up and scrabbles around, retrieving my crutches and my book bag, before offering me a hand to help me onto my feet.

"I can get up on my own," I bluster. It takes a long minute or two of awkward trying, me grappling with the floor like I'm a turtle on my back—I don't give up easily—before I sigh and signal that I would let him take my arm.

Royce bites his lip, makes a calculation, and, ignoring my proffered arm, grabs my crutches before placing my left arm around his neck while hooking an arm around my waist; then, his left arm now holding on to my crutches, he hoists me gently to my foot in a single upward swivel, whispering, "One, two, three," as he does so. He lifts me up as though I weigh nothing, and the momentum folds me to him.

For two beats I'm resting against his chest, breathing in his body scent—odor, body odor! I correct myself, alarmed—my forehead resting against his hard shoulders, and I am wedged against him as securely as though we'd been waltzing. I am aware that we are both breathing loudly, and that trails of my snot are dripping down my nose onto his collarbones, plain and exposed in his V-neck tank.

I lift my eyes and a shiver skates down my spine when we lock gazes, light brown on soft black. My breath hitches as I become aware of how dense and developed the muscles of his neck and shoulder feel, which is a totally normal reaction when one apex predator brushes up against another. It takes one to recognize another, and like me, Taslim is a wolf, albeit a cunning one who prefers to parade in sheep's clothing.

"I'm fine," I mutter, disoriented, disengaging from his half embrace while taking care not to touch his exposed, shiny skin, for hygiene reasons. My thoughts are still in disarray, which explains why I am breathing so hard.

"Can I help you get somewhere?" he says.

"No," I say, almost spitting the word out. "Why don't you watch where you're going next time?"

He frowns. "Hey, you ran into me, Chan. This is your own fault."

"How could I have run into you when I can't even walk?" I cry, triggered, my passions rising. "Did you know I lost my spot at Maryland and Coach Everett k-kicked me off the school team? That everything I've worked for is gone? D-do you even understand what that feels like?"

He blinks at me, stunned. Everyone knew I was the first NCAA recruit in the school's history. "Shit, Agnes," he says when he recovers. "I'm so, so sorry. I understand what it's like t-to lose something important—"

He understands my predicament? Hah! A snort-laugh escapes me. "Pal, please. First off, it's Chan to you, Taslim, and second of all, no, you'll never understand," I say. "You and your perfect life"—I draw two separate circles in the air and jab a point in the space between them—"and my struggles and I are not a—a Venn diagram." I fall silent, overcome with emotion, some of it being triumph since I am also amazed that I was capable of bringing up math at this juncture—at least, I hope it's an accurate analogy.

He flinches. "You don't even know me," he says curtly.

I shrug. "I know enough. You are the son of Peter Taslim and Malaysian ultra-celebrity, former beauty queen, and entrepreneur Ming Taslim, the scion of a palm oil dynasty that razes virgin jungles across Southeast Asia and is now diversifying into other less polarizing sectors like sports equipment manufacturing and real estate but is basically an attempt to clean up all that dead orangutan money. Am I wrong?"

As soon as the words leave my mouth and land on Taslim's head like a ton of dead orangutans, he blanches and I know I've hit a nerve. It is a lot, what I said. Maybe part of it was spillover from my crappy meeting with Coach Everett, and Taslim was collateral damage, but I don't regret it…at least, not too much. Given that his family's surrounded by people who tell them they are great because they give out a few hundred thousand ringgits in philanthropic endeavors every year—peanuts when you consider their net worth, which is in the billions of American dollars—and are doing their best to greenwash their way to respectability, they can afford to have a few unimpressed observers.

He doesn't reply for a while. He licks his lips, and I am curiously transfixed by this act. "I'm not my family," he says at last. He shakes his head and a bitter laugh escapes him. "To think—to think I was going to offer to personally tutor you since you missed so many weeks of class—"

"What?" I say, startled. Royce, one of the star tutors of the school's peer tutorage program, wanted to tutor me? "Me?"

"Yeah," he says, an unreadable look in his eyes.

That's so nice of him, a part of me, the formerly naive version, whispers. Plus, I hear the snack situation for his sessions are like A+, stuff like gourmet popcorn and macarons…drool.

Decadence is a sign of moral rot, I counter in my head, like a perfectly normal human. And as for his offer, no, it's not"nice,"it's guilt.Have you forgotten he literally caused your accident?

That's an exagger—But Old Me never finishes because Mature Me has silenced her with a used gym sock.

I recover and paste on a disdainful smile. "Thanks, pal, but I don't need your penance."

His mouth flattens. "Whatever. Forget I tried. I'll see you around, Chan." Then, without a second look, he walks away in the exact direction I was headed. Damn it, Taslim. I stand there till he's gone, and then I power-crutch my way after him, but also not after him. I take out my phone and text Zee to cancel her plans and meet me for lunch. This is serious.