bullet goes wide, nicking the frame of the door.
Making a face, she hands me the gun.
I line up the sight. Boom. Direct hit on Mat’s left eyebrow. “The less we see of his features, the better he looks, don’t you agree?”
“I really don’t think you’re appreciating the significance of this,” my sister says. “I mean, you may not have a crush now, but what about later? Just sayin’, dances are a lot more fun if you go with someone. You could have study dates! Attend parties at the lake! The possibilities are endless. All you have to do is play along, and before you know it, you could have the high school life we always coveted.”
I fire off a succession of shots. Ear, cheek, upper lip. Boom, boom, boom.
Behold the champion of the Nerf Gun Battle. I am unbeatable!
Bunny puts her hand on the rifle, pushing it down. “Listen. You could be the first Tech girl to date in high school. An experience Ari and I never had.”
This stops me. Not once in my life have I ever walked on territory that my sisters haven’t already trampled.
“I’ll convince Mama to choose someone else,” I say. “There’re plenty of guys I could practice dating with. Every last one of them nicer, cuter, and more pleasant than Mat.”
Bunny beams. “That’s the spirit! And if you need any more motivation, he’s waiting right down these stairs.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
She grabs my black corduroy skirt off the floor and throws it at me. “Get dressed. And I’ll show you.”
Chapter Three
Ari is hardly ever wrong. It’s one of the most annoying things about her.
But tonight, she is wrong.
Because we haven’t met every Thai person in the greater Chicago metropolitan area. And the proof is standing right there, munching on an egg roll and talking to Ari.
Holy wow, he looks good. He’s about our age—maybe five six, preppy clothes, angelic smile. And judging from his melty brown eyes, worthy of the heroes in every Thai soap opera, he’s about to break every teenage heart from here to the temple.
Bunny and I creep along the wall, using the kaffir lime potted plants as cover. My sister bends at the waist, attempting to blend with the figure-eight green leaves. I do her one better and drop to my hands and knees.
“His name’s Taran, and his family just moved to Chicago,” Bunny murmurs above me. “We think he’s a senior in high school, but Ari’s confirming.”
I crawl forward. Interesting. What are the chances I can get Mama to replace Mat with this guy?
“What the phuk tong are you doing?” a voice says above me.
I freeze. I haven’t heard his voice in a month, since the last party I attended with my parents, but I’d recognize it anywhere. Probably because it makes a regular appearance in my nightmares.
I look up, and sure enough, it’s Mat, a ridiculous smirk on his ridiculous face. Even worse, Bunny is nowhere to be seen. What did he do? Send her scrambling for cover by his mere presence?
I rise stiffly to my feet. Ari insists that Mat’s profile is uncommonly attractive. All I know is that my feelings toward him are uncommonly violent.
“Seriously? Phuk tong?” I roll my eyes. “Phuk tong” is the Thai word for pumpkin, and it’s pronounced—you guessed it—uncomfortably like the f-word. “You sound like you’re in the second grade.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Ari and Mr. Short & Handsome retreat to the kitchen. Leaving me with Mr. Tall & Pukey.
“You look like you’re in the second grade,” he returns blandly. “Your tights are torn.”
I cross my arms. Do not glance down. Do not give him the satisfaction.
“I must’ve ripped them during the travel here,” I say breezily, my standard excuse for torn pantyhose.
“We’re at your house,” he says incredulously. “You tore them while walking down the stairs? More like, from crawling on the floor.”
What if he has a point? I’ll never admit it. “Surely you’ve got better things to do than stare at my legs.”
“Um.” He coughs into his hand. “At the risk of pointing out the obvious…that fault line is probably visible from the moon.”
I can’t resist any longer. I look down. Chib-peng, he’s right. The rip starts mid-thigh, winds around my knee, and then explodes in a starburst pattern.
“It’s the new look,” I say. “Kinda like fishnets. The holier, the better.”
“Sure it is.” His expression is knowing, superior. I wish I could punch him in the stomach. Maybe then he wouldn’t be