He turns back to the windshield and grips the steering wheel, idly running his palms over the cracked vinyl.
“And as for my parents—all things considered, they’ve been really supportive of my acting,” he continues. “And I’ve been able to help them so much, send them money—I don’t want them to have to worry. About anything. I . . . I’m happy I’ve been able to basically support them the past few years.”
I nod, studying him and his ancient car console. I wonder if this is why he drives this old Subaru instead of splashing out on something nice for himself.
“But that’s extra pressure,” he continues. “I don’t want to let them down, and I don’t want to suddenly not be able to support them. And yeah, I can’t help it, I don’t want to give them anything less than their perfect son. So what if I get this gig—a bigger spotlight than anything I’ve ever done before—and suddenly become a disgrace to my community? Or embarrass my parents? Or just . . . am so terrible, I get blackballed by every casting director ever?”
“That won’t happen,” I say with conviction. “Forget all this—what do you want?”
“I . . . want this part,” he says. “But all of this triggers my anxiety in a big way. I can’t seem to get past it. Whenever I even think of the audition, I freeze. I can’t remember any of the lines, nothing. Grace was helping me, but now that she’s gone?” He shrugs, then rests his elbows on the steering wheel and leans forward. “I don’t know if I can do this. I think I’m gonna tell my agent to cancel.”
“No,” I blurt out.
He swivels to look at me. “What?”
“You can’t cancel,” I say, meeting his gaze. “Henry. This sounds incredible. Of course it’s making you nervous, that’s a shit-ton of pressure. It’s like you can’t even bear to hope for this incredible, potentially life-changing thing because not getting it would be way too devastating. But then actually getting it could also be devastating, in different ways. You don’t want to feel that way, so you’re trying to avoid it by feeling . . . nothing.”
My voice is getting louder, and my face is getting hot, and he’s still looking at me, a slight smile playing over his lips.
Oh . . . oh.
Probably because I’m also somehow talking about myself and all the things I’m afraid to want. And he can tell. Of course he can.
“My mom says that hope is like opening your heart,” he says, his eyes searching my face. “But that means you’re opening it up to everything. To so much hurting.”
I set my now-empty curry container aside, trying to picture my own heart: a closed-tight door, shrouded in darkness. No hope let out. Definitely nothing coming in.
Only that’s not the image that comes up. Instead I see a door cracked open the tiniest little bit, a barely perceptible smudge of light spilling out.
“Henry,” I say slowly. “When we were at the zoo today. When—”
When we kissed for the first time.
“When I wanted to leave,” I say hastily. “I was so ready to give up, but you made me hope. You made me feel like I could hope for something that still seems so . . . ridiculous. So fantastical.” I reach over and tug one of his hands from the steering wheel, twining my fingers through his. “You’re not giving up on this,” I say firmly. “I’ll help you however I can. I’ll hope enough for both of us.”
“Rika,” he murmurs—and I shiver a little, just hearing him say my name like that. “I . . . that’s so . . .” He can’t seem to find the right words, so he squeezes my hand. “Thank you,” he says fervently. “But there’s another problem—I’m supposed to show off some martial arts moves. Literally any martial art since they don’t know exactly what this character is yet. And I absolutely do not have those skills. Maybe they expect me to, because—”
“Because Asian,” I say, grinning a little. “Yeah, yeah, I know—Asians who can do martial arts are so stereotypical.”
“I didn’t mean you,” he says. “Or, you know, any actual real Asians who can do any kind of martial arts. But usually when you hear about a part like that, it is super stereotypical. The fact that they want to make this character a full-fledged human being, with all kinds of other traits and passions and everything—that’s part of why I want it so bad.”
“I can help with this,” I say, perking up. “Martial-arts-loving Asian right here, at your service.”
I meet his eyes and give him what I hope is an encouraging smile.
“I can show you a few basic judo moves, stuff that isn’t hard at all. I’m sure you’ll be able to pick it up right away, you’re so . . .”
Graceful.
My face flames again. There is something about that word that is suddenly way too intimate, too specific, like it really gives away how intensely I stare at him whenever he decides to do one of his impromptu dance recitals.
“Um, so athletic,” I amend. “When’s the audition?”
“The day after tomorrow,” he says.
“Then tomorrow we should go to the dojo,” I say—but I realize the problem with that as soon as the words are out of my mouth. “Or . . . well, actually it’s probably gonna be full up with classes, but I’m sure we can find a spot . . . somewhere . . .”
“I’m really touched by the offer,” he says. “But I’ve noticed that whenever you talk about judo—or anything related to judo, like your friend Eliza—you seem like you’re avoiding something. Or avoiding her, maybe.”
I look down at our intertwined fingers, gnawing on my lower lip. How does he always see so much? I’m not used to anyone seeing me that much—the me that exists beyond the bright hair, the explosive temper, the face that never fits in right. I don’t even see that person most of
