I’d been around the corner, sight unseen, my face stiff with embarrassment even as my brain whirred. And all of it had spun neatly into place, a row of winning cherries filling up the display window of an old-fashioned slot machine—the recollection of how Kyle had gone out with Jasmine before me, Jasmine, who’s black; how before Jasmine, it was Lissa, who’s brown. I’d thought of his uncle who’d just been visiting from somewhere in Tennessee, who asked Kyle right in front of me if I spoke English. Of his father, who thinks he’s being nice each time he starts talking to me about Jackie Chan movies (he settled on Jackie after he decided I had to be a Star Trek fan because of Sulu and I pointed out that George Takei is Japanese).

“You heard us—” Kyle laughs, never getting it. “What? Tokens? C’mon, we were just kidding around.”

“Okay, so let’s say you were just kidding around.” My cell is pressed hard enough into my cheek that it hurts. “But how does that make it any better?”

“I have literally zero clue what you’re talking about, Hol.”

“I know you don’t. Have a nice spring break, Kyle.”

I disconnect, still facing the ceiling. I really should clean up those old stars.

“Holly, dinner’s ready!” my mother calls from the kitchen.

I swing my legs off the bed to get up, rubbing my cheek to make it go back to feeling normal.

“Holly? You coming?” My mom’s voice is growing needled the way only it can, even when she’s yelling out of love.

Holly?

Are you listening to me?

Why don’t you listen?

“Holly!”

I sigh. “Coming!”

Since Chinatown’s just over the bridge and all my father’s best card and drinking buddies own restaurants or diners over there, we usually end up with some kind of takeout on the table. Tonight it’s classic barbecue pork, thick slices of it laid over rice in a large Styrofoam container.

My dad nudges the food toward me. “From Foo’s. Eugene says hi, by the way.”

“Tell him hi back next time.” I take some pork. My parents have known Eugene for years, ever since we moved to San Alejandra from San Santos when I was a baby so Grandma wouldn’t have to live alone after Grandpa died. She’d declared Foo’s the best Chinese barbecue house in the Bay Area and directed us its way.

“Eugene also says to tell you Nathan’s single again,” my father adds. “Nathan, remember? You and he are good friends.”