28

MONDAY COMES AND I'M WAITING IN THE LIbrARY FOR ROYCE TOappear for a peer-mentored college-application-essay writing session, my heart swooping about in my chest, hawklike. I have an unpleasant mission today: apologize in person. Stanley made me promise to do so today, and much as I don't feel like it, now that more time had passed, I have reverted to my original feeling of shame over my actions at the qualifiers this past Friday.

Zoltan Pali, a classmate, lounges next to me, all tousled brown hair and sullen eyes. He keeps glancing at his watch because Royce is almost twenty minutes late.

"Your boy is very tarty."

I do a double take. "I'm sorry?"

"Tarty. You know, when someone is coming late. I'm not saying it right?"

I bit my lip. "Yes, Zoltan, that's exactly right."

Zoltan nods. "Thought so. English is so idiotic."

"You mean, idiosyncratic," I correct him gently.

"No, idiotic." He lifts an eyebrow at me. "You know I speak and write six languages, including world's hardest language, Polish?"

I am about to point out that I speak three myself—well two and a half languages, really—but Royce comes at this point in a clatter of files, Zoltan not-so-softly whispering "Tarty" at me and winks, and this time I'm not sure he's referring to Royce's lateness.

"Sorry I was late," Royce says, still a little breathless. "I, uh, my mom came to school with some, er, correspondence for me."

"Not cool," Zoltan says. "Our time is precious, too."

"I know," Royce says, a bit snappish. "I said I'm sorry." He is flustered, his hair mussed, and I resist the urge to slick a strand of sweaty hair away from his forehead. He riffles through his backpack before taking out some books. "Let's get started."

"You two go ahead setting up, now Zoltan's turn to excuse himself, go do big boy things," Zoltan says. "Toilet," he clarifies when Royce starts to protest. He slouches off.

"Right," Royce says, opening a reference book on the essentials of college application essays. His tone is cool. "So, Agnes, what help do you need with essay writing?"

I shake my head. "I've actually completed most of my essays and sent them out yesterday." With my qualifying win included as part of my credentials, as planned.

"Well, I guess you could have skipped today's session, then," he says tersely.

"Perhaps," I agree, in a tone of voice one could say was only Slightly Disagreeable.

We both fall silent. The air between us crackles with big, unsaid words.

"Where the hell is Zoltan?" Royce asks after a few minutes of intense avoidance of eye contact had passed.

I say in a small voice, "Look, I'm…er, well, yeah, y'know, sorry about the whole thing."

He turns to me. "Oh, at last she deigns to apologize," he says sarcastically. He crosses his arms across his chest. "If only I knew what for."

Spots of heat rise to my cheeks. "Okay, fine, I deserve that. I'm really, really sorry about how I acted at the comedy show. For calling you out like that. For acting like a class-A jerk. I mean it. No excuses."

The sincerity thaws his stance. He unfolds his arms and nods. "It was a really crap move, but let's move on. I have exactly forty-seven minutes until my driver comes for me."

"What do you have next?" I noted that he hadn't apologized for the things he'd said at the qualifiers. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth and my guard goes up.

"Tennis lesson, then chess." He pauses. "Then Russian." He rubs his eyes. "What are you doing tonight? Maybe we can CounterFlash after Russian, say around nine."

I did have plans to play CounterFlash in fifteen minutes with my usual hangs like NerdWolf and Z-Flash, but I couldn't go on to game now. Urgh. Now I'll have to cancel.

"I'm going to run lines with Rosie for her drama class, and then I'm watching this reality show that Zee has been on my back to watch called Marriage Truth Bomb Trial, so I guess I can't." I hate lies, but what else can I say? I don't want to hang, I'm mad at you. Where was my apology? Didn't he realize he'd hurt me, too?

"What's wrong?"

"I want an apology for how you acted, too. When you made fun of me when Vern kissed me."

Royce flushes. He hesitates, as though he's wrestling with something. Maybe indigestion from being called out. "I'm sorry I did that. I don't know what came over me," he says in a formal way. "Are you and Vern—"

"No," I say, hating myself for how quickly I gave him my reassurances. "I don't know, maybe in the future," I add.

A sticky silence spreads between us.

Royce clears his throat, "I guess I can thank you for the advice. I think it really helped me unlock my performance, just leaning into the stupid-rich-kid stereotype and being self-deprecatory. The audience lapped it right up. I guess that's my shtick now: Annoying Rich Jock."

"How terrible," I say sarcastically. "If only the rest of us could have such problems."

"Please, Agnes, I don't want to fight, not today." He rubs at his eyes. "I've got enough on my plate as it is."

"What do you mean?" I ask, curious despite myself.

"This," Royce says, putting down a crumpled piece of paper on the table and smoothing it out. "Something my mom found in the trash. She had enough feelings about it that she got her driver to bring her over to school and yelled at me by the gates as soon as she called me out." He gives a bitter laugh. "But not after making sure no one of importance was around."

I stare at the Harvard insignia. Dear Mr. Taslim, I am delighted to inform you…

So, Royce got in to Harvard. A lump forms in my throat. There he goes, moving on to bigger, better things that are out of my reach. "Congratulations," I manage to say.

"I don't want to go there," he mumbles, his voice thick. "I only applied because my dad went there. I was secretly hoping…But my parents…when they hadn't heard from Harvard, they were already calling the office of admissions, preparing to donate all this money, and then when they—well, one of the housekeeping staff—found the admissions letter in my trash.…"

I double-take. "Wait, your housekeeping goes through your trash?"

His face is reddening. "No, I mean, they don't usua—I mean, this was just sitting there and I don't have much trash since they empty it every half day. But I guess my parents must have…enlisted their help."

What the eff.

"Amateur mistake," I say, attempting to lighten the mood. "Next time, I recommend shredding or burning the letter."

"Yeah," he says moodily, twisting his fingers in his lap.

"Was that your only acceptance letter?" It couldn't be, but I had to ask.

He shakes his head. "No, I got three more. Two other Ivy Leagues."

And here I am, praying for a response from any school, even the Div II ones.

"Where do you want to go?"

"Here." He puts down another perfectly folded paper and says, a little unsteadily, "Open it."

I swallow and reach for the letter.

"Toilets are so far," Zoltan says before I can unfold the paper. "I had to stop for snack." He spies the paper and grabs it. "Oh, what's this? Test?" He opens it, ignoring Royce's protests, reads it quickly, and claps Royce on the back. "Congratulations for your Columbia offer. Theater? Wow, friend, who thought?" Zoltan chuckles as he gives Royce a flirtatious once-over. "Hot and artistic, my favorite type."

I look at Royce and he looks at me. "I haven't accepted anything yet," he says. "I also got accepted at NYU and Dartmouth in similar programs, so it's a bit premature."

My temples throb with a looming headache. "Fancy," I say dully.

"Where are you going?" Zoltan asks me.

"Nowhere in the States, unless I get a scholarship," I say, dropping my gaze on the textbook and keeping my voice level. "Without financial assistance, the best I can do is a public university in Malaysia."

"And there are great public universities.…" Royce trails off at my glare. Whether or not great public universities exist in Malaysia is beside the point. Studying, or rather being successful in the NCAA was my dream. Other options can exist, but they will never be an adequate substitute for what I'd trained for almost half my life to achieve.

It's okay, Vern says in my head. You're still a star in comedy. Maybe that can be your new way to shine.

I try to rally myself: I could leverage a star turn in this competition into a comedy career in America, like my comedy heroes. That is still possible, and that's what I must focus all my energy in pursuing. Then everyone would be proud of me.

Zoltan claps my back, hard. "Or be like Zoltan! My parents want me to go to Oxford for Philosophy, Politics, and Economics, but I'm thinking of self-sabotaging, just fail everything and retake the year, drop out of high school and to ultimately graduate from school of life." This was a joke, of course. Zoltan's parents are diplomats and they come from a family of doctors and scientists; there is no way this is even an option. He tips me a wink. "You are welcome to join me in this very free school. Want to join me and surf Bali? We can stay indefinitely in my parents' investment villa."

Vern's voice in my head says: Only the strong flourish. Use everything you have to get where you need to go.

I decide to take a leaf out of Vern's playbook.

"Thanks, Zoltan," I say, smiling sweetly at Zoltan; I can feel Royce's eyes boring into the side of my head. "I guess at this rate, since I'm thinking of taking a gap year, anything is possible. I do need to explore my—creative side. You may have heard that I'm an amateur stand-up comic."

"Sexy." Zoltan leans forward and winks. "I can promise you a lot of sexy creative space." He offers his hand to me.

"Perfect," I say, slipping my hand in his with an exaggerated giggle. "I love surfers."

Royce gets up abruptly. "If you're going to paw each other, I'll leave you two to it. I'm out."

I flash back to his comment about me before his set at the qualifiers and my blood boils over. "Jealousy is a terrible look on you."

"What makes you think I give a damn what you do with your affections? You're so fickle-minded anyway," he shoots back.

Oh my God. I could tear his face off his…face.

"You guys are turning me on," Zoltan purrs.

"Come on, Zoltan, let's get out of here and get some action," I say. I grab a grinning Zoltan and practically drag him out of the library to a chorus of hissing and shushing, even as Royce shouts that he was leaving first. I don't think either of us won today.

~

I lose interest in maintaining the flirtation once Royce is gone and swiftly make my excuses to leave, citing plans with Zee—it would be our first meet-up since our big fight. Not that Zoltan was too shredded by my about-face—he was already making eyes with a passing junior.

My heart lifts as soon as I see Zee at the school gate. We give each other our most solemn hug, but midway she starts squealing and laughing. "Baby dear," she says. "Oh, I've missed you! I think stand-up has rubbed off on me, my high-tea gang is just so tediously boring in comparison."

I rub my nose into the side of her hijab. "I didn't have any gangs to compare you with, but I missed you."

We board my usual bus home. "You ready?" I ask her.

"Are you?" she asks me back.

We squeeze each other's hands.

The bus drops Zee and me roughly a mile from the terrace house where I live.

"How was it?" I ask her, thinking it was the first time she'd ever taken a public bus.

"Exciting," Zee says, rolling her eyes. "You know, I've taken the MRT before. Many times."

We walk in silence, sweating, to my house. Even the voluminous Zee is silent by the time we arrive, her magenta-and-silver backpack hanging limply on her back.

"Well, here it is," I mumble, gesturing at it.

Zee stares at my house. "Haiyahhhh, this is where you live?" she says. "This?"

"What?" I retort a little snappishly.

"I was expecting a tent with a colony of rats the way you hid it from me. Geez, it's like any other house. Look," she says, rapping at the door. "It even has a door! Made of…wood!"

"Get in," I say sulkily as I start unlocking my front door.

"I just want to say before we get in," Zee says, taking my hands and facing me solemnly. "Even if you did live in a tent with a colony of ants, I'd still love you. I'd never change the way I think about you. You're Agnes, my sulky, bossy, sometimes funny, but always bestest friend. ILYSM."

"Shaddduuuuuuuuuup," I say, gagging to hide the fact that my eyes were on the verge of the waa-wahs, as Mom likes to say.

"Masuk masuk," she says, shooing me into my own house. Who's the bossy one in this relationship?

"Anyone else home?" she says, looking around. "I'd love to meet the whole family."

"Stanley's got something on at school, it's just Mom, us girls, and Rosie. Hold on, let me call Rosie down."

Rosie is enamored with Zee. "I love your hooded cat eye tutorial and the one where you lip-glassed your lids for the holidays."

"Thanks, I love those, too. You should check out the one where I use a wet brush and setting spray to transform eyeshadow into eyeliner."

"Epic," Rosie says.

I bring Zee into my living room. Rosie excuses herself to do her homework. My mother brings a tray of keropok and some iced tea and leaves us to chat.

"What are you going to do about Singapore?" Zee says in a low voice.

"I'm going for it." That conversation with Royce had cemented that resolve. "What about Vern? Do you still want me to…?" For some reason, I made a weird fist-to-fist smushing action.

"Nah," she says. "I don't think Vern is into me at all. When I ran into him on the way out of the restaurant, he basically gave me a wave and looked back down at his phone. I lingered and tried to chat, but he wouldn't engage."

"Oh," I say. "Maybe it's because it's before the set. I could—"

"Agnes," Zee says. "Drop it. It's not happening between Vern and me, and that's fine. Even I can't always have what I want in the world." She says this in a jokey way, but there's an edge in her words. A silence falls between us, staticky with unsaid words. The tension between us from our fight is still there.

"There's—there's something else I wanted to discuss," Zee said after a while. "It's about your contribution to my videos. Your script."

"What about it?"

Zee takes a deep breath. "I'd like to start paying you for the work."

I stare at her. "Why? I'm doing it as a friend."

"Yes, and that's exactly why I should start valuing your contribution as a friend. This has gone on long enough, and if it goes on any longer, I'd be taking advantage of you. Your time and effort deserve to be compensated."

She's right, of course. It just felt strange in the context of everything that had recently happened between us. "I like working on those videos with you."

"I know. This is about compensation. If I'd hired a freelancer or an agency to come up with prompts, I'd be paying them. Why shouldn't I pay my best friend?" Her smile brightens. "This is the right thing to do. You know I'm making mad money off those videos, with the sponsorships in kind and in cash."

I nod, embarrassed. "Okay, whatever. Sure."

"Cool." She claps her hands in excitement. "I have a totally different direction for next season. I'm thinking of changing my social media handles, dropping my dad's name, Bakri, so I'm just a mononym. Just focusing on me and what I do best. And not working with or promoting the businesses of family friends, et cetera, unless the products or services are genuinely worth my followers' hard-earned cash."

"Th-that's a big step," I say, taken aback.

She shrugs, reddening. "Like, I know realistically that I'm never going to be completely rid of the family influence, but at least I'll know that if I want to rep something, it's purely because I believe in it…and I believe in myself."

I hug her. "I'm so proud of you," I say sincerely.

Zee smiles. Then her eyes sharpen, "How are things with Royce? After your apology?"

"It's weird," I admit. It was weighing on me, and only Vern's encouragement for me to put distance between Royce and me, since Royce was leaving anyway after senior year ended for the States, helped me put things in perspective. I need to keep Royce at arm's length for my own sake. "Anyway, it's not like we're, like, dating or anything."

"Girl, I saw you two backstage after the gala. There was some serious chemistry. And I know chemistry—I got an A in AP Chem!" Zee always makes sure she reads the ingredients in her makeup and skincare before recommending them.

I make a dismissive sound. "It's a lost cause, so let's move on."

Zee presses her lips together and says nothing.

We enter the nursery. The bones of the room were done: I'd bought the specialty, child-safe paint—a lovely buttery-yellow that Stanley and Rosie had spent last weekend painting the walls with; the white crib is one we'd bought from IKEA. The sturdy wooden chest of drawers (white, scuffed), the nightstand (pale gray) and changing table (beige wood) had been sourced secondhand from the school's staff network, and the fantastic old-fashioned rocking chair in natural blond wood were gifted from the partners at my mother's law firm. The mismatched furniture was eclectic and cozy—us.

I side-eye to see what Zee thought. "Very pretty," she pronounces, and I relax.

Zee and I are here to bedazzle the room with some decor. Zee unpacks her large bag of stuff, which I am sure contains gifts for my mom. Since she's on a mission to be more careful about how she "spreads her influence," I told her she absolutely did not need to spend a lot of money. We had everything we could need, including essentials, gifted or sourced from the school and law firm: bags of new and secondhand baby clothing and toys, and a veritable pyramid of diapers.

"I couldn't help myself," she says, taking her first gift out sheepishly. It's a boxed-up, high-tech something that looks, naturally, expensive. "It's a top-of-the-line breast pump," Zee explains. "Like, the Maserati of breast pumps."

I groan. "Zee," I say. "I love you, but this is too much. Honestly, you can just go with a Perodua of breast pumps if you had to, and it would already be enough. On top of the first babymoon room that we didn't—"

"Shhh, ma biche, shhhh," she replies, putting a finger to my burbling lips. "It's okay. Let it happen. Let it happen."

She spreads out her other goodies on the parquet floor of the nursery: a bunch of newborn toys with fancy Scandinavian brand names and some nondescript newborn baby clothes from a local department store. I made little noises of protest, which she waved away. "These are from my parents, so you can't give them back."

"Thank you," I say, defeated. I hug her, my sweet, kind friend.

"Nice paintings," she says, eyeing the lightweight white wooden frames in which I'd stuck the best photos of the family and a trio of sweet, monochromatic prints of kids holding balloons and one of a llama, just because.

"We're going to stick those up with these specialty tapes and hang these old cloth buntings Rosie and I made. And then we're gonna sort all the clothes and put them in drawers and keep the diapers away."

"Ah, good, honest work," Zee says, and I roll my eyes at her rolling her eyes at me, having predicted that that would be my exact response. I don't mind. At the end of the day, that's what true friendship is: getting the core of a person and cherishing it for all its beauty and flaws.