American Panda(29)

Unsure how to respond, I fumbled in my bag for something—anything.

The shuttle lurched to one side, throwing me against a stranger. The guy glared at me despite my apology, and Darren squeezed closer, using his body as a barrier between me and the disgruntled student.

I secretly hoped for another lurch, but none came.

We followed posters for “The Lecture Series Committee” to 26-100, the largest lecture hall on campus. As we took our seats, Billy acted as if we were attending opening night of a Broadway show. I squirmed to make sure I was still in the wooden lecture seats, not cushy velvet.

Ouch.

Billy patted Penny’s knee like an excited child. “I’ve been hearing about all this MIT stuff for forever from my bro, and I can’t believe I get to do it all myself now.” Penny rolled her eyes playfully, like she’d already heard him say this a thousand times. He rubbed his palms together. “I’m ready to yell. I hope the picture cuts out or something.”

There were a few hundred people spread across the stadium seating. The lights dimmed and the front brightened as the projector flipped on. A few patrons whooped.

Giant letters appeared on the screen, and a male voice announced over the speakers, “Coming soon . . .”

The entire audience (except me) yelled, “IN STEREO!”

I looked around, wondering momentarily if they had all been possessed. The audience chuckled together.

As a trailer for next week’s screening came on—an action flick—the sound cut out. Explosions continued to fill the screen but in silence.

Someone from the far right of the room yelled, “L-S-C!”

“SUCKS!” yelled three hundred people.

“L-S-C!”

“SUCKS!”

The chanting continued among other chatter. “It’s the first showing of the season, damn it. We’re only one trailer in!” “C’mon, projector guy! Get your shit together!”

I pictured the projectionist flailing around his tiny space, driven more frantic by the taunts.

“Give him a break! He’s doing his best!” I yelled. I had tried to project, but my voice only reached a couple rows around me.

“It’s a tradition here,” Darren explained, his eyes slightly wide with . . . surprise? Amusement? “LSC has been around since the forties, when technology still kinda sucked. Whenever the film used to have problems, everyone would shout so that the projection guy would see and fix it. I think now they make mistakes on purpose just so we can yell—or at least that’s what Billy’s brother says. It’s lighthearted.”

“Sounds mean-spirited to me.”

He smiled, his eyes still dancing in a way that made me feel warm. “Just be glad no one’s hacking into the system to change the movie to porn or something.”

I tried to cover my flushed cheeks with some forced laughter. “And the ‘in stereo’?”

“It’s a holdover from the fifties. The previews used to start by saying ‘Coming next week, in stereo,’ and even though that’s long gone, we still yell it out.”

“That’s . . . interesting.” I didn’t really get it. But I guess any inside joke is fun when you’re inside it. Too bad I was still feeling my way around in the dark, trying to find the door that would let me in.

I sank into my seat, trying to feel like I was a part of the crowd. Like I belonged. Maybe if I faked it, it would eventually come true.

Darren slid his arm across the back of my seat. Without thinking, I curled into him, feeling snug and warm, like when we were skating.

But only for a second.

Now that I didn’t have an excuse—like how our canoodling was for my safety or his—the Mǎmá Lu in my head roared. I couldn’t deny it—between the movie setting and the dimmed lighting, I was full-on disobeying them.

Xing and Esther and the explosion at Chow Chow popped into my head. I couldn’t go down this road. Worse, I couldn’t take Darren down this road.

So when he started to lean closer, I ran. Just shot up out of my seat, mumbled that I left the stove on (I mean, what?), then started excusing my way past the other patrons.

The tangle of legs crowding the row and the reluctance of the students were quicksand, slowing me such that Darren and his long legs easily caught up.

Outside in the hallway, he asked, “Was it because I put my arm around you, or because I mentioned porn?” He paused. “I’m willing to take back one of those . . . the arm.”

I chuckled, which he took as an invitation, inching closer.

The laughter drained out as I took a step back. “I can’t. We can’t. But not because I don’t want to. It’s . . . complicated.”

He sighed. “Because your mother disapproves of me?”

Of course he had noticed at the restaurant—Mǎmá Lu wasn’t exactly known for her subtlety. I looked away, not wanting to know what he was thinking.

His voice was barely above a whisper when he asked, “Is it because I’m not Chinese? Or because I’m Japanese?”

Both. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Well, what do you want?”

No one had ever asked me that before, including myself. It almost felt forbidden. Partly because it was, by my parents. But mostly because it made things harder. Which meant . . . I already knew what I thought.