Victor: Her Ruthless Crush Page 3

  Then there came another awkward silence. This one was even more excruciating than the last.

  She had broken the silence the last time. It was his turn to say something. But he had no idea what. As a future Red Diamond dragonhead, he had, of course, been taught manners, also the art of negotiation.

  But in truth, he did not have much experience talking with the opposite sex. For one thing, he couldn’t speak. And for another, when women came to him, they were usually the ones with the onus to make him feel more relaxed. Not the other way around.

  “I'm sorry.” The girl started speaking in a sudden rush. “I'm awkward. And I've never taught anyone before. I'm not sure where to start. Especially with someone who looks like you—”

  She slapped a hand over her mouth, her dark brown eyes widening with mortification. “Oh God, did I just say that out loud? I talk too much. I'm sorry. It's just hard to be in here with you. Alone. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm just really, really awkward.”

  Victor's stomach rolled. He so revolted her that she could barely stand to be here?

  The urge to eject her from his apartment redoubled. But dragonheads could not appear weak….

  He picked up the scratch note pad he used to communicate with his tutors and wrote a message in English. A lie that would save both of them face.

  “ASL is my father's idea. One lesson. We can sit here for the hour. Quiet. No talk.”

  He slid the notepad across to her, and her lovely eyes widened as she read his words.

  But then, instead of going quiet as he suggested, she said, “Oh, so this is just a one-time thing? Okay… I think I can deal with that.”

  She smiled at him, and her obvious relief curdled Victor's stomach. For the first time since coming to Japan, he wished he was lean and pretty like Han. Not an “animal” who frightened girls on top of being physically incapable of speaking to them.

  Girls preferred men like his chosen brother, who looked like he had walked out of a J-Romance. When Victor was preparing for the American tutor’s visit, he'd read online that many girls from the USA did not like the thin look of Asian men, so he’d hope perhaps this girl would appreciate his opposite build.

  But of course, she did not find him appealing. He felt stupid for even hoping she would. It was a hardship for her to even be in his presence—

  “If it's only a one-time thing, let's make a game of it, okay?” she said, jolting him from his miserable thoughts.

  A game? He didn't understand.

  Dawn grabbed the scratch paper he’d scribbled his face-saving note on and flipped it over. She wrote down several words on the blank side. EAT… DAD… HAPPY… SCHOOL… 1-10. And so on.

  “Okay, that's, like, thirty words if you count all the numbers, I think,” she said, setting the pencil down. “Should be enough.”

  She lifted her wrist and started pressing the side buttons on her cheap plastic watch. “I'm setting a timer for twenty minutes. We'll have that long to teach each other the signs for the words I wrote down. Then we’ll both go through the list and try to sign as many of them as we remember. The winner will be whoever can sign the most words in the other person’s sign language.”

  Victor understood the rules she was setting forth but frowned and picked up the pen to ask, “You want to learn CSL? Why?”

  “Why? Why not?” She shook her head at him like he was the strange one in this conversation. Then before he could write down any other questions, she said, “Okay, let’s do this!”

  Pinching her fingers down on her thumb, she pressed all the tips to her mouth. “That’s the sign for EAT.”

  Then she looked at him expectantly.

  After a moment of hesitation, Victor made the CSL sign for EAT, pantomiming chopsticks with his right index and middle finger.

  “Cool! Like chopsticks, right? That makes sense,” she said, making the same sign. “Okay, here's the sign for DAD.”

  Widening her palm, she pressed her thumb to her forehead.

  Victor nodded, and this time he repeated her gesture before curling his fingers and pressing the side of this thumb to his lips.

  “Okay, sorta similar. I think I got it,” she said, copying his sign. “Here’s HAPPY.”

  She smiled hugely and circled her hands in front of her chest.

  But she scrunched her face when Victor did the same thing, more than once.

  He eventually had to write down, “Your happy. My happy. Exactly the same.”

  She gasped at his words, then laughed.

  The sound made everything inside Victor pause to appreciate the sound up close. There she was. There was the girl he’d seen from afar in that club.

  She was so pretty when she laughed. It made Victor want to laugh too. This was why he’d chosen her. This was why he’d wanted to learn her version of sign language as soon as he saw her.

  Twenty minutes passed in a flash. And then it was time for each of them to do as many signs as they could.

  Victor went first, efficiently pantomiming the signs he remembered and skipping over the ones he'd forgotten. In the end, he accumulated twenty-two points for remembering 22 out of 30 words.

  Dawn whistled at his final tally. “Not bad. Okay, my turn!”

  This was when Victor discovered something new about the girl from the club. She was completely untrustworthy.

  While he had exacting standards for himself and had skipped over the words he didn't know, Dawn wasn't nearly as honorable. The first time she came to a word she didn’t know for certain, instead of skipping over it, she screwed up her face and said, “I think it maybe it sort of went something like this…?

  Then she approximated a sign that only bore a passing resemblance to the one he'd shown her.

  “No,” Victor answered, in American sign language so she wouldn’t mistake his meaning.

  But when he gave her the real sign, she signed and said at the same time, “Wait, I was close. I think I should get half point for that.”

  Noting the signs for HALF POINT, he answered, “No half point.”

  “That's so unfair!” She signed and whined at the same time.

  An argument ensued, in which they both learned how to say a few more words in their separate sign languages. Like UNFAIR… RULES… MEAN… and perhaps most importantly, as far as Dawn was concerned, CHEAT.

  But then they were interrupted by Donny saying in Cantonese, “Victor, it is time for your next appointment.”

  Victor looked up to find Donny standing in the doorway with his favorite escort. Her name was Ayane, and she was wearing a cocktail dress that perfectly highlighted her willowy figure.

  Victor blinked at the sight. Was it that late already? It would seem that an hour and a half had passed without him checking the time once.

  Both he and Dawn jumped to their feet.

  “Oh, I'm sorry,” she said, looking at her watch. “We went way over.”

  Her eyes skittered away from him again, and she stared openly at Ayane.

  Ayane was one of the most beautiful women available from Red Diamond’s Japanese escort agency. Always in high demand, his father had ordered her to visit Victor every Thursday. Most others would consider him lucky.

  But shame washed over him as Dawn stared at the woman who had interrupted their good time. And though he owed his tutor no explanation, he found himself wanting to tell her that this woman was no one special to him. Merely a servant, paid handsomely to please him.

  But then, Dawn recovered. She looked back to Victor, signing and talking as she had before. “I'll go now. It was nice meeting you. This one time.”

  This one time.

  The three words floated out of her mouth but pierced Victor’s chest like a lead bullet. There was a sinking feeling inside of him as he answered with one of the signs she’d taught him in ASL: “Thank you.”

  She silently signed back, “You’re welcome,” in half-point CSL and smiled up at him.

  But her smile. It didn't reach her eyes. Not like it had when th
ey’d been playing their game.

  He raised his hands, struggling to come up with a combination of simple signs to tell her to stay. He wanted to offer to send Ayane away and ask if maybe they could have dinner.

  But before he could, she dashed away, pushing past Donny and Ayane without any further goodbyes.

  “That fat black girl speaks sign language?” Ayane asked in Japanese, staring after her with a giggle. “Oh, how cute! Is she your new tutor, Victor-san?”

  Yes, Victor decided right then and there. She was his new tutor. Despite what he’d written to save face, this wouldn’t be a one-time thing.

  3

  DAWN

  I didn't catch every word the beautiful woman said in Japanese to Victor. But I did manage to pick out "fat," "black," and "sign language." So I assumed she was talking about me.

  I could hear her laughing afterward. Maybe Victor was laughing too. I remembered the way his shoulders shook with silent amusement as we argued about half points.

  And that memory made me feel even more silly and stupid as I walked away.

  Why had I been so shocked when a pretty woman who obviously wasn't any kind of teacher showed up in Victor's suite? Of course, a guy as good-looking as Victor would have a girlfriend who was just as insanely hot as he was.

  And, of course, she'd make fun of me, the chubby American. I should be used to it by now after three years in Japan. There was no kind of "beauty at any size" movement here, like back in the States. In Nihon, you were either thin and pretty or fat and funny. Fat people were almost exclusively relegated to the role of the buffoon in J-dramas. So, of course, Victor and his Japanese girlfriend would laugh at me.

  Just because Victor and I had a lot of fun during our one-time tutoring session didn't mean that he found me as cute and interesting as I found him. Obviously, he preferred skinny Asian women who looked like they had just walked out of an ad for something crazy expensive.

  Could I be any more ridiculous to think I’d felt something sparking between us while we exchanged signs?

  My face stayed hot with embarrassment the whole train ride home back to Adachi-ku, where we lived.

  When I walked in, I found Dad sitting on the couch, reading the Mainichi Shogakusei Shinbun. Technically, it was a Japanese newspaper meant for kids, but Dad liked to use it for his language study.

  I could see Mom moving around our open plan kitchen, making dinner. The whole apartment smelled like kimchi and her extra garlicky version of pork bulgogi. But my heart didn't jump with excitement like it usually did when Mom made my favorite dish.

  I was still too ashamed about what had happened with Victor.

  “How did it go with the Chinese boy?” Dad asked from the couch, lowering the kanji-covered paper.

  My frustration and anger clutching for something to grab onto, I scowled at him. “Why did you call him a boy? He looked like a full-grown man. I literally asked him where his little brother was because I didn’t think that guy could possibly be Victor.”

  Dad chuckled. “I suppose to somebody as young as you, he comes off as older. But I’m pretty sure he’s only high school age.”

  The same age as me, but nothing like me. Sign language was the only thing we had in common. I’d only imagined feeling a real connection between us as we played the sign game I’d made up. Idiot, idiot, idiot.

  “From the look on your face, I’m assuming it didn’t go too good,” my father said, interrupting all the “I hate myself” thoughts swirling around my head.

  I shrugged, trying to act like I didn’t care one way or the other. “He said it was a one-time thing because his father wanted him to learn ASL. So, I won't be going back.”

  “Probably for the best, sweet pea,” Dad answered after a moment of consideration. “We don't want to be dealing with the Chinese. They’re a whole ‘nother animal.”

  What did that mean? Was Dad talking about Chinese people in general? Or Victor and his father specifically?

  I thought about asking, but Dad raised his newspaper like the conversation was already over and done.

  “I’m glad you didn’t get this job. You have better things to do than tutoring some Chinese boy on Thursdays anyway. And you’re already wasting after school study hours with that silly art club.”

  I turned around to find my mother standing in the kitchen’s open arch entrance.

  Ugh! She must have been reading our lips from afar. Unlike Byron, she adores “watching in” on other people’s private conversations. And, she’d deny it, but I’m pretty sure learning to read lips was the only thing she liked about going deaf in her twenties.

  “Hi, mom,” I signed and spoke. “How was your day? Good?”

  Mom was like Victor's girlfriend, except I’d never seen her in a dress as tight or short as that girl’s. But my mom was the same kind of small and willowy. She was also stunning.

  Even in her early forties, it was easy to see why my father fell so hard for her back when he served in Korea. She had silky black hair, which she wore tied back in a braid. The hairstyle perfectly framed her delicate features.

  My dad called her Doll, even in sign language. My mom said it was because he had so much trouble pronouncing or hand-spelling her real name, Gyeong. But I think it was because that’s exactly what she looked like; a beautiful doll come to life.

  Byron had inherited her good looks and my father's height. Lucky him. I’d inherited my mother's height. But according to her, all her beauty was hidden underneath all my fat.

  “Where’s your jacket?” she demanded, scanning me up and down.

  “Um…” I debated how to answer. My mother had already complained bitterly about having to buy all new oxford shirts for me a week ago. The last thing I wanted after that Victor session was another lecture about how I needed to stop “growing out of my clothes.”

  “She spilled some paint on it at art club, so I took it to the cleaners,” my dad said and signed behind me.

  That was one of the reasons I loved him so much. He was always willing to tell a little white lie to keep my mom from coming after me.

  But Mom quickly found a way around Dad’s criticism roadblock.

  “That’s why I say that art club of yours is no good,” she signed-spoke, putting extra emphasis on the “no good.”

  “You better hope that paint comes out,” she groused. “Those uniform jackets are very expensive. And we need that money for your college applications!”

  Okay, did I say that reading lips was the only thing she liked about going deaf? I’m pretty sure she also loved that she could take her spoken exaggerations to even more ridiculous levels by over-emphasizing them with her hand signs.

  “Go wash up and tell your brother it’s time for dinner,” she signed in a huff before I could defend art club or my completely made-up paint spill. We didn’t even work with paint in art club today. It was a digital workshop on using all the tools in the Adobe Photoshop Suite our school had just bought.

  “No arguing, sweet pea,” Dad said, cutting me off just as I was coming up with a good response to mom’s latest unfair rant against art club. “Go do like your mom said.”

  I stomped off in a frustrated huff. But after telling Byron dinner was ready, my thoughts returned to that “Chinese boy” as I washed up in our apartment’s one bathroom.

  What was Dad's real connection to Victor and his family? Why had he asked me to tell him if Victor said anything he should know about? And what had he meant about not wanting to get involved with the Chinese?

  At this point, I had more questions than answers. But I figured Dad was probably right about one thing. Me never seeing Victor again was definitely for the best.

  Dinner lifted my mood. And scooping second and third servings of the delicious tender meat into my rice bowl was worth having to endure a lecture from Mom about knowing when I’m full. Or her much less subtle signed advice that I’d never be able to find a husband if I looked like a pork chop.

  “Leave her alone, Doll,
” my father said and signed. “Black guys in America won't mind that she's a little thick.”

  “Okay, can we stop talking about me like I’m a piece of meat?” I asked.

  “Yeah, let’s talk about something else,” Dad agreed. He pointed his chopsticks at Byron. “Like how you really got that shiner.”

  Mom looked between them, confused. Dad had stopped signing when he decided to change the subject to Byron’s eye, and she hadn’t been able to lip-read what he’d said to my brother.

  Usually, I would fill her in when Dad forgot to sign. But not this time.

  “I told you already,” Byron mumbled, scooping a fourth serving of bulgogi into his rice bowl. Of course, Mom didn’t give him any lectures because he was skinny. I didn’t want to accuse God of straight-up being unfair. But Byron could eat anything he wanted and never gain weight.

  However, at that moment, I felt sorrier for my brother than I did for me.

  Silence, weird and suspicious, rose between him and Dad at the table.

  “I've got to work for Mr. Nakamura tonight. But tomorrow, I'm going to show you how to throw a few punches,” Dad eventually said. “Real men don't let themselves get beat on. We fight back.”

  I looked between Dad and Byron, feeling my younger brother's misery as if it was my own. Yeah, it was wrong to lie. But Dad would have exploded if he found out the real reason Byron got that black eye.

  “By the way, how did you do on your math test today, Dawn?” Mom asked me in the ensuing silence.

  Ughhhhhh!!!!

  I was down with changing the subject again, but I wished Mom hadn’t chosen this topic. Had my parents made a secret agreement to take turns picking on their kids before dinner?

  “82,” I admitted, setting down my chopsticks because I already knew I was going to need both hands for this conversation.

  “82?” she repeated with a gasp like I had just admitted to ax murdering somebody, not getting a less than perfect score on a math test. “How are you going to get into a good school and become a doctor with an 82 on your math exam? You have to try harder if you want scholarships.”