Bitter Melon by Cara Chow Read Free Book Online Page A

checkered golf pants. He shakes my hand warmly and introduces himself as Mr. Engelman. Then he gives me my workbook materials for the class.
    There are two empty seats at the back of the classroom. One is to the left and the other is two rows to the right. The seat on the right-hand side is next to a blond boy. He is tall and lean, with long limbs. He has a long face with rosy cheeks. The sunlight from the window catches on his straight, fine hair, making it glow like golden silk threads. He looks at me and smiles. His eyes are the color of arctic glaciers.
    Quickly, I look away, my face hot and my heart pounding. I sagely choose the empty seat on the left. But another latecomer takes that seat before I can get to it. I reroute my path towards the seat next to the blond boy. I avoid looking at him the whole time.
    As Mr. Engelman begins class, a group of three boys next to the blond boy starts acting up. The boy behind me, the ringleader, has big green eyes and curly brown hair. The boy behind the blond boy has curly dirty-blond hair. The boy behind the ringleader has shocking orange hair and a rash of freckles on his face. The three play a kicking game, seeing who can kick whom the most without getting caught by the teacher. They time this so that it happens only when Mr. Engelman is writing on the board. Every time the boy directly behind me kicks or gets kicked, my desk is jolted. I’m not going to absorb any information with all this going on. I turn and give them a dirty look, holding my index finger up to my lips. For a while, they are quiet. Relieved, I resume my note taking. A minute later, however, a crumpled ball of paper hits me on the back of the head. This is followed by quiet sniggers. I try to ignore them, but a minute later, another paper ball hits me and lands next to me on the floor.
    To my surprise, the blond boy reaches down, picks the paper ball off the floor, and hurls it back at the troublemakers. It hits the ringleader in the face.
    Unfortunately, that is the moment when Mr. Engelman turns towards the class.
    “Collins,” he says, staring daggers at the blond boy. He points to the door. The blond boy sighs and gathers his things. As he passes me, I give him an apologetic look. He answers that with a rueful smile. We lock gazes as he walks towards the open doorway, until he runs into the doorframe, missing thedoorway by an inch. The blond boy grimaces, holding his face in his hands as he exits the room. The troublemakers behind me snigger.
    Meanwhile, Mr. Engelman has resumed his instruction. He turns his back to us again to write something on the board. I continue staring at the doorway until another ball hits me in the back of the head.

    During the bus ride home, I can’t stop thinking about the boy named Collins. I mentally replay the way he smiled at me, the way he defended me against those dumb kids, and the way he slammed into the doorframe. I decide that I should reciprocate the sacrifice he made for me. That evening, I copy my notes for him in my neatest writing. My hand is so careful that it almost trembles.
    My mind wanders. How will he react when I give him his notes? Will he smile again? Will he talk to me? I remember the flyers in the hallway for the St. Augustine fall dance. I imagine him asking me,
Are you going to the dance?
    Suddenly, the door jerks open. Mom has just come home from work.
    I nearly jump out of my seat, as if I were caught burgling. Mom does her usual routine, tossing her purse onto the couch and the takeout into the microwave with a heaviness that matches her mood. Meanwhile, I try to act normal, even though my heartis pounding. Fortunately, she can’t read my thoughts. Right after thinking this, I look down at my notes and realize that while copying the vocabulary list, I wrote “dance” instead of “abstinence,” the word following “abstemious.” Frantic, I cross it out before Mom can detect it with her eagle eyes. What would Collins think, seeing