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Back This Time Will Be Different
Chapters (77)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. A Series of Screw-ups: The Chisaki Joan Katsuyama Story, Part I
  6. 3
  7. The History of My Beef with Brynn Foer-Preston
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. The History of the Katsuyama Family, Part I
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. A Brief History of Chisaki Joan Katsuyama’s Romantic Learning Opportunities, Part I
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. A Brief History of Chisaki Joan Katsuyama’s Romantic Learning Opportunities, Part II
  20. 13
  21. The History of the Katsuyama Family, Part II
  22. 14
  23. 15
  24. 16
  25. 17
  26. 18
  27. 19
  28. The Complicated History of Chisaki Joan Katsuyama’s Imaginary Relationship with Her Nonexistent Dad
  29. 20
  30. 21
  31. 22
  32. A Brief History of Chisaki Joan Katsuyama’s Romantic Learning Opportunities, Part III
  33. 23
  34. 24
  35. 25
  36. A Brief, Backward History of the McAllister Family, as Paraphrased from the San Jose Mercury News
  37. 26
  38. 27
  39. 28
  40. A Quick and Eerily Relevant History of Asians in America
  41. 29
  42. 30
  43. 31
  44. 32
  45. 33
  46. 34
  47. 35
  48. 36
  49. A Brief History of Chisaki Joan Katsuyama’s Romantic Learning Opportunities, Part IV
  50. 37
  51. 38
  52. 39
  53. 40
  54. 41
  55. 42
  56. 43
  57. 44
  58. A Series of Screw-ups: The Chisaki Joan Katsuyama Story, Part II (Or Maybe It’s a Prequel)
  59. 45
  60. 46
  61. 47
  62. 48
  63. 49
  64. 50
  65. 51
  66. 52
  67. 53
  68. The History of the Katsuyama Family, Part III
  69. 54
  70. A Note from the Author
  71. Index of Flowers and their Meanings
  72. Acknowledgments
  73. About the Author
  74. Praise for This Time Will Be Different
  75. Books by Misa Sugiura
  76. Back Ad
  77. About the Publisher

THERE’S A LOCAL ORDINANCE WHERE LIAM AND Brendan Hoa live that says the lots can’t be smaller than an acre, “to preserve the rural atmosphere,” according to something I read somewhere. “To keep the riffraff from buying in” is more like it, if you ask me. But it makes for some good party houses: spacious, plenty of on-site parking, often with swimming pools, and little chance of the neighbors calling the police to complain about the noise.

I pull into the driveway, which is so big and full of cars that it’s really more of a parking lot. It reminds me of the parties you see in movies. Small, quiet hangouts are the norm in Silicon Valley, so I imagine everyone jumped at the opportunity to go to a big one.

The palatial front hall (Shane wasn’t kidding) opens onto the living room, which features an enormous picture window that overlooks the valley. In front of the window, a girl sobs on a couch, surrounded by a huddle of cooing friends—sophomores, I think. I feel a pang of loneliness—where are my friends? I didn’t even bother to find out what Em was doing tonight.

I follow the sound of the bass down a staircase to the left, which deposits me in what is clearly the main party room. It is cavernous; I mean, it must span the entire length and breadth of the house. There’s a pool table and a foosball table, and a bunch of kids are piled on a couch in front of a giant television screen playing the Warriors’ game. There’s an actual bar with bottles of hard alcohol and what looks like soda and maybe even beer on tap. Liam is serving people and bawling over the crowd noise, “It’s gluten-free! It’s good for you!” Only . . . is beer really gluten-free? Who knows? Some kid I’ve never seen before has set up a table where he’s selling THC cartridges, batteries, edibles, and weed.

The house is built into the hill, so the basement that I’m in is actually the first floor of the house on the back side. Sliding glass doors open onto a pavilion that glows with fairy lights. When I slip through the doors, I understand why the inside of the house didn’t smell like weed. It’s not as crowded as inside, but it sure is . . . smoky.

In one corner of the patio, Shane, Nathan, and Ari are having an old-school chugging contest around a miniscule teak deck table laden with a vape pen, a JUUL, and two pitchers—one empty, one half-empty. Or half-full, I suppose. Shane wins by a mile and punches the air, crushing his cup in his massive hand. “Three in a row, bitches! Yeah! I am the king!”

Deep breath. Ready, steady—