I might have a heart attack. Actually, I may faint like I’m a woman in a Victorian drama. Because I’ve just had my first conversation with Joe Yang. Sure, it’s over text, but it still counts.
No more excuses. I’m going to write that essay for Newspaper Club, and it’s going to be incredible. Better than anything I’ve written on my blog, that’s for sure. These words willsing. They willmovepeople. They willchange lives!
But—oh. What do I write about?
From the living room, Dad strums another chord, the wailing permeating through my door. I laugh. What a goofball. I shouldn’t have been so hard on him earlier. He’s trying something new, just like me.
Maybe if I rock out with him for a bit, an article topic will pop into my brain. Besides, I could use a break before starting homework.
I’m about to toss my phone onto my bed when it buzzes again, but the notification tells me it’s only Patrick. Whatever he wants, it can wait. I need to fill my soul with yacht rock in order to become inspired.
I’ve got an award-winning article to write, after all.
TWENTY
Sara
“—and listen to your teacher!” Dad’s saying as I’m leaving for school the next morning.
“I always do. I’m a perfect angel,” I call over my shoulder.
When I joined him in the living room yesterday, he taught me a few chords to Queen’s “Crazy Little Thing Called Love.” Once I got the hang of it, he swayed his hips and waved his hands high in the air as if pretending he was front row at a concert. He’s happiest when he’s listening to his favorite music and, as corny as he may be, I love that he’smydad.
We never get the chance to bond anymore, not with his hectic work schedule and my after-school tutoring sessions, so I enjoyed his impromptu lesson.
Now that I’m older, he gets stumped on how to connect with me. It’s not like he can propose a zoo day or schedule a playdate—I’m not six. But I appreciate that he tries. Even when I’m in a bad mood, I know he makes a conscious effort to hang out with me, all because he cares. Once he googled a plethora of K-pop stars and brought them up at dinner, asking me my opinions on each person. It was really funny, and I ended up educating him for an entire hour.
After we jammed together last night, I went back to my room inspired. That was when I decided to write an article about the local music events happening at our community center. I found a list of concerts online and researched all the artists involved, then I pulled together an entertaining article, making sure all my sentences were clear, concise, and polished—though I did add my own Sara Lin flair. That’s important, I’ve learned. Having a point of view in your writing and using creativity to make it your own. You have to get the message across—the who, what, when, where, why—but you also don’t want to sound like a total snoozefest.
Anyway, I think I succeeded.
“Sara Lin?”
I yank my key from the lock and swivel around. There, right before my very eyes, is none other than Joe Yang.
My throat shrinks, its pathway as narrow as a straw. “Joe?”
I can’t help but gape as I look up at him. What is he doing here? How does he even know where I live? Oh my gosh—did he text Rose to find out? Maybe he came all this way to walk me to school. I try not to audibly swoon at this thought.
He grins that brilliant megawatt smile. “I can’t believe you live across from me.”
Uh—what? Across from him? Or does he mean diagonally across from him in the other apartments on the opposite side of my hall?
As I try to slot these puzzle pieces together, he just stares at me. Right. This is a conversation. I have to saysomething.
“Uh, yeah.” I release an awkward laugh. “So, uh—strange!”
“Hey, you wanna walk to school together?” He adjusts his backpack straps. “I’m just waiting for my little brother. He’ll be out in a sec.”
Aw, that’s so cute. I wonder if he goes to the elementary school a few blocks over, the one I went to before attending Eagle Gate. Of course Joe would walk him there—because he’s kind and noble and generous.
“You have a brother?” I say, then resist the urge to slap a palm to my forehead. Hejustsaid that.
Joe doesn’t seem to notice. “Yeah, his name’s Oliver.”
It’s suddenly thirty degrees hotter in the hallway. My face flares, skin reddening. Perspiration gathers on the back of my neck.
No, no, NO! How could this happen? Joe lives with Oliver. Oliver, his brother.
