“It’s okay.”
Landon’s thumb moved down to my collarbone, feather-light strokes that gave me goose bumps.
“Homecoming is coming up. Isn’t it?”
I swallowed hard. My heart thumped.
“Yeah,” I squeaked.
I cleared my throat.
“So.”
“So?”
“Have you thought about... maybe... going together?”
“Um.”
I’d never thought about that before.
How did you ask another guy to homecoming?
How did anyone ever ask anyone to homecoming?
“Wow,” Landon said. He started to roll away from me.
“Wait,” I said. “It’s just, I’ve never gone to a dance before.”
“Never?”
“Not a school one. I’ve been to plenty of Persian dances before. But those are different.”
Landon chuckled.
“I guess... I never really thought about it before.”
“And now?”
My face felt like a fusion reactor.
“Do you want to go to homecoming with me?”
I said bye to Landon and then curled up on the couch with my new American Lit reading:The Chocolate War,which was even more of a let-down thanThe Catcher in the Rye.
We had to do an essay on its “themes,” which as far as I could tell were “people are awful and bullies always win.”
I yawned, marked my place, and went to make a bowl of matcha. I had fifty more pages to get through, and I knew I’d never make it without something to keep me awake and focused.
“Will you be able to sleep after all that matcha?” Oma asked as I sieved the emerald powder.
“I’ll fall asleep without it.”
“Is there any water left?”
“Yeah.”
Oma made a pot of Genmaicha while I whisked my matcha. I used the M-method, just like Mr. Edwards taught me, moving the chasen—the bamboo whisk—in the shape of an M to get the optimal froth, though I threw in an occasional sweep around the circumference of the bowl to grab any particles I might have missed.
