Victor: Her Ruthless Crush Page 4

  “I will,” I mumble, even though that 82 was a result of me studying for hours this weekend. I'd tried the "doing the best I can" defense with my mom before. Once. And as any child of a Korean mother with sky-high expectations could tell you, it hadn't gone well.

  “It is probably because you’re spending valuable study time at that silly art club. No more! From now on, you go to the library or come home to study on Thursdays after school until your math grade comes up.”

  “What?” My chest ripped open at the thought of having to give up the one after school activity I was doing for me, not because I'm hoping it will look good on my American college applications. “Mom, I love art club! And it doesn't have anything to do with me not getting a 100 on that—”

  Mom cut me off before I could finish, both her hands and her voice sharp as she answered, “Not hard enough. Obviously. Do not talk back to me! Or we will no longer give you an allowance to use on sketchpads instead of your college applications.”

  Good threat. The only thing that would make me sadder than losing art club would be not being able to buy any more art supplies.

  I crossed my arms and flopped back in my seat. And when I looked over at Byron, I saw that he was sitting in the exact same position as me. Too frustrated to talk and too angry to eat.

  I got that my parents wanted the best for us. My mother grew up so poor, college wasn’t even a possibility. And my father said that Army or Drug Dealer were his only two career options coming out of his neighborhood in Trenton. They’d pushed us because they wanted the best for us.

  But still, sometimes it felt a little bleak, knowing that none of my mother’s dreams for me included anything I remotely liked. And now she was taking away art club too?

  The sound of the doorbell brought our heads up from the four-way argument.

  Mom, Byron, and I looked at Dad. No one ever came here after the dinner hour unless they wanted to speak with him.

  Dad frowned.

  “Stay here,” he said, his voice grim.

  He didn't draw a gun as he walked out of the kitchen. But we all watched him go in the direction of the master bedroom where he kept his weapons safe. And when he reappeared in the front room, he was wearing a blazer over his polo shirt. I was pretty sure Dad was packing underneath his new ensemble choice.

  We couldn’t see the front door from the kitchen, but we heard the creak of it opening. Then a few quiet words, so low I couldn’t discern anything they were saying.

  A short few moments after that, the door closed again, and Dad returned. His expression was grim, and he had a gold foil envelope in one hand and a box with the latest NTT Docomo in the other. The only reason I knew it on sight was because I'd seen advertisements for them on teaser billboards all over Tokyo. Their ads had customizable ring tones, a cute little golf game, and you could even use it for video chats.

  “Is that the NTT Docomo N901iC?” Byron asked, speaking aloud in wonderment. “Whoa! Mr. Nakamura really is a boss! Can I help you set it up?

  Dad pursed his lips. “You can help your sister set it up. This phone is for her.”

  A shocked moment, and then both my mother and brother erupted.

  “You got Dawn an expensive phone after she failed her math test?” Mom asked, her sign for FAILED huge and exaggerated.

  At the same time, Byron whined, “Dawn gets a phone and not me?”

  “Mom, an 82 is not failing,” I pointed out, defending myself. But I had to admit, I was wondering the same thing as Byron. “Why did you get me a phone?

  “Not me,” Dad answered, setting the phone and the envelope down next to my rice bowl. “The Chinese boy. He got you this phone, and there’s some money in that envelope. He’s saying he wants you to tutor him on Thursdays from now on.”

  Then he signed-told my mother, “No arguments, Doll. She can study at school instead of going to art club, but we’ve got to let her tutor the Chinese boy. He’s a son of one of Mr. Nakamura’s most important associates.”

  I picked up the phone. And as it turned out, there was no setup required. It was already fully powered up with a number 1 next to the icon for text messaging.

  Mom agreed to let me tutor but wondered who would do something so extravagant. Byron offered to teach that Chinese kid ASL if it meant he would be getting a new NTT Docomo. But everything they were saying faded to the background as I clicked on the icon to see my message.

  A text message appeared on the phone’s screen from a name written out in Chinese—one I could only assume meant Victor whatever his last name was.

  “My father has decided one time will not be enough. See you on Thursday.”

  I swallowed. Hard. So I would be seeing Victor again. Like, a lot of agains.

  Despite what happened with his girlfriend, a firework of thrill went up in the most secret space inside my heart. The same place where I kept my unapproved dreams of making my art more than a hobby.

  “Be careful with that,” my father said, breaking into my secretly thrilled thoughts.

  His expression was grim. Like I was holding a stick of dynamite, not a cutting-edge phone.

  And I wasn't sure if he was talking about the expensive piece of technology in my hand.

  Or the mysterious Chinese boy I would be tutoring on the regular, starting next Thursday.

  4

  DAWN

  Byron was supposed to walk with me to the other southbound station every Thursday after his basketball practice. But this Thursday, he was late. Standing outside the door to the boys’ locker room, I checked my watch. Again.

  It was nearly 1700 or 5 PM, as I used to call it when we lived in the States. If Byron didn’t show up soon, there was no way I would be able to make it to Victor’s by 1730. Dad had told Byron he should walk me to the other station after practice, like a gentleman. Especially now that it was winter and dark by the time we both left school on Thursdays after his basketball practice.

  But if I didn’t leave soon, I was going to be late.

  And I didn't want to be late. This was my last tutoring session with Victor before he went home to Hong Kong. I didn’t know when or if he’d be back, and even more importantly, he’d promised to treat me to some of his favorite snacks the next time I came over. When I asked him what his favorite snacks were, he'd answered in ASL that it would be a surprise.

  His ASL had really come along. My CSL was still a total struggle bus, but he was already pulling out whole sentences to tell me about surprise snacks. I had a feeling being awesome at everything he tried was kind of his MO—though I couldn’t say for sure.

  I’d been tutoring him for months, but I still didn’t know much more than surface details about him. He was an only child. His mom died when he was little. And he’d been living off and on in Japan ever since he was a kid.

  Asking him follow-up questions never got me any satisfying answers.

  “Do you wish you had siblings?”

  “No, Han is a better brother to me than a blood one ever could be.”

  “How did your mom die?”

  “It is a sad story. I do not talk about it.”

  “Why do you keep moving to Japan?”

  “It is my father’s decision.”

  “It is my father’s decision” had been the answer to at least half the personal questions I’d asked him, including “Why don’t you go to school with other kids?” and “Why are you so ripped?”

  I couldn’t tell if his father truly did control every aspect of his life or if he just didn’t want to answer all my nosy questions.

  But the main point was, I lurved snacks. Like, more than Japanese girls loved taking pictures of themselves. And I was going to be totally late if Byron didn’t get here soon.

  Maybe I should just go. I didn’t really need a gentleman to escort me to the station. I mean, it was only a five-minute walk, and Japan was super safe, especially compared to New Jersey.

  Plus, surprise snacks were a totally valid excuse for going against my dad’s o
rders.

  I pulled my phone out of my backpack to let Byron know I would be going to the station without him—my parents had caved and got him a cheapie phone of his own after all his whining about me having one. But just as I was about to push send on the message, the locker room doors crashed open.

  A bunch of basketball players from the school’s team came loping into the hallway. Most of them spoke in Japanese, but there were a few black, white, and Indian kids in the mix, using English to communicate.

  However, Byron wasn't one of them, and the door to the locker room swung closed in what felt like an “all done” way.

  “Hey, have you seen my brother?” I asked one of the white guys. An English kid who I often saw sitting next to Byron at lunch before what happened at the end of the first term.

  “I don't know,” the British guy answered with his super posh accent. But then he averted his eyes. Like he couldn’t quite commit to looking at me after saying that.

  I scrunched my face, instantly suspicious. “What do you mean, you don't know? Was he at practice or not?”

  I didn’t like how shifty this guy was acting. And the “Where’s Byron” mini-mystery exploded into a full-on suspense scene inside my head.

  “I don't know?” the British guy said again, this time with a question mark. “I really must go now. I’ve a car waiting.”

  It was true he was one of those Richie Rich kids on the team who had a limo waiting for them after basketball practice. But a bad feeling came over me as I watched him rush away.

  Byron and I weren’t twins. We didn’t have ESP or anything like that. But siblings who start school in a foreign country together have a different kind of bond. And I turned back to the closed locker room door, knowing in my gut, something wasn’t right.

  Byron was in trouble. So I pushed into the guys’ locker room, even though it's was super against the rules for girls to go in there.

  I heard the laughter as soon as I entered the forbidden space. Snickering and mean, like hyenas in human clothing.

  “Hit him again,” a voice with an American accent said in Japanese. “Show that homo!”

  I rushed toward the sound of the voices and got there just in time to see Byron take a punch to the gut. He was still wearing his basketball clothes. And two boys with wet hair, fully dressed in their school uniforms, were holding him prone to the locker.

  One was Tim, an American who used to be Byron's friend up until this term. And the other was a Japanese guy who never bothered to talk to me whenever Byron dragged me along for one of the basketball team’s hangouts. I think his name was Yoshi. I was more surprised to see them holding my brother down than I was to see the guy who had just hit Byron.

  That would be Jake Nakamura. The grandson of my father's boss.

  He was saying something in Japanese to Byron, who was doubled over in pain. Words I didn't understand. But the anime term for extreme facial expressions, agego, flashed through my mind. He appeared that angry.

  After Jake finished his tirade, he and Yoshi traded places. Yoshi had never liked Byron. Probably because before my brother joined the team, he was the only one who could hit three-pointers.

  He was not nearly as considerate as Jake, who hit Byron below the neck. Yoshi drew his arm back, curling his hand into an open fist to hit my brother again. This time in the face.

  Meanwhile, Jake had the nerve to say, "Yes, hurt him. Give him what he deserves."

  I knew…

  I knew that Jake’s grandfather was the only reason we were allowed to go to this school. Our tuition for Tokyo Progressive had been a signing gift to my father. A gift he could take back whenever he wanted. Also, I’d promised my brother I'd stay out of this Jake mess at the beginning of the term.

  But something inside me snapped at the sight of them holding Byron down while Yoshi prepared to hit him.

  “Let him go! Get away from my brother!” I screamed, throwing down my backpack and rushing at them blindly.

  I couldn't say that I had a plan for how I, a five-foot-three girl, would take on a bunch of basketball players. I'm not tough like so many of the other girls I went to school with back in Jersey. I'd never gotten in a fight in my life, and I wasn't even sure how to throw a punch.

  But as it turned out, all I had to do to keep Byron from getting hit again was show up.

  Yoshi’s fist plowed into my face and sent me flying into the lockers.

  And did the humiliation stop there? Nope. I bounced off the metal wall behind me. Then, of course, I had to trip over the low bench welded into the floor between the rows of lockers. I went flying again, this time face forward as I tumbled over the wood and steel structure before landing in an unceremonious pile on the concrete floor.

  Ow.

  “What are you doing here?” Yoshi demanded in his still not very good English despite the years he and Byron had been supposed friends. “No girls allowed in boys’ locker room!”

  I groaned and turned over. Jake and his two friends were standing over me, their expressions aghast. Like me being in the boys’ locker room was way more outrageous than their completely unfair fight with my brother.

  “What am I doing? What are you doing?” I demanded back.

  Pain from my Melissa McCarthy in blackface routine stabbed at it least five points on my body as I sat up. But I struggled to my feet, determined to look strong, even if half my face felt like there was something hot and pulsing inside of it.

  “What do you think your coach would say if he found out you were in here wailing on my brother?” I asked once I was back to standing.

  The American looked scared, but Yoshi and Jake just exchanged smirks.

  “Our coach is in his office now, pretending he does not hear,” Jake answered in the only faintly accented English he’d been so proud to show off when he first met my brother and me. “He will not do anything. Just like you will not say anything to anyone about what happened here today.”

  “You think I’m going to let you keep on hurting him like this?” I widen what I can only hope is both eyes at Jake. My left one is throbbing so bad; I can't be sure it's not on its way to swelling shut.

  “Are you threatening me?” Jake took a step forward, his fists balled at his sides.

  “Dawn, just shut up. Please!”

  Jake and I looked toward the lockers where Byron was standing, one hand holding his stomach. He was bent over at the waist now that no one was forcing him to stand up straight to take another hit.

  But he lifted his head to plead with Jake. “Don't hurt her. It's not her fault. This is all on me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  My brother was apologizing? Saying it was all on him? I was one of the three people who knew what really happened last term. And what Byron was saying was total BS.

  But Jake glared at my brother like he couldn’t agree more with his admission of guilt.

  “You better make sure she keeps her mouth shut,” he said to Byron. Then he looked back at me and shook his head like I was a roach who had found its way into the boys’ locker room. “Tell your father hello for me, won't you, Dawn-senpai. I appreciate how hard he works for our family. But you should know, our guards rarely quit. They are almost always disposed of when we are done with them.”

  Usually, I loved the honorifics Japanese students use, even with each other. But my stomach filled with bile as Jake called me by an upperclassman honorific right before he low-key threatened my father.

  And I felt like throwing up when Jake and his friends walked past me, all three smirking because they were so clearly going to get away with beating up my brother.

  I didn't want to give them any more of Byron’s dignity than they'd already taken. That was the only reason I waited until they were gone from the locker room before running over to my brother.

  “Ronny! Ronny! Are you okay?”

  Byron shook his head and stood up straight with a pained wince. “I'm fine. You shouldn't have come in here.”

  “I shouldn’t hav
e come in here?” I repeated. “They shouldn't have ganged up on you three against one. They could've seriously hurt you.”

  “Naw, I had it under control,” Byron insisted with another shake of his head.

  What? Had they hit him in the head before I came in here? Was Byron concussed? Because obviously, “You don't have this under control! They could’ve done permanent damage, and then how would you be able to get a basketball scholarship?”

  I reached out to rub his arm. “Ronny, I think it’s time to tell Dad.”

  Byron knocked my hand away. “I thought you had a session with NTT Docomo today.”

  NTT Docomo was what he called Victor. I wasn’t even sure he’d bothered to remember his real name. “You’re going to have to walk to the station by yourself. I still have to take a shower and get dressed.”

  “I’ll wait,” I offered. Forget the surprise snacks. My appetite was totally gone. “What if Jake and his friends are waiting outside?”

  “Just go! I don't need my sister to protect me.” Byron’s voice was strong at first, but it cracked on the last two words of his big declaration. And his entire face convulsed like he was trying not to cry.

  He should've cried. I would've cried if I had been going through what Byron had all semester. But I knew he had Dad’s voice inside his head, telling him that wasn't how real men handled their business. That was why I couldn’t remember the last time I saw my brother cry.

  “Okay,” I whispered. “I'll see you at home.”

  Byron didn't answer, just snatched a towel out of the locker and walked away toward the showers. That was probably where he'd been headed before Jake and his boys jumped him.

  I stood there after he left, feeling worse than useless.

  I'd been so excited about moving here to Japan, the home of anime and manga. I knew my parents would never agree to let me go somewhere to pursue an art major, so three years in Japan seemed like the next best thing.

  But Byron hadn't wanted to come here. Unlike me, he’d been popular at our school back in New Jersey. He was easily on track to getting a basketball scholarship by middle school. But that had all been ripped away from him, and he’d been forced to leave everything and everyone he'd ever known behind.