Chapter 2: HOW IT STARTED

know what to do. The library was quiet, the kind of quiet that made small sounds feel loud, and my heart was one of them. He looked at me, not blinking, and his thumb moved across my knuckles again. It should have felt nice, maybe, but it felt like a test. One I did not study for.

“Nice to meet you,” he said.

“You too,” I said, finally pulling my hand back.

“I got you a latte,” he said, pushing the cup toward me.

“Thanks,” I said, wrapping my hands around it.

Daniel Reed sat down across from me like he belonged there, like the chair had been saved for him. He opened his notebook, uncapped his pen, and set everything down in straight lines. His movements were careful, practiced, and he did not look around. He looked at me, then at my Statistics homework, then back at me. I felt like a problem he was about to solve.

“You are in Park’s class,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said, “you too.”

“Third period,” he said, “you sit by the window.”

“I guess,” I said, surprised he noticed.

Daniel is a senior, head of the debate team, and he has a 4.0 that everyone talks about. His mom is on the PTA, his dad coaches little league, and their house has the best Halloween decorations every year. He wears button-downs on casual Friday, he says thank you to the lunch ladies, and teachers use his essays as examples. He is the kind of boy moms want around. The kind that checks every box.

“What problem are you on,” he asked.

“Three,” I said, showing him my page.

“You set it up wrong,” he said, sliding my notebook toward him.

“Oh,” I said, watching him cross out my work.

He rewrote the equation in his neat handwriting, explained it in a voice that was patient but final, and handed it back. I said thanks, because that was what you said, and he smiled. It was a good smile, straight and white, the kind that belonged in photos. He checked the box for a cute smile, and I felt stupid for even thinking about it. This was not about a list.

“Better,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said, “thanks again.”

“You are welcome,” he said, “I like helping.”

“Right,” I said, looking down.

We studied for thirty minutes, and he did most of the talking. He asked about my classes, my college plans, and if I was going to the game Friday. I answered, because he asked, and because it felt rude not to. He listened, or he seemed to, and he nodded at the right times. When I reached for my phone, he glanced at the screen before I could turn it over.

“Dating apps,” he said, his voice light.

“What,” I said, my face hot.

“Nothing wrong with it,” he said, “just be careful.”

“I am,” I said, locking my phone.

He did not ask why I had one, and I did not tell him. He did not ask about the whiteboard, and I was glad. He closed his notebook, stacked his papers, and stood up. I thought he was leaving, and I felt relief before I could stop it. Then he looked at my backpack, at the corner where a bit of silver was sticking out.

“You fixed my car last month,” he said.

“What,” I said, confused.

“The wrench,” he said, nodding at my bag, “you carry it around.”

“Oh,” I said, “no, that is not mine.”

He smiled again, the same way as before, and reached out. He did not touch me, he just tapped the table twice with his finger. “Friday,” he said, “dinner. I will pick you up at six.” It was not a question, and he did not wait for an answer. He walked away, his shoes quiet on the carpet, and I sat there with his latte getting cold.

“Friday,” I whispered, to no one.

“At six,” his voice echoed in my head.

“I did not say yes,” I said out loud.

“He did not ask,” I said, quieter.

I packed up my things, my hands slow and my head full. The library felt too quiet now, too empty, and I wanted to be home. I wanted to see the whiteboard, I wanted to cross something off, and I wanted to feel like I was in control. Daniel was tall, he was polite, and he helped with homework. He checked the boxes, and that was supposed to be good. That was supposed to be enough.

“Maya,” Liv said, catching me at the front doors.

“Hey,” I said, startled.

“You left without me,” she said, falling into step.

“Sorry,” I said, “I was in the library.”

“With who,” she asked, bumping my shoulder.

Liv is my best friend, and she has been since fourth grade when I shared my pudding cup. She is honest, loud, and does not let me get away with anything. She plays soccer, owns too many hoodies, and tells me when my ideas are bad. She knows about the whiteboard because she gave it to me, half as a joke, half as a dare. She said, “You think too much, Chen. Just do something.” So I did.

“Daniel Reed,” I said, keeping my voice low.

“The debate guy,” she said, her eyebrows up.

“Yeah,” I said, “he sat with me.”

“And,” she said, waiting.

“He asked me to dinner,” I said, “Friday.”

Liv stopped walking, and I stopped too. She looked at me, her head tilted, and I could not read her face. She was not smiling, she was not frowning, and she was not doing her usual happy dance. She just looked at me, like she was waiting for the rest of the story. The part I did not say out loud. The part about his hand.

“Say something,” I said.

“He is perfect,” she said slowly, “on paper.”

“I know,” I said, starting to walk again.

“Is that a good thing,” she asked.

“It has to be,” I said, because I did not know what else to say.

We walked to her car, the minivan still in the shop, so her dad had dropped off his old truck. She unlocked it, and we climbed in. The seats were cracked, the radio only played AM, and it smelled like grass and dirt. It smelled safe, and I needed safe. I leaned my head against the window, and Liv did not turn the engine on yet.

“You do not have to go,” she said.

“I know,” I said, “but I want to.”

“Do you,” she asked, looking at me.

“I think so,” I said, “he checks the boxes.”

“Since when do we care about boxes,” she said.

I did not answer, because I did not know. Since when did I care about a list, since when did I need a deadline, since when was I scared of being alone. Since senior year, probably. Since everyone else paired off, since Homecoming got close, since I turned seventeen with no photo on my phone. Since the whiteboard. I looked at Liv, and she was still watching me.

“I will go,” I said, “just to see.”

“Okay,” she said, starting the truck.

“Okay,” I said, and it felt like a promise.

When I got home, Aaron was in the driveway, cleaning his glove. He looked up when Liv’s truck pulled away, and his eyes narrowed a little. He did not say anything, he just nodded at me, and I nodded back. Mom was at work, the house was quiet, and my room was waiting. The whiteboard was waiting, and the marker was on the desk.

I did not write Daniel’s name. Not yet. I picked up the marker, uncapped it, and put a small check next to Get a boyfriend. It was pencil-thin, easy to erase, and it made my stomach turn. I put the cap back on, set the marker down, and sat on my bed. My hand was still warm, and I rubbed my knuckles. He held on too long, and I let him.