American Panda(34)

Darren stuck his neck out slightly, peering at me curiously until I realized I hadn’t responded to his apology.

“Oh! Uh, don’t worry about it. I’m used to it . . . people not understanding. My parents sent me to school without knowing English and with pork floss sandwiches for lunch. My classmates thought they looked like pubes!” I forced a sad little ha-ha.

“That’s terrible. That must’ve been so hard for you.” I was so used to being the pìgu of the joke that I just stared at him, unsure what to do with his sympathy. After a beat he said, “I know it doesn’t make it better, but when I said all that stuff last time, I was trying to help. Because I care.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Weird way of showing you care.”

“Sorry, I just spoke my mind without thinking. You wouldn’t know what that’s like.” The teasing crinkle reappeared.

“And I’m sorry I butted into someone else’s business. You wouldn’t know what that’s like.”

Our concordant man-laughs filled the space around us, and for a moment I couldn’t help wondering what could have been.

“Thanks for apologizing,” I said sincerely, even though it didn’t have the cure-all effect I had been foolishly hoping for. “I’m sorry, too, for the record, for what I said.” I punched him lightly on the arm. “I’ll see you around, Takahashi.” I used his last name in the hopes that it would create some distance and emphasize the friend border.

“Wait.” He held a hand out briefly before running it through his already-disheveled hair. A nervous tic, perhaps? “I want to make sure you understand why that whole thing with your parents was so important to me. MIT was the best decision I ever made, and I didn’t want to see you go down the wrong path for the wrong reason. I know it’s not easy to go against your parents—and clearly I don’t fully get what it’s like for you—but I also know it can be worth the fight sometimes. And I’m not talking about me or us or, you know, anything specific. . . .” His cheeks colored slightly. “I mean in general. Because I’m guessing there’s a lot there to unpack.”

It was such an understatement I almost laughed, but the weight of what he had said kept it at bay.

I understood where he was coming from, but that didn’t make the situation any easier. I had to force my next words out. “Thanks for trying so hard, but I have to go.”

I turned to leave but froze when I saw the students gathered in two single-file lines on either side of the hallway. It looked like the end of Grease’s “We Go Together,” except Rizzo and Kenickie weren’t dancing down the middle. Instead, the center was purposefully empty. Eerie.

Before I could ask what was going on, it happened. The hubbub silenced, and all eyes, including mine, homed in on the window at the other end of the corridor. The setting sun glided into view and rays lit up the west end of the Infinite. Within minutes, the disc filled the window, emblazing the entire 251 meters in a honey-golden glow.

The other students trickled out, having seen and taken a selfie, but I continued staring. That is, until Darren’s tall frame blocked the view, casting his shadow over me.

His voice was warm honey, just like the sunset. “MIThenge is like the Lost Ark; you can’t stare at it too long. Except in this case, you’d just damage your corneas.”

My gaze fell to him, but he was a mere outline, my eyes having been overwhelmed by the light. Just like how we would never see eye-to-eye, I couldn’t help but think.

“I wish things were different,” I said, the sentence coming out easier with him blurry. But as my vision returned, the rest of the words died away, disappearing into the folds of my tongue.

Cautiously, he said, “Just because your mother is, um, extreme, doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.” I said nothing. “What if we don’t talk about our parents? What if we just work on p-sets?” When I still didn’t respond, he said, “What if we just dance?”

And he broke into a jig, stomping around and flailing his arms. It was so sudden and out of place that all I could do was stare, just like everyone around us was doing. But he didn’t care. His eyes were on me and just me.

He finished with a heel click and swung his arms out, wiggling his jazz-hand fingers. With a hopeful smile on his face, he held the pose, waiting expectantly.

I shook my head at him. “I can’t believe you just did that. I broke out into a dance at school once and the other kids called me a nut.”

“Well, if being a nut means being fun and yourself, then you should be proud. I can only hope I’m a nut too. We can be nuts together, Nut One and Two, tag-team duo, out to save the world one almond and crappy tap dance at a time.” He cleared his throat. “Since we’re going to be fighting crime together, maybe we should exchange numbers, for the sake of the world, of course.”

Why the hell not? He could’ve looked me up in the MIT directory, but this felt respectful and gentlemanly—asking my permission.

I wrote my number on his hand, old-fashioned. The pen glided over his skin, and it made me want to touch him to see if it felt as smooth as it appeared. Impulsively, my left palm met his, and I pretended like I was merely steadying it, as I would any ho-hum piece of paper. My fingers met rough calluses, and for some reason I found that more intriguing. Rugged, like he wasn’t afraid of getting down and dirty. Or maybe I would’ve found it hot no matter what, just because it was part of him.