My cell phone pings with an incoming text message. Again. For only the hundredth time this hour. From acquaintances I haven’t spoken to in months, from classmates I didn’t even know had my number. All pumping me for details: What did I say, how did he look, why did I do it?

I had no idea the junior class was so preoccupied with Bandit Sakda. I’d welcome the infatuation, as it draws the attention off me. Except the texts are accompanied by snarky comments like, “You poor thing! Just how long have you been crushing on Bandit?” and “Too bad he doesn’t feel the same way about you.”

Which kinda makes me want to sink into the quicksand at Mont Saint-Michel. At least then I’d be in France.

Gritting my teeth, I transfer the beef and broccoli that Dad picked up from the takeout cartons to a serving platter. The whispers followed me from period to period, as faithful as a watchdog. Add to that, you know, the alien in my skull, and this day can’t be over soon enough.

I refuse to think about the Voice. Because it either means I’m slowly but surely losing my grip on reality…or someone really did hack into my brain and can now force me do anything she wants. Both options make me feel nauseated.

“Aren’t you going to see who sent the text?” Lalana asks from where she’s sitting at my kitchen table.

“No need. They’re all the same.” I focus as hard as I can on distributing the broccoli evenly among the beef so that nice pops of green show up against the rich brown. I then press jasmine rice into small bowls and overturn them onto the plates so that the scoops come out domed and pretty. Perfect for a photo for my foodie account.

Idly, Lalana picks up my phone and glances at the screen. “It’s from Bandit.”

I drop my tongs with a clatter and snatch up the phone. “Give me that.”

124.087.3562: Tell me. How does a person fall in love w someone they’ve never met? Is it my good looks? My rock-hard body? Or my big, big…brain?

My mouth drops. His sheer arrogance takes my breath away. “This is Bandit’s phone number?”

“Yep.” Lalana drums her fingers on the table. “He’s had the same number since he was thirteen.”

As luck would have it, my best friend actually knows Bandit. Lalana is also Thai, and their parents have been friends since she was a little girl peeling layers off her kahnom chun and eating it piece by piece. Most of their interactions are during family events, however, which is why I’ve never hung out with him.

“Tell him the truth,” Lalana says. “I don’t mind.”