Chapters (93)
- Cover
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Seventy-One
- Seventy-Two
- Seventy-Three
- Seventy-Four
- Seventy-Five
- Seventy-Six
- Seventy-Seven
- Seventy-Eight
- Seventy-Nine
- Eighty
- Eighty-One
- Eighty-Two
- Eighty-Three
- Eighty-Four
- Eighty-Five
- Author’s Note
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Books by Kelly Yang
- Back Ad
- About the Publisher
It’s a little after midnight and I’m working on my English paper for Ms. Jones, due tomorrow. I’ve read through it six times already when my phone dings.
Hi, my dad texts.
I tap Pause on Spotify. We haven’t spoken since he walked out on me at the restaurant.
Your grandmother says she likes your fish oil, he types.
I roll my eyes. Why can’t he just say I’m sorry like a normal person, instead of using fish oil to bait me into talking to him?
That’s good, I text back.
How’s school? he writes.
Good, I write back. I’m liking my new English class.
He doesn’t even know about the email or Mrs. Wallace getting replaced. So much happens when we’re busy being mad at each other . . . what’s the point of recapping afterward? But then if I don’t recap, an entire lifetime can pass by, it’ll just be “Oh, hi, yeah, I lived and then I died.”
Do you need anything? Any new books? my dad writes.
This is my dad’s way of saying he cares about me.
Sure, I write back. Not because I actually need his help getting me books—we both know I’m capable of using Amazon, but because it’s my way of saying, Fine, care about me.
I need more books by F. Scott Fitzgerald.
Done! I’ll get my secretary to order them for you! A box set!
I put away my phone and turn back to my paper. I remind myself that there are five languages of love. My parents’ just happen to be financial.
My phone dings again. This time, it’s an iMessage from Jay.
You’re up late, Jay texts.
I smile. You too, I write.
A few seconds later, he writes back: Come over.
I stare at the text. Three dots appear.
We don’t have to do anything. We can just sleep, he adds.
Yeah. RIGHT.
Admit it, you’re thinking about it right now. Us sleeping together, he writes.
I let out a laugh. He’s such a player.
You’re so busted, he types.
I type back, I can come over tomorrow after school again and we can go for a swim?
Can’t tomorrow. Mom’s in town, he writes.
Aww.
Then three dots appear.
You should meet her.
Maybe I was wrong about Jay, I muse with Jess over FaceTime as I’m getting ready for school. I thought he just wanted to fool around. But now he wants me to meet his mom. Jess makes me pull out every single thing in my closet and show her so we can decide on what I’m going to wear. In the end, I go with my white Rag & Bone pants, a blue lace-trimmed linen Chloé top, and Phillip Lim suede mules. I fidget in class, rocking my leg as Ms. Jones collects our papers.