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“I like it,” I say. “Makes me want to headbang.”

“Did that a lot while writing it,” Jase says. “Pretty pissed the whole two weeks I was suspended.”

“You were suspended?” I try to hide the shock in my voice, which I hope isn’t exposed on my face.

“Yup, I hated my bio teacher, and so did my girlfriend at the time. We graffitied Mr. Dick-Son all over his desk. We put that minus thingy between ‘dick’ and ‘son.’”

By “minus thingy,” Jase must mean a hyphen. It’s juvenile to graffiti school property, so I should probably shake my head, but like a juvenile, I almost fight off a snicker. What stops me, however, is the fact that Jase has had a girlfriend. Of course someone as charismatic and handsome as him has been in a relationship, yet it still hurts thinking about it. What hurts more is that he probably likes rebellious girls like the Bonnie to his Clyde in his graffiti scandal. He won’t be interested in a goody-two-shoes like me. Then again, that may be for the best since my parents would never approve of a boy with a suspension on his record, let alone with Fs on his report card.

“But my ex had to brag about it, so of course she got caught and ratted me out. We got suspended, and for the whole two weeks, I wrote that song.”

“And you were mad that whole time.”

“Yeah, I was mad because I got myself in trouble. My ex called me out, but I still sprayed graffiti on our bio teacher’s desk. A couple of days later, my little bro wrote all over his teacher’s desk, which the school counts as graffiti, and he got in trouble. So I let out all my anger in that song.”

“I can hear that.” I hand him back his phone.

“Well, it’s your turn.” As soon as I stand up, Jase teases, “You’re not going to show me first?”

He’s impatient, which gives me more reason to say, “The couple over there gets to see first.”

Jase groans. “But I’m right here.”

“I like building the suspense.”

“I don’t like buildup or suspense.”

I smirk and cross through the restaurant, passing by the bar area, where, behind it, are chalkboards hanging against the wall, the menu written across them. It’s become easier to talk to strangers, especially now that I come prepared with a greeting—introduce myself, explain situation, then ask if I can show them a photo. Unlike passing water cups in the waiting room, the answer is usually yes. This elderly couple is no exception. They tell me exactly what they like and even ask me questions about my still-life photo of my mom’s palayok.

I show Jase this same photo, adding that I took it in my backyard during golden hour. As always, he asks me questions, one being, “What made you take this in the sunlight?”

“I wanted to experiment with natural light,” I explain.

Jase reads the Instagram caption like it’s a description beside a painting in a museum. “What’s your connection with the palayok? How does it represent something that makes you unique?”

“In the Philippines, people use a palayok to cook. Being Filipina is part of who I am. This guy Nora dated invited us to a party with beer and a keg. I told him I don’t drink because underage drinking is illegal, then he said, ‘No offense, but you’re a goody-two-shoes.’ But I didn’t understand how that would offend me.”

“Being called a goody-two-shoes doesn’t offend you?”

“Nope. I don’t see what’s wrong with being one. I don’t get in trouble, and I save myself from any damage or punishment. Plus, I like being good.” I point at the palayok, which is tinted with soft light. “The palayok is still in great shape, no damage or cracks on it. Like being Filipina, being a goody-two-shoes makes me stand out.”

Jase nods, impressed. His smile looks softer for reasons I can’t figure out. “It does.”

After we finish up our breakfast, I ask, “Let’s practice my presentation?”

“Of course.”

I pull out my binder and finger through the front flap. Not there. I flip to the back, checking the flap there. Nothing. I leaf through my binder pages. Maybe my photo stuck to one of them. Not there, there, or there. I shuffle through my tote bag, rummaging through my notebooks, then fish through the bottom. My hand catches a thin piece of paper, and I pull it out. It’s just my index card.

“Is everything okay?” Jase asks.

“I can’t find my photo,” I say, rummaging through my bag again. Jase bends down and helps me dig through my bag. He takes out my notebooks so it’d be easier for us to find my photo. Still not there. We flip through my notebooks, then try my binder again. With every turn, I nearly rip out the pages, my palms drenching with sweat. My brain spins while my stomach drops. Where could it be?

My mind flashes to last night when I was practicing my presentation.

Crap.

“I left it in my sister’s senior-year yearbook,” I say out loud.