American Panda(38)

I liked to personify the Porter Room because he had become such an integral part of my life, and when I danced, it was like I was conversing with Mr. Porter about my thoughts and emotions. When I stomped my anger into his tiles, he supported me, vibrated with me, and told me, I got you. When I dragged my feet, sweeping them across the floor to paint my sadness into the linoleum, he absorbed my pain and told me it would be okay. But even Mr. Porter hadn’t known what to do with my side to sides.

I spotted Darren first, naturally, since his hair was spiked above the plane of heads. Another reason my mother would disapprove. She hated “the spike,” as she called it. Why they have to do that? Looks so angry.

Darren greeted me with an uptick of his chin (perhaps a we’re-just-friends gesture?). “Hey, Princess Pecan.”

“Hey,” I answered softly. I wanted to joke back, but the words caught in my throat. I was so scared to cross the friend border that I kept myself as far from it as possible—in Awkward Territory, next to the Babbling Brook of Insecurity.

We fell into step, and even though he tried to hide it, I could tell he was walking a little slower so that I could keep up with his long strides.

In Killian Court, a middle-aged East Asian man with thick glasses broke from a pack of tourists to approach Darren and me. He pointed to each of us, then asked in a heavy accent, “Students?”

I nodded.

“Picture?” he asked, a hopeful smile on his face.

I reached for the high-tech camera cradled in his arms. “Sure. Do you want the dome in the background?”

He pulled away sharply as if I were trying to steal his firstborn son. He shook his head, then pointed the camera at us. It seemed he wanted a photo of Darren and me, but that made as much sense as Lu Pàng playing in the NBA.

The tourist waved a hand, motioning for Darren and me to move closer into the frame of the photo. Darren obliged, even playfully pointing to the MIT logo on my shirt. The camera clicked, capturing my face twisted with bewilderment, and the man was gone before I could puzzle out what had happened.

When Darren spotted my arched eyebrows and wide eyes, he mirrored my confusion. “That’s never happened to you before?”

“I don’t walk through Killian that often.”

“Well, get ready. Because the tourists always want pictures of MIT students, and if they want a picture of me, then they’ll definitely want a picture of the cute . . . I mean . . .” He looked away, embarrassed, as his voice trailed off.

I couldn’t help a small smile no matter how large my mother loomed in my head. “Thanks, but I doubt they came here because of the student body’s good looks,” I joked. If the tourists were anything like my maternal grandmother—whose English vocabulary consisted of “hello” and “MIT”—then they were here because to them, the campus was a must-see, the golden goose. “For the record, I’d rather they want a picture of me because of my brain, not my looks.”

Darren nodded his approval. “Good priorities.” He leaned a tiny bit closer—almost imperceptibly so, but I was hyperaware of him. “And for the record, I agree—nothing more attractive than a big, beautiful brain. Just, you know, in general. I’m definitely not talking about anyone in particular.”

Um, this friends thing might be even harder than I originally thought.

At the Student Center, Darren strolled up to the window. “How do you like your coffee?”

“Oh, no, I—I’ll get it myself,” I stammered, still intent on getting hot chocolate even though I knew how juvenile it would look.

He paused, perhaps debating whether or not he should put up a fight, then stepped aside, probably because of the friend stipulation. “Ladies first.”

I stepped up to the counter. “Hot chocolate with whipped cream, please.” My shoulders hunched, Dr. Chang style, but then I heard my mother’s voice in my head: Stand up straight so you look confident. And so your breasts look bigger.

“Actually, that sounds good,” Darren said to my surprise. “I’ll have that too.”

We paid separately and, with drink in hand, I made a beeline for my favorite couch—the overstuffed, least-pilly love seat. But Darren motioned outside. “How about sitting by the river?”

“The river?” I parroted, hoping he would remember it was freezing today.

“We don’t have to, but it snowed! And this is my first snow in ten years! C’mon!” He waved his arm once, and with it my no swung to a yes.

While I bundled up, he held the door open, waiting patiently until I walked beneath his outstretched arm. As soon as I stepped outside and the wintry chill hit, I regretted my decision.

We made our way to the benches lining the Charles. I grasped my cup the entire way, desperate for some warmth to seep through the gloves onto my frozen hands.

After sweeping snow off the seat, Darren motioned for me to sit. While I balanced precariously on the edge, not wanting to bathe in a pool of melted snow (and worrying what germs were on there), he sat like a normal person, favoring a comfortable butt to a clean one.

“You seem pretty comfy for a Southern Californian.”

“I’m frozen on the inside. But it’s worth it. This is one of my favorite places.”

I followed his gaze to the frozen river dusted with snow. I hardly ever looked at it despite having a view from my dorm. How had I missed its beauty for so long?