8

STANLEY IS ALONE IN THE KITCHEN SATURDAY MORNING WHEN I WALKin, yawning and scrolling through my notifications. The open-mike group chat is buzzing with activity: There's a gig tomorrow night in a popular Irish bar/restaurant in the city and Taslim is on the list.

I don't know why I haven't exited the group chat yet, even though it's been about two weeks since my open-mike debut. Maybe it's nice to feel like I belong to a community again. The Flashes have obviously been too busy with training and social stuff that they haven't had the chance to invite me to their fun hangs, but I'd also be so busy working on my college applications. On top of the D1 schools that would be "highly aspirational, given everything's that's happened"—my college counselor Ms. Tina's diplomatic words—she had advised me to target some D2 and even D3 colleges given my need for substantial financial aid. So I'd been snowed under doing all that.

"Morning, Ags," Stanley says, nodding at the oven. "Saved you some buckwheat crepes."

"Thanks, D—Stanley," I say. I scarf them down, drenched in maple syrup and extra butter. Having the freedom to eat whatever I want is the only silver lining of this tragedy.

He clears his throat and I sigh internally. "So, I notice you've not been doing much ‘hanging out'"—he air-quotes this—"with your friends since you've resumed classes, though you've stopped using your crutches last Friday."

"Hmmmm," I say neutrally. He's not wrong. I wake up, go to school, stay at the library, studying, before going home, where I study some more, sometimes going over to Zee's to study with her (Mas, the super tutor she's had since junior year, doesn't mind me joining Zee), then work on my college admissions. I barely see my family these days except in the mornings. I've been busy, but I've not been social the way I used to be.

"Is everything all right?" Stanley's voice is gentle.

I nod extra hard. "One hundred percent." Sure, sometimes I'm a teensy bit lonely, and sometimes I really miss running, but only when I think about it. That's why I'm trying so hard not to think about it. "Everyone's just really busy, especially me, especially with physio and college essays and, um, life."

"Hmm," Stanley says, watching me as he sips his coffee. "Hmm."

When Stanley does this, I immediately want to tell him all my secrets. Instead, I mirror him and say, "Hmm."

"You know you can tell me anything, and I promise to listen first, above all," he says after a while. "And if it's something you can't…Well, y'know, I can keep a secret if it isn't dangerous or harmful." He means from my mom, obviously. In the four years or so since he's entered our lives and changed everything for us, I've grown to trust him. But not enough to tell him my secrets.

I have walls everywhere, even at home.

I have no guarantee that he'll be able to keep something like "I'm lost, I'm really sad, I don't know what my life will be like in the future and I'm worried" from my mom. I can't risk setting off her depression, even when I know she's more or less gotten it under control, through meds and counseling, for years. I've seen what she was like, and I just can't go through it again.

My arms itch and I scratch them distractedly. "It's just senior-year stress. Exams and college applications, all that."

"Right." Stanley nods. "Just let me know if you need help in any of your classes at least. I can't guarantee that I'll be much help in geography or history, but I'm good with most of the science stuff."

"Science stuff?" I tease.

"And French," he says with a poker face.

"Thanks, Stanley." I reach over and hug him. I hug him with every ounce of me, to let him know I'm okay, even though I am not.

~

Two hours later I'm seated in the bleachers of the stadium, overlooking the corner of the field where the girls' sprint team is practicing drills. There's not a lot of people here. Just some helicopter parents, helpers, friends, and stragglers who want a place to be.

I watch them run and run and run.

Just that morning I had asked them out to boba. We used to do that, have a boba after Saturday practice, but they were noncommittal. Then I found out, through some basic social media sleuthing in one of the girls' Stories, that they were planning to go to Planet Bounce, a sports café with a trampoline park, after training for some fruit shakes and trampoline time.

I love Planet Bounce. I love trampolines. I love fruit shakes. But they didn't even ask if I wanted to come, even if they thought I could only stay for fruit shakes. I'm no longer relevant to my teammates.

It's hard to be up here, on the bleachers, and not down there. Before I can stop myself, I'm crying silently while trying not to look like I'm crying, which is a skill I have never mastered. I stuff my knuckles into my mouth to stop my lips from trembling and pull the bill of my cap as far down as it can go.

"Hey," a voice says awkwardly from a few rows away.

I jump three feet into the air, squeaking, wiping my face hastily before I turn around to face the unwelcome intruder to my misery.

It is Taslim, of course. Somehow, we always catch each other at our worst, and I'm not here for it. We don't have the kind of relationship that makes being vulnerable in front of each other okay.

Do you even have anyone you can be vulnerable with?a voice says, unbidden, and I shut it down.

"Are you stalking me?" I say, even if it isn't true, but he's there looking immaculate in jeans and a polo the shade of avocados that bring out the golden sheen of his tan when I have snot in my nostrils.

"I'm stalking you?" he sputters. "Have you forgotten that you literally crashed my stand-up show? And you're still lurking in the group chat?"

I puff my cheeks at him. "Contrary to what you believe, you don't own comedy. It's a free country, still. Mostly. Sometimes. Anyway, why aren't you on the field practicing?"

"My coach is sick, so I went to the library to study for the first-semester exams. And then I realized I forgot something in the lockers so…Wait." He glares at me. "Why am I justifying myself? I have as much right to be here as you, if not more."

He crosses him arms and I do, too.

"Okay, I'm sorry," I mutter. "I'm just a little…on edge."

"You seem better," he says it like a statement, but he is watching me as though he meant it as a question.

"You mean the lack of crutches and cast?" A bark of laughter escapes me. "You of all people should know, for athletes, an injury like this goes beyond healing well enough to stand at a concert. I'm a runner, Taslim. I'm a really, really good one, too. Or rather, I was. I shouldn't be watching my teammates run—I should be running."

He bites his bottom lip, nods. "I've always admired your work ethic. You're a really passionate and, uh, uh, graceful athlete." His ears flame gently; maybe he's allergic to praising others.

"Thanks."

He hesitates before saying, almost to himself, "But don't you think you're more than just a runner?"

"As in, do I have other college-application-appropriate extracurricular activities? Well, I was on the choral speaking team that won district champion two years ago…but only because Ms. Xu was desperate when one of the girls fell sick, and she offered me extra credit for it. Oh yeah, I can cross-stitch really fast. But other than that—zero. And my grades are all right but not super, so my chances of getting an academic scholarship are slim, especially when there are so many better students than me."

"No, I meant don't you think you're so much more, as a person, than just a runner?"

I think about this but have no easy answers. My entire identity has always been wrapped up in sports. As a child, I was always the fastest in any class, and when I started winning primary school meets, the coach spoke to my mom about proper training. Running was an easy sport to get into. It didn't have much upfront costs. You just needed good shoes, and those weren't expensive if you could look beyond whether they were new or not. "I don't know who I am without this," I admit.

"I get it," Taslim says.

"You?" I scoff. "No, you don't, Taslim. You're one of those really annoying people who is good at everything you do, on top of your grades: javelin, chess, languages, math"—Taslim was a mathlete (not the best, but still)—"and violin. And even if you aren't especially gifted at something, if you wanted to succeed in something enough, your parents would get you the help to polish whatever kernel of talent you had. It's easy for you. Life is."

His jaw works for a while. His voice is strained, and he speaks slowly. "I don't deny that I have it easier than most. But I've had to work for things, too. Things you know nothing about."

"Sure," I say in a neutral voice.

Taslim gestures to the seat on the bleachers next to me, an eyebrow lifted, and I shrug. "It's a free country." He moves over. I admire the ease, the athleticism of him vaulting down from his row straight into the seat next to me in one fluid move. We watch my teammates practice, not exactly side by side, but close. The fabric of his polo brushes against my arm, and a shiver runs through me. I move away surreptitiously.

He clears his throat and shifts in his seat. "Listen, I've been meaning to, uh, I want to apologize for my behavior at stand-up, actually. I don't know what came over me, I'm usually not so much of a territorial asshole.…"

"It's true that you're not usually territorial."

He chuckles. "Okay. I deserve that, although usually is probably a stretch. I'm mostly really nice to you, aren't I?"

"So you say." I turn to face him. "You're hard to read."

"What do you mean?"

"You just are," I say, very eloquently. "Meaning, I think you're like one of those career politicians. You're superficially nice to everyone and you present this really ripple-free surface to everyone, but underneath all that still water, I just know there's riptides that will drown you."

"Whoa, um, project much?" he says, staring at me. "I think I can say the same about you, Ms. I Keep My Cards Close to My Chest."

"I'm very open," I say, folding my arms and narrowing my eyes. "It's just that, unlike you, I don't try to be nice to everyone."

"You sure don't," he agrees.

"Okay, what's your point?" I say, my temper flaring.

He raises his hands up in mock surrender. "Look, straight up—I'm sorry about how I was in that comedy club. That was not…that was not my finest moment." He fiddles with the hem of his polo. "You caught me at a vulnerable time: my first solo fifteen, which was a total mess, and it was the first time I ever saw anyone who knew me…well, as Royce, it was just disorienting, and it was you, and you know, you're so, um, intimidating. Anyway, I'm not making excuses for how I acted at all, don't get me wrong, I'm just…This is all to say—I'm sorry."

"I'm intimidating?" I say, confused. "Why? Is it my resting winner face?" I try it out on him.

Flushing, he averts his eyes and leans back in his seat. "Never mind."

He really has amazing lashes, I note. No wonder he can throw the javelin so well; they must provide shade against glare. My gaze slides to his pecs, which are very visible under the polo shirt in his reclining position. Wow, those are really…visible.

I force myself to think about sea cucumbers, then panic because of their phallic shape and think instead about the spiny sea urchins. Nothing sexy about sea urchins. Nothing. Well…unless you get to their soft insides.

I snap to attention and realize my eyes had been glued onto Taslim's pecs the whole time. I wrench them away and look at his eyebrows, which at best, I remind myself, resemble fuzzy caterpillars. "So, what do you think about the death penalty? Is it ever justified? Discuss!"

Taslim laughs, a sunny, wheezy laugh. "Oh, Agnes Chan," he says when he's recovered. "Every day with you is a privilege."

We look at the Flashes practice without further comment for some time.

Royce rakes his nails over an invisible smudge on his jeans. "Hey, I meant what I said before. I would love to tutor you. I mean, y'know…not love, but, like, like. I would be very open to, um, help you polish up your grades, and help with whatever I can, schoolwork, assignment-wise. If your GPA improves for a college you're wait-listed at, it could make the difference."

"That's…" I hesitate, fidgeting. "I don't want to—I mean, I do but…but, like, only if you'll let me pay you." I finish the last bit in a rush.

"Chan, the whole point of being a peer tutor is not to collect payment.…"

"I want to…I need to."

"Okay," he says gently. "I won't accept money or anything in kind, but you can, I don't know…" He makes his thinking face. "You play CounterFlash: Hardboiled?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

He chuckles. "Definitely not. What level are you?"

"I'm level seventy-three."

He sputters, "Holy shit."

"Yeah. I didn't have much to do in the first two weeks after I got injured."

"Great. Then pay me in CounterFlash game loot," he says. "One item. My pick of your stash."

I mentally scan my inventory. There's a couple of things there that are worth a big bunch of money and a couple of reasonably good finds—it's a gamble, depending on how greedy he wants to be. But I don't have anything else to trade with. I nod. "Sure."

We set a date for the following Thursday after school, which, if it goes well, would be followed by a second session on the Monday after that. We'd do two three-hour sessions a week at least. End-of-semester exams are in two months or so, and if I bust my butt, I can bump up my stubborn B in AP biology and algebra to an A? at least. It could make the difference, in the off chance I got accepted at one of my second choices.

A shout from the track team interrupts our little exchange, and we check out the commotion. The girls are taking a water break, and Suraya is showing everyone a clip on her phone that makes them burst into raucous laughter.

"I miss this," I say softly.

He turns to regard me. "What?"

"I…I…It's…" My eyes flood again and I drop my gaze. "It's just…I don't…Well, my friends…I haven't seen them much s-since the accident." My teammates had sent their condolences, via texts and a group-made card, but by and large, there'd been no invitations to hang out after class or practice, like we used to. "I miss them."

Admitting this brought home the situation to me. My eyes spill over and my throat closes, swallowing the rest of my speech. I bend over to fiddle with my laces.

"Well," Taslim says after a pause, "if they're any kind of friends, they'd be making more of an effort with you. I would."

I stay bent over my laces, trying to hide my tears, when I feel a hand on my shoulder. Taslim's. Warm and firm, lingering. I freeze and something happens to my legs, which have suddenly transformed into jelly. I try to speak, to tell him to take his hand off, but I can't. I don't. We stay in this awkward position for a while, the words unsaid between us written in our locked bodies.

"Take care, Chan," he says. I grunt in what I think is a friendly kind of way. Then I see his sneakers walk their way to the exit and leave.

I sit up, still shaky, and try to marshal control over my emotions. Breathe. Beat normally, I tell my heart. But my body doesn't obey me. I sink on to the bleachers, staring at my teammates, trying to process the tangled web of emotions unspooling in my stomach. Swallowing the ball of hurt in my throat, while battling an unfamiliar fluttery sensation in my stomach and the heat that flames up my cheeks, my neck, my back.

Then a text from an unknown number:

Hey, if you're finding it hard to, I don't know, just this whole situation…I'm here. You can talk to me. Anytime. Your friend, RT.

I pocket the phone, my face tingling. Royce Taslim, undisputed high school king of Dunia, just proclaimed himself my friend. Why was he being so nice to me, a nobody?