Chapter 1 - I'll Be a Home for You

a tall, nerdy boy who looks like he’s never talked to a girl before will save me

(i miss him)

(he can rot in hell for all i care)

JJ

He doesn’t acknowledge my existence.

But that’s how it’s been for a year now—same old, same hurt. I’m sitting to the left of my ex best friend in our guidance counselor’s office. The desk in front of me is bare except for a computer and an anatomically inaccurate heart plushie sitting on top of the monitor.

I drum my fingers against my thigh, mentally going over last year’s cheerleading routine to relax. One, three, five, seven. Where’s Ms. Foster? We’ve been waiting for over thirty minutes.

I glance at the clock. It’s 7:05.

Oh. I tap my other thigh.

We’ve been waiting for five minutes.

I push off the chair and shoot Aang a look. His gaze has not left his phone since we sat down. Which was apparently only five minutes ago. I wander the office to the muted hum of a printer next door. It’s probably producing schedules for the new school year. I adjust my loose pink T-shirt, tied at the back with an elastic band, so that it just barely covers my belly button. No need to get dress-coded on the first day of junior year.

I beat my open palm against my arm. One, three, five, seven. The first cheerleading training of the year is in four days. I have until then to ensure I’m still a flyer despite my summer growth spurt. Fine, maybe, barely two inches doesn’t count as a growth spurt in a traditional sense, but it can make or break whether I get the position assigned to the shortest people on the team.

I circle the office, my wide jeans swooshing around. What are my options?

Cut off my feet. Shave off the top of my skull. Recruit a guy.

The last one seems the hardest to achieve. Over the past week, I’ve texted over twenty male classmates, starting with my ex-boyfriend, Brad, and not a single one was available or willing to join the cheerleading team.

I grab my blond boho braids, and it takes every bit of my self-restraint not to pull on them. They look too pretty against my brown skin. And the extensions weren’t cheap.

I need a distraction until Ms. Foster gets here. Otherwise, the hair in my fists will become the first casualty of my impending breakdown.

I spin to face Aang, letting go of my braids.

I haven’t talked to him in a year. Might as well start now.

I sit back down in the chair and glance at his phone. He’s reading a recipe for Hong Kong style claypot rice. I didn’t know he was capable of reading things other than essays on breakthrough mathematical theories.

His black hair grew out over the summer and now sweeps across his forehead and glasses. In a universe where we’re still friends, I’d tell him that it frames his face nicely.

My stomach knots.

This is not that universe.

“Why’s your hair so long? Math camp didn’t have a hairdresser?” I ask.

His lips purse, but he doesn’t look up. I shouldn’t be surprised, but my stomach knots harder.

He’s still so lanky, his upper body swallowed up by his loose black T-shirt.

Wait. I squint. What is that? His arm that’s closest to me, curled up, holding the phone. Is that a bicep? The realization lodges itself in every crevice of my brain as I try to shake it away. Deeply unnecessary fact to be aware of.

Before I can come up with another question for him to ignore, Ms. Foster stumbles in, juggling a tower of papers, binders, and a coffee cup. “Sorry for being late!” she gasps, breathless. “Thank you for agreeing to have this meeting together.”

The email she sent didn’t make it sound like there was a choice involved. It was either a joint meeting to discuss college applications or no meeting at all.

She drops the stack of papers on the desk and plops down on her chair. The stack of papers is so tall that only half her face is visible. “Our senior guidance counselor quit yester—no—two days ago?” She rubs her temples. “Either way, I’m now in charge of every single grade.”

Before the implications of this sentence fully set in, she moves the stack of papers aside and meets our eyes. “Let’s get you two juniors over with. Be efficient.”

And that is when Aang speaks for the first time since we entered the office. “Mathematics at Stanford is still the plan. I’m the Mathletes captain for the second year in a row, and I aim to win Mathletes Nationals in March. I want to know what else I need to do this year to boost my application.”

So the plan he’s talked about since the first day of high school hasn’t changed. Memories of our conversations flood my brain against my will.

Ms. Foster nods at him and turns to me. “How about you?”

I sit up straighter, willing the echoes of our friendship away. I cough, focusing on making sure the correct accent leaves my mouth. “I’m applying to Columbia for pre-med. I’m still on the varsity cheerleading team and …” I glance at Aang. His eyes are trained on Ms. Foster. “I’ll have the highest GPA in our grade this year. What else should I be focusing on?” And because it’s muscle memory, I add the old jab. “Being Ivy League, Columbia’s standards are probably different compared to schools in California. Northern California, specifically.”

Aang’s head whips toward me. The joke used to earn me a laugh. Now, fury oozes from his black eyes, his dark-rimmed glasses not softening the expression. But he’s finally looked at me, so I count it as my victory.

Ms. Foster takes a long drink from her coffee cup. “Your commitment to routinely seeking my opinions has been nothing but a bright spot in my career at this high school.”

English might not be my first language, but the sarcasm is hard to miss.

“The rest of the year will be hectic with the seniors, so I’m giving you advice now, and I’m asking you to be more independent this year. Okay?” She looks between us.

We nod in agreement. I bet she’ll miss my monthly emails debating the merits of biochemistry versus biomedical engineering for pre-med undergrad.

She addresses me first. “Ms. Johnson.” She uses only my dad’s Nigerian surname. She cannot pronounce my mom’s Polish one, so she always skips it.

Good.

JJ Johnson sounds more American than Józefina-Ibifubara Wyróżnicka-Johnson.

Guilt rises in me, but I push it down. Her pronunciation of Wyróżnicka would have been abysmal, so no point in bringing it up and reminding everyone I’m not from here.

“Cheerleading will make for a great personal essay. But you need to show yourself off academically outside of your GPA. You were in Mathletes freshman year. Why don’t you rejoin? Medical schools look favorably on strong mathematicians. And I heard the math club is planning on winning Nationals this year.” She smiles at Aang.

The suggestion hits like a bucket of ice water.

Rejoin Mathletes? That’s not an option. The guy next to me, clutching his phone, made sure of that.

“Ms. Foster, as much as I’d like to do that”—I force a smile—“the schedule overlapped with cheerleading last year, and I’m sure that’s also the case this year.” If Aang can help it, that is.

“Let’s check.” She turns to her computer, and the sound of keyboard clacking fills the room. “This year, the two clubs aren’t even on the same day. Cheerleading is on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, and Mathletes is on Wednesdays and Fridays. You can do both, and it would be great for your application. Mathletes should be delighted about you rejoining. Right, Mr. Lau?”

I hold in my snort. Aang will drop dead before inviting me back to the club.

I wrap a braid around my finger. Rejoin Mathletes? I enjoyed it. I was good at it. And Ms. Foster has given me a way back in. But I don’t know how much fun it’d be with him alternating between ignoring me and pretending I don’t exist.

At the same time … Columbia pre-med in New York has been my goal since I landed in this country two years ago, exactly a week before my freshman year.

And it would annoy Aang. Another win.

My braid slips through my fingers. “Ms. Foster, thank you so much for the brilliant idea.” I plaster on my brightest cheerleading smile. “I’m nothing but thrilled at the prospect of rejoining Mathletes.”

I bask in Aang’s shocked expression. More of those to come this year, I’m sure.

“That’s great, Ms. Johnson!” She claps. “Now, you, Mr. Lau—what are your interests outside of math? Yes, academic achievements are important, but everyone applying will have those. What will make the admission officers remember you?”

Aang shakes his head. “I don’t understand. Why do I need to do something non-math-related? Stanford should appreciate my laser focus.”

Ms. Foster sighs like she’s had this conversation many times. “At the end of the day, Stanford’s looking for unique personalities. What would make you stand out?”

The room goes silent as Aang visibly racks his brain for an answer. He adjusts his glasses, his bicep flexing, and I dart my gaze away. My mind has more crucial matters to expend its energy on. Like figuring out how not to get demoted from my flyer position.

My hand travels to my hair to attempt a pull but freezes by my ear.

He’s a guy.

My braids hit my face when my head flies back toward Aang. He’s tall. He’s disciplined and hard-working. And he’s started exercising. Allegedly.

Well …

Here goes nothing.

“You could join the cheerleading team.”

He blinks at me. “What?”

“You. Could join. The cheerleading team,” I repeat.

He snickers. “Why on Earth would I do that?”

“Joining the cheerleading team as a guy makes you more interesting. It shows you have a unique hobby outside of math.” My voice gets high-pitched as my brain races for more arguments. “We won State last year, and we’re going to win Nationals this year, so that’d be another win for your college resume.” I lean forward, grabbing the armrest of his chair. “And Stanford has a co-ed cheerleading team!”

He gawks at me like I’ve lost my mind, but Ms. Foster beams like I’m a genius. “This is an excellent idea! And we already know the two don’t clash!”

“But I’m not joining cheerleading!” Aang’s lips press into a thin line as my hands clutch his chair harder. He leans away from me. “What a ridiculous suggestion.”

Ms. Foster narrows her eyes. “Mr. Lau, cheerleading is an incredibly demanding sport that deserves more respect than it’s currently receiving.”

“But—”

“I told Ms. Johnson what she could do, and without hesitation, she agreed.”

“But—”

“You can think about it and take the advice or not. But please come back here next time as seniors.”

And with that, we get kicked out of her office.

Aang speedwalks away from me before I even open my mouth.

Irritation bubbles up. He needs to stop acting like I’m the only one who did something wrong last year.