7

MEETING A GUY IN A DIM ALLEY OF CHOW KIT, WHERE ALL KINDS OFshady characters and rival gangs of jacked-up rats hang (sometimes together), is not ideal. But I am nothing if not a very prudent, reasonable teenager.

"Did you tell anyone who I am?" Taslim demands as soon as we're alone. His body language is jumpy, one of his feet tapping the ground in the dark.

I made a face. "What? No! I kept your secret, you weirdo."

He calms down, taking his beanie off and running his fingers through his hair. He says nothing for a while as he contemplates me, as though he's weighing the veracity of my words before he decides I'm not lying.

"Look, it's really…it's really important no one finds out who I am. For a whole bunch of reasons I can't get into. Do you promise me?" His voice is tight and his movements skittish; he's nothing like his usual composed, held-together self.

I shrug. "Yeah, yeah, calm yourself. I will. Geez."

"Thank you," he says very reluctantly.

"You're welcome, I guess."

He tries for banter. "Was that really your first time?"

"Onstage?"

"What else? Yes, duh!"

Should I tell him? Royce Taslim doesn't deserve any answers. Maybe I should let him stew or feed him with false information. But when I see his agitation, a break from his usual unflappable yeti persona, my own heart thaws. Vulnerability is contagious, which is why I avoid it like the plague.

I sigh. "Yes, it was. I mean, I've watched a lot of stand-up comedy in my down time, and once participated in an impromptu Twitch stand-up comedy rap battle, but that's it."

He doesn't say anything for a couple of beats. Then, like he's been offered to gargle glass, says, "You're good."

"Thanks," I say, gratified. I have to hold down my right hand, which is curled and ready to pump air. Immodesty is not becoming. "What about you? You been doing this for a while?"

"Yeah. A bit. This was my first fifteen-minute set, though. Urgh, what a train wreck that was."

His admission softens me. "Your set was not shit," I say, trying to be nice. "There were a couple of really acceptable punch lines. It just wasn't the right audience."

A shadow flits across his face and he grinds his jaw. "I was shit. Pro tip: The audience is never at fault for not getting your joke; the performer is. Your routine isn't supposed to be set in stone. I panicked and basically fell back on a rehearsed set, which would never have happened if I hadn't been thrown off my game when I saw you, Chan."

What? How dare he blame his incompetence on me? "Oh, so little ol' me in the audience threw you off your game? Want me to bring Mummy and Daddy next time, so they can hold your hand? Buy you an easier pass through this?"

Taslim stone-faces. "Can't do that if they don't know I'm in stand-up, Chan."

"They don't know you're in stand-up?" I say, surprised but vindicated—my assumption had been proven right. Royce's face also broadcasts this truth: Not only do his parents not know—they would not approve of it. Well, well, well, I think. This is an interesting opportunity.

"What?"

"What?"

Taslim raises an eyebrow. "You said something out loud."

Dammit. I did do that sometimes. "No, I didn't."

"Yeah, you did." He smirks. "And in case you didn't know, you chirp when you're excited. It's…" He leans close, and I'm pinned by those eyes. Not because they're pretty—they might be, to some basic people, but not to me—but because they, like—the horizontal pupils of the mongoose, are intense and weird. "Weird."

"No, I'm not weird, you're weird," I say, the height of sophisticated debate.

He squares his shoulders in what he thinks is an intimidating way. "Chan?"

"Yeah?"

He knits his eyebrows and glares. If I chirp when I'm excited, he squints daggers. "I resent the inference that I…that my parents bought my way through life." He stabs a finger in his palm. "I work hard to get everything I have. I got where I got on my own merit."

Wow. Just—wow. Is he really that self-deluded? "I hate to break it to you, but you're deluded," I say, rolling my eyes. "Look, I don't doubt that you work hard, but please, please don't glibly discount the fact that you got there easier than most of us. You've never had to split your time between helping out at home, taking care of your sick mom, working a part-time job, and studying for some classes online instead of having fancy-schmancy Ivy League grads as personal tutors and fancy brain-food smoothies to help you as you glide your way upward through life, propelled by the farts and illusions of grandeur as your parents cheer on your every achievement." I say all this without pausing.

He is quiet for a while. "What's up with your mom?" he asks softly, seeming embarrassed.

I start. I hadn't even realized I'd said that. "Nothing. Forget I said anything," I bark. "That was a long time ago and she's fine now. Mind your own business."

A taut silence follows as we size each other up.

Finally, he says, "I don't disagree with everything you said about my privilege, but I should have clarified that I was talking about stand-up just now, nothing else. I got as far as I did as Ray with my own effort. No one knows I'm a Taslim here, and it's partly because I want to avoid everything you just alluded to. Also, only because I'm a pedant, I have to correct you on one more aspect." He pauses for effect. "I don't drink smoothies because I'm already smooth AF."

"Ha ha ha," I say dryly. "I'm dead. Never stop. All killer, no filler."

Taslim trains his gaze on the ground. "My parents don't actually care what grades I get," he says, almost to himself. "It doesn't matter in the long run. Everything is settled."

I decide not to ask him to elaborate. There is a heavy sadness in the way he says it, although he strives to be matter-of-fact. "I'm sure they care. After all, they have no choice, seeing as you're their only spawn and your mother's parenting advice platform just sold for a mountain of gold."

He raises an eyebrow. "Are you stalking me?"

"Everyone knows," I say lightly, neither confirming nor denying his question. "Your family is such annoying tabloid fodder."

"But you know," he says, quirking his lips.

"I do," I reply, looking up at him. "You have to know your enemy."

"And why am I your enemy?" he says, stepping closer to me. I sway a little at this sudden proximity and he reaches out to steady me, only he holds me by my forearm and lets his hand linger before dropping it, leaving goose bumps in its absence. I'm not used to being touched, that's all.

"Student Athlete of the Year comes with money, and you and I were in the running for it," I say.

"Did you just pun, Chan?" he says, widening his eyes for effect.

"Maybe," I say, distracted by the way his eyes reflect the gold of the streetlight. Involuntarily, my eyes drop to his mouth, which is smack dab in my sight line. His slightly parted mouth is—

Full of bacteria. Absolutelycoated with saliva. And then I recite the facts I know about the oral cavity: Saliva contains enzymes like amylase, lysozyme, and lipase that catalyze the breakdown of foods. Basically, digestion begins in the mouth. So, if you think about it, if Taslim's tongue enters your mouth, you're basically digesting—Oh my God, why am I thinking about that? What the heck is wrong with me?!

Something is clearly wrong with Taslim, too. His breathing is shallow, and he looks like he's been thwacked on the head. He's watching me with a strange look, like I'm a puzzle or pizza, one of those. The air thickens with intention. He bends his head slightly and I swallow as—

"Rat!" I screech as one the size of a Pomeranian scuttles not two feet away from us, its red eyes gleaming in the streetlight. I'm gratified to see Taslim jump. We watch as it waddles into a waiting storm drain, possibly to join Pennywise the clown, its servant.

"Oh my God," Royce says shakily. I shudder, my soul slowly reentering my body.

Whatever it is, I am grateful for the interruption. Because there had been a moment when I'd actually been—

No. No. It must be lead paint fumes or asbestos from the building. The comedy club is, after all, in what must be a condemned building that should have been razed to the ground a long time ago, if not for someone's palm getting greased to high heaven.

Taslim also seems to have regained a grip of himself, because he was now glaring at me the way he'd been the whole night.

"What's your problem?" I snap.

"You. You're the problem," Taslim growls. He leans close to me again. Too close. I swallow, eyes fixed on anywhere but his lips. "This is my thing, Chan. Stay away."

~

"You stay away!" I counter, real sassy, ten hours later. In my head. During the first class of the day, English Literature. I usually love English Lit, but today concentrating on class is a lost cause. It's all I can do to try to keep myself awake, since I'd gotten home quite late last night.

What happened was, after our confrontation, Taslim and I had gone our separate ways (in fact, he'd offered to drop me off by taxi but I'd declined, out of principle). My phone was dead and I couldn't text anyone where I was, nor arrange for a shared ride back, so I'd taken a bus—well, three buses, paying with my concession card, and by the time I arrived home, my "good" leg numb with exhaustion, at eleven thirty, I found that my mom had fallen asleep at the kitchen table waiting for me, waking only when I shook her. She complained a little about the time but sensed a certain excitement about me that she'd not seen since my accident, which was probably why she didn't berate me about my lateness, as she knew I was with Zee; instead, she only told me off for not keeping my phone charged. I was so tired after the adrenaline had fizzed out that I flopped straight to bed, my usual nightly ablutions forsaken. And I am not one to forsake dental hygiene, especially given all I know about saliva.

So you could say I woke up this morning even more annoyed at Royce Taslim than usual. And more than a little puzzled by his reactions over the course of the night.

My English teacher, Ms. Xu, is blathering on about secondary layers and themes in poems. I zone out. I keep flashing back to Royce's expression when he warned me to stay away—he almost looked afraid of me. Vulnerable. Like I have the power to take something important away from him.

Oh my gosh, does he value performing in front of a crowd of strangers as Ray Lim? That is how he gets his kicks in life? How pathetic.

I mean, I suppose since his mom is a famous ex-model/beauty queen/serial entrepreneur and his dad belongs to an Indonesian dynasty, their family's always in the public eye and all the society and gossip mags as well as fashion blogs, so he must have gotten a taste for fame.

I frown—no, that isn't fair. Taslim's parents were the ones whose faces were everywhere, whereas Taslim was low-profile, whether it had been his or his family's choice. Plus, he'd been performing stand-up under a stage name.

And how nonplussed did he look when I brought up his parents and deduced that they didn't know he performed stand-up?

I grin, Cheshire cat–style (I never got expensive orthodontic work done, so yes, it is an apt reference). Oh, Taslim, I've got you by the balls now, I gloat. Metaphorically, of course. I want no part of Taslim's…body parts.

My phone vibrates with a series of texts. I discreetly fish it out and scroll through them.

Zee:HEY, WHAT HAPPENED YESTERDAY? I WAS WAITING FOR YOU FOR TWO HOURS

Zee:OK fine, two hours, at home

Zee:OK fine, maybe I fell asleep after an hour

Zee:Oh wait, I just got your texts, weird. So your phone died?

I type a response as discreetly as I can under my textbook.

Me:Yeah sorry beb my phone ded as soon as I got in. Yiur texts jst came in btwz

Zee:So. How was the performance? Where's the vid?

Me: No chance to get anyone to rexcord anything, I hsd to perform! Plusd my phone died! Annnnd T wore beanie onstage!

Zee:Noooooooooo! I wanted to watch your performance!

Me:You jsdt want to perve on Taslim

Zee:Nah, I'm kind of over it, he was wearing a beanie. Voluntarily. Also I'm not a fan of comedians. Too needy

Me:Thanks, fam

Zee:You're the exception, of course. Anyways spill tea later

I promise to update her in the flesh after school and try to focus on class.

My phone buzzes again: I've been added to a WhatsApp group chat called Open-Mike Nights Around Town—Kumar's handiwork, no doubt. I scrutinize the list of dos and don'ts for posting on the group; then, nonchalantly, I open the participant list just to see how many comics are in the group. Electricity jolts through me when I see one particular person's name. Ray, i.e., Taslim.

I can see Taslim's phone number. The realization does strange things to my solar plexus, which appear to be seizing. I chalk it up to seasonal allergies.