Bitter Melon (14 page)

She does have a point.

“There’s only one way to know for sure,” Theresa says. “Observe it scientifically. See how he acts towards you in class this afternoon. Then see how he acts the next time others are around.”

“Kind of like an experiment,” I say, admiring Theresa’s social acumen.

“Well, more like a correlational study,” Theresa says. “Technically, it’s not an experiment, because you can’t control all the variables.”

I return to St. Augustine’s with a mission to be a better scientist. Instead of observing mice in a cage, I am observing humans in their natural habitat. I catch the early bus this time so that I can get there before Derek does. I’m manipulating a variable. If I get there first, Derek must choose whether to sit next to me or in some seat farther away. At first, I sit in my usual seat. Then it occurs to me that if Derek sits next to me, it could mean that he
wants to be near me or that he is just sitting in his favorite seat out of habit. So I move to a seat a couple of rows over.

Ten minutes later, Derek enters the room. He walks to his seat and then looks surprised to find that I am two seats over. He walks to the back of the classroom and proceeds up the row next to mine. I pretend not to notice, making myself busy organizing things in my backpack. When I am done, Derek is in the seat to my left. There is something on my desk. It’s a copy of the notes from the classes—three total—that I missed while practicing with Ms. Taylor prior to the competition. The notes are typed. On top of the notes is a folded sheet of paper. I unfold it and find a note written in jagged, slanted blue ink.

I run my fingers over Derek’s words as if reading Braille. He presses hard into the paper when he writes. I fold the paper over and write:

Unlike Derek’s handwriting, mine is light, small, and round. I fold the paper again, and when Mr. Engelman turns to face the board, I slip it onto Derek’s desk. Derek opens it and reads. A faint smile appears on his lips. He refolds the paper, writes something on it, and folds it again. Several minutes later, when
Mr. Engelman’s back is turned to us again, Derek slips it back to me. I open it.

Below that is a phone number. Then, below that, it reads:

I fold his note and write my phone number on it before folding it one more time. I wait for Mr. Engelman to turn to the board again before passing it back to Derek. He opens the note, reads it, and chuckles. What’s so funny? He writes something in his notebook; then he writes something on the paper. He folds it again and returns the note. It says:

I blush. I passed his number back to him. How stupid!

Mr. Engelman finishes writing on the board and turns to face us again. We both look down and stifle a laugh.

After class, we gather our things and walk out together. As we proceed down the hallway, a friend of Derek’s approaches him. He has shiny black hair, fair skin, and silver-framed glasses. He looks Chinese. He’s as lean as Derek but several inches shorter.

“Hey, dude, where’ve you been?” he says to Derek. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Immediately, Derek turns from me and starts walking away with his friend. The two tease each other as they walk down the hallway. My first impulse is to feel hurt. Then I remember Theresa’s interpretation of his actions. At the bus stop, I pull out the sheet of paper that we passed between us, now folded into sixteenths. I open the note, read our dialogue backwards, and mentally re-create every facial expression. If what Theresa says is true, then his turning away from me is actually a good sign. He wouldn’t mind introducing me to his friend if he didn’t have feelings to hide.

A strong gust of wind threatens to blow the paper out of my hand, but I cling to it. I run my cold fingers over Derek’s handwriting, as if they can read something that my eyes missed.

Derek and I sit next to each other for the duration of Princeton Review. We don’t say much to each other. Our communication consists mostly of charged smiles, nods, and waves. The following day, I report every smile, nod, and wave to Theresa, who patiently shares my enthusiasm, though the news is almost the same every time.

On the last day of Princeton Review, Theresa points out that I probably won’t see Derek again until the next speech tournament, which will be in December. Even then, our interactions won’t be the same, especially if Diana continues competing. Usually, I’m in a rush after class to gather my things so I can
catch the earliest bus home. Tonight, however, I take my time getting ready. Derek seems to do the same. After I’ve packed my last item, I pause, hoping that Derek will offer to walk me to the bus stop. But he says nothing. Defeated, I’m about to leave when he says, “How are you getting home?”

“I’m taking the bus,” I reply. “Why?”

“It’s dark out.” He says this with disapproval, though it has been dark after class for the last few weeks. “Need a ride?”

I picture Derek explaining to his mother why she should go out of her way to chauffeur me. “It’s too much trouble,” I say.

“I don’t mind.”

My heart starts pounding. “Okay. Thanks.”

As I follow him outside, I marvel that after a month of knowing each other, we are finally having a real conversation. I am also marveling that he is walking beside me. He isn’t hiding his friendship with me from the world. It’s chilly outside but not cold enough to justify how much I am shivering. I expect him to wait at the curb for his mom, but instead, he leads me to a small black BMW sports car in the campus parking lot. The license plate says
COLLINS 3.
He opens the passenger door and waits.

My jaw drops. “Uh … you’re driving?” I ask.

“How else am I supposed to get you home?” he asks, obviously puzzled by my question.

Dumbfounded, I get inside. Derek’s car has that new-car smell. The dash is still shiny. Derek closes the passenger door and gets in on the other side. As he tosses his book bag towards
the backseat, the warm scent of fabric softener once again fills my nose.

“How did you get such a nice car?” I ask.

“My dad bought it for my sixteenth birthday,” he replies. “So, where do you live?”

“Thirty-second and Balboa.”

Derek pulls out of the parking lot. His car is much quieter and smoother than Ms. Taylor’s, even quieter and smoother than Nellie’s. Instead of heading towards Golden Gate Park, which is the shortest way, Derek heads towards the ocean. Unlike Theresa, whose driving style is very cautious, Derek drives about five miles over the speed limit. The whole time, I am stunned that I am sitting in this luxury vehicle. I am even more stunned that Derek is driving it in such a matter-of-fact manner.

We proceed north along the Great Highway. To our left, the waves from the ocean are glowing white under the streetlights.

“How come you’re going this way?” I ask.

“I like this route,” he says. “I like the view. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, it’s great,” I say eagerly.

“There’s a really good restaurant up the hill called the Seacliffe. You can look out the window while you eat, and it feels like you’re hovering over the ocean. But you probably already know that.”

I nod, though I had no idea there was a restaurant there at all. The closest I have come to the ocean is about 42nd Avenue, where there are Chinese shops and restaurants.

“We should go sometime,” Derek says.

My heart skips a beat. Then I sternly remind myself of what happened the last time I let myself misconstrue his friendliness for something more meaningful.

“Thanks,” I say, changing the subject. “Not just for the ride, but also for helping me out at the competition.”

“I didn’t do much,” Derek says. “Ultimately, it was you who defeated Sally Meehan. Actually, I’ve never seen anyone overcome her tactics as well as you did.”

“How about you?” I say, oozing with admiration, against my will. “She doesn’t faze you at all.”

Derek turns right onto Balboa. Our weight shifts backwards, because the hill is steep. Suddenly, it occurs to me that Mom is probably home. What if she is looking out the window when Derek pulls up? Besides, I don’t want Derek to see where I live. He probably lives in a mansion. How would he feel about my dingy apartment? I watch the street signs as we pass them: 46th Avenue, 45th, 43rd, and so on. With each passing street, we get closer and closer.

As we approach 34th, I say, “Can you drop me off here?”

“Here? But this is Thirty-fourth. I thought you lived on Thirty-second.”

“I know, but I need to get out here.”

“Why?”

“Because.” As if that could explain everything.

Though Derek is confused, he pulls over. As I open the car door, Derek says, “Wait. Are you going to the dance tomorrow?”

Dance
. That word takes me back to when I copied my notes for him. The words
dance
and
abstinence
flash before my eyes.

“I’m planning on being there,” Derek says. “It’d be nice to see you.” The light inside the car illuminates our faces.

“It’d be nice to see you and Diana,” I say, emphasizing “Diana.”

“Well, actually … Diana and I aren’t together anymore.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” I look away so that he can’t see my face.

“It’s okay. I mean, it’s for the best.” Derek tries to look sad, but he can’t quite pull it off. “So … can you make it?”

I want to jump up and say yes, but immediately, my mother’s voice booms between my ears.
No distractions … No socializing or running around with boys
.

“Well, I don’t know,” I say. “I’ll have to see.”

Derek’s face falls. “Oh. Okay. Well … it was nice having class with you. I guess I’ll see you at the next speech tournament.” He keeps his eyes on the steering wheel as he says this.

I reluctantly step out of the car and walk towards my apartment. I listen for the sound of Derek’s car pulling away, but all I hear is his engine humming. It fills me with a pained happiness. He’s lingering to watch me for just a few seconds more.

As I approach my apartment, I look up at my second-story window. Fortunately, the blinds are down. But just as I think that, my mother yanks them up in one brisk motion. Her black
silhouette is outlined by the light from the kitchen. Though I can’t see her face, I can feel her hawk eyes peering down at me. Can she see Derek too?

Nervously, I look behind me. Derek’s car is gone. Breathing a sigh of relief, I hurry to the security gate like a mouse running for cover.