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Julius Gong. My cocaptain, and the most prominent source of pain in my life.
“That does sound like a very urgent matter. I fear the nation’s economy would collapse if you didn’t get your daily push-ups in.”
But money aside, I just feel like he’s sort of a red flag.” Abigail raises a hand in protest. “He is not—” “He has a literal red flag hanging in his car.”
Then I notice Julius watching me in my peripheral vision, and it’s like I’ve been zapped. Everything sharpens back into focus. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me struggle. I refuse to.
Abigail would affectionately refer to such behavior as my sociopathic tendencies.
“Um, there’s a vein in your temple that looks like it should be examined by a health professional.”
and then you go back and write your secret little emails about how much you hate my guts and wish to strangle me—” “It’s called being nice,” I cut in. “Yes, strangulation is very nice. Practically a peace offering.”
“You know what I think?” he murmurs, drawing so close his mouth skims my ear, his cruel face blurring in my vision. My breath catches. Goose bumps rise over my bare skin. “I think you’re obsessed with me, Sadie Wen.”
Abigail purses her lips. “Don’t panic—” I panic.
School tomorrow. The reminder hits me like a mallet to the stomach. I don’t know how I’m going to survive it.
Me too sadie, me too.
I’ve done it, I think to myself. I’ve discovered hell on earth, and it’s right here.
I wonder if he even remembers. I wonder if he keeps as clear a record of our every exchange as I do.
And she still doesnt know shes obsessed with him..?
Before I can make up my mind, he’s walking away. Not with his usual slow leopard’s stride, as if it’s a gift to mankind to simply see him in motion, but with purpose, like there’s somewhere he needs to be. Someone he needs to find.
“Oh, I know you. You’re the other captain, right? My little brother talks about you all the time.”
“And he’s always going on about how intimidatingly smart you are. How hard he has to work to keep up with you.”
Why would I ever give Julius a reason to reject me? Rejection is the most humiliating form of defeat. It’s losing the battle before it’s even begun. It’s lowering your weapon so they can spear you in the chest.
But my fingers itch the whole way home, and for the rest of day, as I close up the bakery and do my daily workout routine and finish my homework and brush my teeth, I can’t think about anything except him.
And trust me, they’re definitely going to want to come. They’d rock up to a serial killer’s house if there was the promise of free booze.” “That’s highly concerning. You realize that’s highly concerning, right?” She shrugs. “Just how it is.” “Also—” I pause. Frown. “I’m sorry, did you just compare me to a serial killer?” “No,” she says, with too much emphasis. “Although, just to put it out there, even if you were a serial killer, I would absolutely stick by you and sharpen your knives.” “How sweet.”
But I do remember coming home from school one afternoon and smelling lemon cake in the kitchen and sharing it with my mother on these new pretty porcelain plates she’d bought on discount. I remember a random Saturday from nine years ago, when Max and I tried to lure the ducks home with little bites of bread. I remember the face of an old woman I’d passed on the street, the precise floral patterns of her shirt, the dandelion sewn into her handbag, even though we never spoke and I never saw her again.
“I really can’t stand it when people are angry at me. Like, I know it might be simple for others, but I can’t focus on anything else. I can’t just forget about it and go on with my own life. It’s like there’s something hard wedged inside my chest. I’ll always feel guilty. I’ll always want to make amends.”
Because having one parent is enough. Until it isn’t.
And if I’m going to self-destruct, then why stop at kissing the enemy?
“Be quiet.” I clamp both my hands over his mouth. “You’re prettier when you don’t talk.”
“Because,” he says quietly, a curious expression on his face. I’ve never seen him so serious. So sincere. “You’re the only person worth paying attention to.”
this seems to be their favorite line. It’s not the end of the world. And maybe there’s some tiny grain of truth in it. Maybe I’ll grow up and change my mind a decade later.
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll run fast enough to make up for it.” “Could we please at least consider the idea of hitting me with a car?” she whines.
Now that I’m completely sober, it’s easy to dismiss it all as pure, physical attraction. It makes scientific sense.
Gazes back over at me, his eyes a fathomless black, the kind of darkness you could wade through forever and never reach the end.
“The one thousand meters, right?” I blink at him. “I’ll run it for you.” “Wait—what?” I massage my throbbing temples, willing myself to concentrate. To make sense of this. “I’ll be faster anyway,” he says with his usual disdain, like I’m slowing him down right now. But the smugness doesn’t spread to his eyes. He’s watching me, tentative, intensely focused. “No. Julius, you don’t have to—” “I’ll give you the medal as a present,” he says, already turning around. “Just wait.”
But I brush my thumb over the medal, and even though I can’t decide what it really means—a gift, a form of compensation, proof of something—it’s somehow one of the best things I’ve ever received.
“And Sadie is the light of my life,” Julius says, his lip curling, even though there’s an odd note to his tone. Something that could be confused for sincerity. “The sun in my sky, the source of all my joy. She’s the reason I wake up every morning excited to go to my classes. Not a day goes by where I’m not grateful that she exists, that she’s there, that I get to talk to her and pass her in the halls and listen to her laugh.”
“I remember when you used to at least pretend to be civil,” Julius remarks as he lifts the coffee cup in his hand to his lips. “You would offer me a terribly fake smile first, then come up with a long-winded way to remind me of the time, like: Is it just me, or has the school bought new clocks? The minute hand looks really different. Now you seem to have no problem criticizing me to my face. Real progress.”
“We’re meant to agree on a destination together. And I don’t agree with you right now.” “When have you ever?” he mutters.
“You realize there are at least five people in our year level who are scared of heights, right?” I ask. He doesn’t even bat an eye. “Then this is precisely what they need. Exposure therapy has been proven to work, hasn’t it?” “How can you be so—so callous?” I demand. “I’m not callous. You’re just soft.”
You literally need a helmet and a harness just to climb into bed.” “Which definitely solves the hooking‑up problem,” he says. “Don’t sound so certain. Some people are into that kind of thing.” He looks, briefly, stumped. Then he bites down on his lip, his shoulders shaking so hard he appears in danger of falling over. His voice is saturated with amusement when he slides forward again. Tilts his head at me. “Wow. I never pegged you as the type.” “Shut up,” I grumble. “I was just making a point.” “So was I.” “Your point isn’t convincing enough,”
He pulls up a website for an “affordable” five-star hotel in the city center; I remind him that it would only be affordable if the school sold drugs or donated all our kidneys, which leads us on a tangent about which teacher looks most like a potential drug dealer (we both settle on Mr. Kaye, and I observe how depressing it is that this is somehow the only thing we’ve managed to agree on so far).
The torture is over. These are the last words Julius speaks to me in over a month.
It’s not exactly raining, but every now and then a dark cloud passes, and a few measly drops of water will dampen the cement. Like the sky can’t make up its mind.
The definition of london weather.. lol.
My mom’s headed off early to meet with an accountant, leaving Max and me here to watch over the bakery. Well, I’m watching over the bakery. Max is watching a basketball game on his phone and munching on an egg tart.
After ten minutes of this, I lose my patience. “Are you here to select bread or a future wife? What’s taking so long?” His smile is sharp, taunting. “The latter.”
Golden sunlight filters through the windows, warm slants of it falling over the table where Julius and Max sit. Not that I’m looking their way often. Not that I’m sneaking curious glances at Julius or noticing the way he runs his hand ever so casually through his hair. Definitely not.
“He’s into you,” Max remarks from behind me. I startle. “Excuse me?” “He kept looking over at you,” he says with a little grin. “At least thirty times. I counted.” “I didn’t know you could count that high,” I say dryly, to hide my speeding pulse. “I’m serious. Honestly you could do worse. He’s athletic, like you, and he’s tall, and good-looking—”
“I don’t ever let her do anything,” Julius snaps, and even in the dim light, I can make out the shape of his knuckles when he clenches his fists. “She’s smart, okay? She’s a formidable force. She does everything she sets her mind to and nothing can stand in her way. Not even me.”
“You don’t have to explain yourself. Let me ask you this: Do you think about him a lot?” “Not, like, a lot . . .” “Your voice always gets squeaky when you’re lying,” she points out. “This isn’t going to work if you’re not honest.”
“Like in the mornings, when I’m about to enter the classroom, I do . . . wonder about him. My heart speeds up, and I’m irrationally angry when I do see him, but on days when he’s not there, I’m also disappointed. And every now and then—just like every few minutes or so—I might be curious about what he’s doing. And after we talk, I always go back and overanalyze everything he’s said, and what I’ve said. I want to leave a good impression. I want to be better than him, but I also want to impress him . . .”
That moment when a book matches feelings to text
“Oh my god,” she says hoarsely. Repeats it over and over in a hundred different variations, like she’s trying to reinvent the phrase. “Oh my god, oh my god. Oh. My god. Oh my god—” “At this rate you’re literally going to call God down to earth,” I hiss, pressing a hand to my burning face.
“Right.” She pauses. “About those emails—” “Like, would you ever want to be with someone who once expressed to you, clearly, in written text, that they would rather listen to someone perform slam poetry about corporate income taxes in an auditorium without ventilation on the hottest day of summer while a baby plays tug‑of‑war with their hair from behind than have to sit through your speech for school captain again?”
“Tell him? Tell him what? Oh, hi, I know we’ve hated each other’s guts for a decade and you find me insufferable, but I think we should make out.” “It’s a pretty convincing pitch,” she says.
I chew the flesh of my cheek
What is with her chewing her cheek and tounge and lips like what..?
There’s a trick to writing a good history essay. Most people assume that you start with the contention. You read the prompt and instantly form your stance on something, like whether the sansculottes in the French Revolution ought to be considered a mob, and then you search through your memory for evidence to back yourself up: quotes from famous historians, dates, statistics. But I always start with the evidence first. I go through the information I already have, the facts I find the most compelling, that will most likely stand out to an examiner. Only after that do I pick my argument.
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