Page 80 of Okay, Cupid

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” he chuckles. “This just means I have to show you my favorite.”

“And what movie is that?”

“Ah-ah, no spoilers.”

“And I’m not the fun one?”

“You’re not,” he says to me. “I’ll show you, one day. Don’t make plans for Monday.”

“I already don’t have any.”

“Good. Can you bring me my homework?” he asks.

“Yeah, I can do that.”

That smile. “Good, I’ll see you then.”

“Okay.”

“Good night, Jude Ricci.”

“Good night, Huy Trinh.”

Against my better judgment, I keep my promise to Huy, gathering all his homework that following Monday so that I can deliver it to him. I shouldn’t, I know that. Not with everything going on, not with Huy and Alice being on the cusp of something special, not with the Valentine’s Day dance being just over a week away.

But he asked me to, and I can’t think of a good enough excuse to get Alice to do it.

I come close, during lunch. Saying that I have an appointment that I forgot all about, or that I really need to do my reading for English.

But I also know that I don’t have much time left.

Counting today, there are ten days until the dance, until this plan comes to fruition and the pieces of the puzzle connect. That’s ten days with all of them. Ten days of being their friend, of laughing with them at lunch, of stealing Alice’s hot fries and Neve begging us for a horror movie marathon. Ten days until I don’t get to do this anymore.

It doesn’t matter. That’s what I have to tell myself. Everything they know about me is under false pretenses. My entire life is a lie to them. Which makes me wonder if any of it was ever real.

Or was this all just one big act? Has my entire life been a performance?

Who am I really? I know that I like romantic comedies, and iced chai lattes from Starbucks. I love the mango bingsu from NaYa, and I like walking down to Baker Beach when it’s sunny out. I know that I love Cal and Leah and Richard, and that they’re the only family I’ve ever had. I know that I love doing my own makeup, and that it helps me see who I really believe that I am, at least on the outside.

I know all of this about myself, and more.

But is that really who I am?

Huy texted me his address last night so I know the way back, and I head there after school, the Walkman affixed to the outside of my pants pocket. Huy was right—this is very much a depression tape. So many people singing about their fathers, their boyfriends, their girlfriends, their dogs.

Still, I like most of the songs, even if they make my heart feel heavy.

The bus pulls into the stop on Balboa, and I backtrack toward Seventeenth Avenue to walk down to Cabrillo.

The Trinh house is actually a house, not an apartment. In the evening sun, I can see the three stories, by the looks of it, if you count the garage. And just like every other home around it, there’s no denying that it belongs in San Francisco, with the soft, almost mint-green siding, and the burnt-orange trim of the windows and doors.

The staircase to the front door spirals a bit, giving the Trinhs a rare front porch where a bench sits surrounded by lush winter plants that are able to survive the chilly air. I hit the doorbell, making sure to wipe my feet on the doormat that reads WELCOME!

The front door has this frosted glass inlaid in the middle, so as Huy approaches, I can make out this blurry vision of him, his olive-green hoodie giving him away. The door swings open, and there he is. His arm is wrapped carefully in bright white bandages and a black sling.