This Time It’s Real

Caz doesn’t show up at school the next day.

Or the next day. Or the next. He doesn’t read any of my texts asking if he’s okay, or return my voicemails asking if we can make a plan for the interview, and I end up finding out through a dodgy media site that he’s requested a two-week break from school to finish filming his drama.

And I—

Well, I survive. I brush my teeth and go to class and take my notes. I even write up that longer, official article I promised Sarah Diaz—a much more serious one this time about the slow collapse of the tutoring center industry in China, to be printed in the spring edition of Craneswift—and email it to her, shoving down a surge of anxiety when she confirms receipt alongside the question: Are you all set for the interview?

I don’t know how to tell her that I’m not sure if Caz will even be coming. If we’ll ever speak again. That every time I remember the knife-bright flash of hurt—then anger—in his eyes, the sound of his footsteps in the beating rain, it feels like someone’s squeezing my heart inside their fist, like there’s no chance we can ever find our way back from this. But there’s too much riding on the interview: my career, Caz’s reputation, the public’s opinion of us, all our efforts so far. So instead I write, in the vaguest way possible, It’s all going just fine.

And maybe when everything’s over and done with and I’m lying alone in my bedroom, staring around at my four blank walls, I’ll think of Caz and a terrible, burning pressure will build in the back of my throat. Maybe I’ll imagine him shooting his dramas, laughing with Mingri, singing karaoke with his gorgeous costars, and dig my nails into my pillow. Maybe I’ll miss him and hate him and curse his name.

But other than that, I’m doing fine. Great.

•    •    •

There’s a new email in my inbox the next Saturday, barely two lines long:

I’ve just finished reading your piece. Please call me when you’re free. —Sarah

At first all I can do is stare at the screen, not really registering any of it. Then I read the email again, my heart kicking faster and faster against my ribs, dread rising to my throat like bile.

Don’t freak out, I scold myself. You don’t know that it’s bad.

But I don’t know that it’s good either.

I’m shaking as I retreat alone to the balcony and dial Sarah Diaz’s number, gripping the phone tight in both hands.

She answers on the first ring. Like she’s been waiting for me. “Eliza. How are you?”

I feel like I’m about to throw up or have a mini panic attack because of your email, thank you. And how are you? “I’m good,” I manage.

“Well, that’s good to hear. I’m sorry to reach out so suddenly, but I really wanted to talk to you about your article …”

“What did you think?” I sound so desperate. So young.

“It’s …” And then she pauses. For at least twenty seconds. Nobody pauses like that when they’re about to tell you your article was the best thing they’ve ever read. It’s an I’m-sorry-to-inform-you-your-missing-relative-was-found-dead-in-a-ditch kind of pause. An I-might’ve-accidentally-run-over-your-dog-on- my-way-to-work kind of pause.

Sweat slicks my palms, my skin flashing hot and cold, then hot again. I start pacing around the balcony, as if moving might help redirect all my nervous energy.

“It’s … different,” Sarah finally says. Her voice is strained. “It’s very different from your blog posts.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I just stay silent, and all the while my stomach clenches tighter and tighter.

Then she releases an audible sigh. “I’m just going to be honest with you. You know how important authenticity and passion is to our brand, and I’m afraid I didn’t really feel any of that come through as I was reading. I mean, it was clearly well researched, but the writing fell flat, and I couldn’t really see a message to the piece, you know? As a whole, it felt very … hollow.”

“Oh” is all I can manage at first. I swallow hard, fighting the sudden, overwhelming urge to cry. “Oh, that’s—I mean, that’s fair. That’s fine.”

“I hope I’m not coming across as too harsh, Eliza,” Sarah continues, and the creep of sympathy in her voice—of pity, even—somehow makes me feel a thousand times worse. “Because I wanted to love this. I truly did. And you know how much I adore your work overall. I mean, that first essay was so joyous and authentic and sincere—which, I think, is the crux of the issue here.”

A buzzing fills my ears, the irony of her words hitting me like a slap in the face. How could an essay I’d completely made up be sincere? An essay on a kind of feeling I’d never even experienced?

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Well, it seems you write best when you truly believe in what you’re writing about.”

“Right. Okay. That’s—okay.”

“But don’t despair,” Sarah adds. “I’ve spoken with my team, and we’re all happy to give you one more chance with this. To write on a topic of your choosing. Of course, if we run into similar issues again …”

The unspoken end of her sentence is clear. If I don’t produce something she loves, there won’t be a next chance. This will be the end. My recommendation letter gone and my potential writing career over before it even properly began.

I stop pacing and press my forehead to the cold glass of the balcony window, letting my breath cloud the surface. If I squint, I can make out the bare, crooked trees planted down below, the children racing through the playground, the couple walking in leisurely circles around the still lake, the dim afternoon sun painting their silhouettes a gentle blue gray.

All of them seem hundreds of miles away.

“Don’t worry,” I hear myself say. “I’ll give you something else. Something better. I swear.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that, Eliza.” She sounds relieved. “I sincerely hope you do. Oh, and just to double-check—is everything still good to go for the interview?”

Again, my thoughts drift to Caz, and my throat constricts. There might’ve been a time where I could give her a gentle disclaimer about him possibly–very-likely not showing up, but that’s no longer a viable option. Right now, my role at Craneswift is hinging on my personal essay and my relationship with Caz; I can’t screw that up too.

“Yes,” I say with false cheer. “Yep. Of course.”

As soon as I hang up, I grab my laptop from my bedroom and read through the article I sent her. I’m about four paragraphs in when I realize with a sharp pang that Sarah Diaz was right. It does feel hollow. Despite it being an opinion piece, the whole thing reads like one of those awful AI-generated news reports. There’s no passion. No flow. No spark.

Because if I’m being totally honest with myself … I don’t care about the topic. Never did. I just thought it was the kind of thing that would seem impressive.

Even the tightness in my chest now has nothing to do with the article itself but with the thought of having disappointed Sarah and the others at Craneswift, and the terrifying prospect of failing again.

Which is why I can’t let that happen.

I turn away from the window. Take a deep, steadying breath to clear my head. I promised Sarah something better, and I’ll deliver. I have to. All I need is to figure out what specific ingredient it was that made Sarah fall in love with my completely fictional personal essay and replicate it, and everything else will work out. Easy.

I can do this.

•    •    •

I can’t do this.

It’s midnight, according to the alarm clock beside my bed, and I’ve been staring at a blank Word document for the past six hours. I’m fairly sure my brain started disintegrating at the two-hour mark.

“God help me,” I mutter, rubbing my temples to ward off a growing migraine.

You write best when you truly believe in what you’re writing about, Sarah had insisted. But what do I truly believe in?

Nothing.

Everything.

I’m seriously debating whether or not banging my head against the wall might help force some words out when I hear the soft click and creak of the front door sliding open. The rattle of keys. Then the familiar clack-clack-clack of heels on hardwood.

Ma’s home.

Grateful for an excuse to temporarily put aside the Blank Screen of Doom, I tiptoe toward the living room to greet her.

She’s in her usual work attire: a fitted, perfectly ironed blazer; a plain silk blouse; and a few minimalist silver accessories. Between that and her knife-straight posture even as she’s kicking away her red bottoms, she looks like she’s ready to conquer the world.

As I step closer, however, the sour-sweet odor of alcohol and faint cigarette smoke wafts toward me. I grimace and change directions at the last second, heading into the kitchen instead.

The herbal medicine packets have all been labeled and divided into neat, colored containers: For headaches. For period pains. For excessive internal heat. Still, it’s more due to muscle memory than Ma’s exemplary categorization skills that I quickly locate the box I need: For hangovers.

I empty one of the packets into a glass of hot water and stir the brown powder until it dissolves, trying not to gag at the smell.

For reasons I’m yet to fully understand (though it has something to do with “renqing,” or personal connections), the business culture here involves a lot of late-night dinners and alcohol, to the extent where it’s almost impossible to get a big promotion if you don’t drink at all. Case in point: Most of Ma’s major contracts have been signed over glasses of baijiu or red wine.

The problem is that Ma actually hates alcohol, but I suspect she’d drink liquid fire if she thought it could help her close a deal.

“Ai-Ai? What are you doing up so late?”

I turn around at the soft shuffle of slippers and extend the cup of medicine to Ma. “Making sure you don’t wake up hung over tomorrow, of course.” I lean back against the counter. “You know, I’m pretty sure our roles are meant to be reversed right now.”

She rolls her eyes, but the smile she gives me is warm. “Hao haizi. You’re very thoughtful.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say. Compliments always make me feel weird. “Just drink it while it’s still warm.”

She does in two great gulps, then makes such an exaggerated expression of disgust that I cackle despite myself.

“I guess what they say is true,” she says, shaking her head, a contemplative look in her eyes. “Sometimes the things that are good for you … really taste bad.”

“Wow, that’s super deep, Ma.” I snort. “Maybe you should tell that to Ba for his next poetry collection.”

“Maybe I will,” she says very seriously; then we both start laughing. But somewhere between one moment and the next, my laughter weakens at the edges, and I start thinking of all the things I shouldn’t be thinking about, like Caz and my failed writing career and the lies I keep holding inside me like parasites, and my face crumples. Then I’m crying as if I’ve never cried before. As if I’ll never stop.

“Ai-Ai?” Ma sounds bewildered, which is understandable, considering my emotions just did a complete one-eighty within the matter of seconds. “What’s wrong?”

“N-n-nothing.” It’s the ugly kind of crying, all loud heaves and hiccups and hyperventilating, snot dribbling down my face. “I—I’m fine. I’m fine.”

“Is it because of that Caz boy?” Ma asks, putting an arm around me, and I breathe in the sour scent of wine layered over her jasmine perfume.

I nod and shake my head at the same time, more harsh sobs jolting through my body. “It’s not … It’s …” I don’t know how to explain it.

Because yes, it’s Caz, of course it’s him, the boy who carried me through the rain and never showed his face again. But Caz isn’t the only one I’m heartbroken over.

There’s Zoe too.

And even though I miss them both intensely, with all my heart, in different ways, missing Zoe is almost worse. Because there aren’t thousands of books and poems and movies out there to describe exactly what I’m feeling, or lyrically beautiful songs for me to cry to and sing along with in the car. There’s no guidebook on how to survive this kind of fallout, no prescribed remedy to soothe this particular kind of pain. Romantic breakups are romanticized constantly, talked about everywhere by everyone, but platonic breakups are swept to the side, suffered in secret, as if they’re somehow less important.

“Are you trying to tell me that your relationship with Caz is fake?” Ma asks gently.

This stuns me into silence. Even my hiccups stop for a few seconds.

“How … how did you know?”

“You’re my daughter” is all she says, like that’s explanation enough. Maybe it is.

“I’m sorry.” I rub my eyes, still sniffling. “Are you mad at me?”

“I suppose I should be,” she says slowly, tucking my hair behind one ear. Then she grabs a tissue from the kitchen counter and wipes my face dry, and it’s such a natural, motherly thing to do that I almost burst into tears again. “But no, I’m not.”

We stay like that in silence for a while, her arm warm around my shoulders, bits of wet tissue stuck to my cheek. And it’s nice. It’s peaceful. I still feel like the apocalypse is happening, but I’m grateful that there’s shelter here.

“I just—I don’t know what to do,” I croak out at last. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“That’s okay,” she says.

“No. No, it’s not. No one likes me and I keep ruining everything and—” I stop short before my voice can crack.

Ma studies me for a moment, then she moves to the couch and sits me down beside her, her mannerisms suddenly businesslike, serious. “Do you know,” she begins, folding one leg over the other, “the first time I announced that we were moving all the way across the world, to a country where you couldn’t even speak the language, I expected you to throw a tantrum. Smash something, or at least slam a door. You were only a child, after all; it would’ve been understandable. But you know what you did?”

I sense that this is more of a rhetorical question, but I shake my head anyway.

“You simply nodded, with complete calm, and asked me if you could bring your favorite sweatshirt. At first I thought you were maybe too young to understand the—the significance of a move like that, but then I realized that you understood it very well, and that you cared deeply. More than any of us. You just didn’t want to cause any trouble for me or your father.

“You hold everything in here, Ai-Ai,” she says sternly, pointing to her own heart. “For better or worse. But not everyone is going to guess at what you’re thinking like I do. No one is going to know how you feel if you don’t tell them. And until you do—you can never really know what’s going to happen.”

•    •    •

I don’t go to sleep after that. I can’t. Ma’s words keep clattering around my brain, until the noise gets so loud I find myself reaching for my phone. Opening it up to my last conversation with Zoe.

My fingers hover over the keys. My pulse speeds.

This whole reaching-out-to-the-people-you-care-about thing feels as counterintuitive and masochistic as sticking my hand into an open flame.

But this is Zoe. The girl who suffered through Ms. Betty’s biology lectures and pop quizzes with me; who once lent me her jacket to cover up an embarrassing food stain even though the weather was freezing; who always cheered the loudest when I did the smallest things, like hit the volleyball over the net in PE class. The girl who threw me a surprise farewell party at the end of ninth grade before I left LA and listened patiently to my pointless rants and understood my dry humor and irrational fears when no one else did.

If I can tell anyone how I really feel, it should be her.

So I hug my knees close to my chest, draw in a shaky breath, and type out:

hello! i just wanted to say that i really miss you and

And what? Where do I go from there? Besides, who starts a spill-your-heart-out message with a hello and an exclamation point? She’s going to think I’m someone from customer service. She’s going to think my phone was hacked, or I’ve lost the ability to text like a normal teenager.

No.

I delete the entire message and start an email.

Hey, it’s me.

I know we’ve both been kind of distant lately so I guess I just wanted to reach out. Give you an update on my life.

These days I’ve been listening to that playlist we made together in eighth grade, and it got me thinking about all those car rides back to your house when we played our music so loud your dad would pretend to get mad at us, even though he was always smiling. And also that day after Carrot dumped you (and since we’re being totally honest here, I never liked him anyway—he always wore his muddy shoes inside your house, and he absolutely does NOT look like a young Keanu Reeves), when we had our school trip to the beach and you were chucking rocks into the waves as if the sea had personally offended you while I went through every post-breakup cliché I knew, and the water was the same flat gray shade as the sky, and everything was both horrible and wonderful because afterward we shared a packet of salt-and-vinegar chips and added like twenty depressing songs to our playlist. Then I said something that made you laugh for the first time that day and soon we were both laughing at nothing until our stomachs hurt. We did that a lot, actually. Sometimes I felt like we could turn anything into an inside joke.

And so I guess the point of my nostalgic rambling is that I miss you. Obviously. And I realize that it’s hard for us to make new memories like the old ones when we’re not even in the same country, and so many friendships drift apart after one of them moves schools/cities/gets a job etc. But …

I figured it’d be better to just tell you all this, instead of writing more sad, dramatic monologues in my head. And I figured there might also be a (small) chance that you’ve been listening to the songs on our old playlist too. Or at least thinking about it.

Besides, even if this does happen to be the last message I ever send you, I’d much rather we leave it on a good note. Though of course, I’m hoping we don’t have to leave things on any note at all.

Just shoot me a message if you want to talk. Or give me a call. Anything. You know how to find me.

•    •    •

Hope is such a terrible thing.

It’s like a bad habit you can’t shake off, a stray dog that keeps showing up outside your door for scraps, even when you have nothing left to give. Every time you think you’re rid of it at last, it manages to sneak its way back in. Take over. Cling on.

And though I know this all too well, I still can’t help feeling a sharp, bright spark of hope when my phone rings the next morning.

A video-call invite from Zoe.

I pick up so fast I nearly drop the phone, but I manage to set it up on my bedside table, position myself in front of the camera just as Zoe’s face fills my screen. And it’s just—

Hope.

There’s so much hope in me.

“Hi,” I say.

She smiles. It’s an awkward smile, but earnest. “Hi.”

I’m suddenly reminded of that day in eighth grade, the first time we really spoke. I was new but already loved by the English teachers, and Zoe was the long-reigning star student in every subject, so most people thought we’d hate each other. But then, after I’d read one of my creative writing pieces out loud for a presentation, she’d approached me. She’d been smiling like this as well, while I was wary and hopeful and nervous—until she opened her mouth and said, “God, your writing is so beautiful.”

That’s how we became best friends.

It’s actually funny, looking back at it. How writing has always been the string tying me to people.

“I read your message,” Zoe says now. “Thank you. Really. And—sorry. I know things have been kind of weird …”

“You don’t have to apologize—”

“No, no, but I do.” She sighs, long and loud. “It’s just been so hectic over here with college applications and it’s—well, you remember how competitive it was. People ready to kill each other over a good grade. Now imagine that, but like on freaking steroids. And then this new girl, Divya—I’m not sure if you know—”

“I remember,” I tell her.

“Yeah, so it turns out she’s applying for the same college and major as me, and—I mean, it’s still competitive as hell, but it’s also nice having someone who understands, you know?”

I nod, letting her talk.

“And meanwhile, you’re going out with a celebrity and doing all this cool shit and I didn’t want to pile my stress on top of yours so … So, yeah,” she finishes, giving me that stiff, awkward smile again.

“Wow.”

“I know it’s—”

“Wow, Zoe.” I shake my head and laugh. “Are you kidding me? You once let me rant to you for an hour about those mini shampoos they give out in hotels, but you didn’t want to bother me with your very valid stress about your literal future?”

Finally, her smile widens. Turns into the grin I know so well and missed so much. “Well, when you put it like that …”

“I’m right. You know I’m right.”

“I suppose so …”

And maybe hope isn’t so terrible after all. Because we spend the next hour chatting and catching up, and even though it’s not exactly the same as it used to be—there are more pauses, and those small hints of awkwardness—I don’t think I’ve lost her. If only it could be like this with Caz too, a small voice whispers in the back of my head. If only I could just fix everything. But I quickly drown it out. Zoe’s been my best friend for years. Caz Song, on the other hand, is ranked in the top three of China’s biggest heartthrobs; the distance between us is irreconcilable.

Before I can dwell on it longer, the conversation turns to Craneswift, and my writing.

“It’s going horribly,” I tell her up front. “I sent Sarah my final article, and she thought it was the worst thing in the world.”

“I doubt she said that.”

“She strongly implied it.”

“Come on,” she says once she stops laughing. “You’re talented, I know you are. Did she tell you what was wrong or—”

“It was too … stiff, apparently. It didn’t feel as genuine as my blog posts.”

“Then change it,” she says, like the answer is obvious.

“But I can’t be the person who exclusively writes these personal, sentimental, wholly sincere essays about love and joy,” I protest. “I can’t. That’s not me. I wanted to write something serious.”

“Well, why not?”

“It’s just. Because it feels …” I scramble for the right word. “It feels embarrassing.”

Zoe just shrugs. “Most sincere things feel at least a little embarrassing. It’s part of our defense mechanisms. Our heart’s way of protecting us from potential hurt.”

Before I can argue with that, I hear her mom shouting for her from the other room.

“Shit. Forgot to take out the laundry,” she mutters, getting up to leave. Then she pauses. “I’ll call you later, okay? Promise.”

“Okay. Bye. Miss you,” I say in a rush, and I realize she might have a point about the kind of things that are embarrassing.

She laughs, lifts her hand to wave at me, and it’s only then that I catch sight of the frayed blue string around her wrist. A bracelet identical to my own. She’s kept it all along. “Miss you too.”