If he keeps this up, I’m going to have a legitimate heart attack. I pray my face hasn’t turned the bright red of his shirt. Just like a boy to send your head spinning and mean absolutely nothing by what he says. I prefer to think that Jason has no idea what he’s implying instead of him buttering me up to get something.
I force my legs to resume walking, buying me time to think of a response. “Yeah, Korea is a lot more fun than Nashville. Promise.”
And I mean it. It was an awkward transition at first, and I saw a lot of negatives for the first few months about basically everything. But now I feel like I actually belong, and I wouldn’t give up rice and chopsticks for corn bread and grits.
He falls into step beside me. “I’d like to visit the South sometime. I met your father in New York, but he spoke highly of Tennessee.”
“It’s been sort of bugging me—where did you see him? No offense, but I’m not sure he recognizes any value in KPOP.”
“My father owns a hotel chain that a lot of wealthy people frequent. Your father stayed there while visiting New York, and my father introduced me to him.”
“Well, I hope he wasn’t too rude.” I laugh, though I secretly pray he really wasn’t—Dad’s not exactly known for his social skills.
“He was polite.”
“That’s nice of you to say, but I’m sure—”
I’m interrupted by loud buzzing from my backpack. I fish out my phone, check the caller ID, and nearly drop it on the pavement.
“What’s wrong?” Jason asks.
“It—it’s my mom.” My pulse kicks into overdrive.
This most likely has something to do with the email I sent her last week that read, I’m actually spending Christmas with some friends from school. I’ll email you later with more details. Never did send that second email. Oops.
I take a steadying breath before I answer. “Hello?”
“Grace?” Momma screeches in my ear, like she thinks she has to talk extra loud because we’re an ocean away. “Grace, is that you?”
“Yes.” Who else would have my phone?
“I got your email.” She falls silent, either waiting for me to respond or allowing a sufficient amount of guilt to build inside me before continuing.
“Okay,” I finally say.
Another awkward silence.
Jason shoots me a curious glance, but I angle away from him, letting my hair fall to hide my face from his view.
“You can’t be serious about not coming home,” Momma says. “We haven’t seen you in months.”
“I know that, but I was invited and I said yes.”
“Tell them you need to see your family.” Her tone sharpens, revealing just how much family bonding time she’s interested in—none. She’s probably just concerned with what her friends will think if her oldest daughter doesn’t show up for a holiday gathering.
“I already told you, I’m not going.” I turn off the path and take shelter in the shadow of the stairs leading up to the dining hall, keeping my back to the people passing by. “Besides, Dad probably won’t even be there. He’ll be working, ignoring us like he always does.” I huff. “We’re not going to argue about this.”
“You’re right, we’re not—because you’re coming home!” She raises her voice. “This isn’t up for discussion, Grace. You’re visiting your family for Christmas. Period.”
“No, I’m not.” I lower my voice to a hiss. “You can’t make me come home.”
“We can yank you out of that school. And don’t think I won’t. I’m beginning to think you moving over there wasn’t a good idea, after all. Do you know how much we’ve sacrificed for you? We—we need to see you.”
Her voice cracks, and, for a moment, I think there might be actual emotion behind her words. But then she says, “And, really, what could you possibly be doing over there that’s worthwhile, anyway?”
Tears prick the backs of my eyes, and I spit out through clenched teeth, “I want to spend some time with my friends.”
And not with you, I want to say, but I bite back the words.
With my last bit of energy, I throw as much anger into my voice as possible. “I’m spending Christmas with my roommate, and if you don’t like that, you can just get over it. I hate being at home. Why do you think I left in the first place? Maybe if you’d noticed that, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” I swallow the sob that hangs in my throat. “We’re done talking.”
I hang up and let my arm fall to my side. My legs quiver, and I have to grab onto the side of the building to keep myself upright. Adrenaline courses through me, and my hands start trembling. I just hung up on my mother. I told her she could “just get over” my disobeying her, that I hated my home.
I press my palms against my face, the coolness of my hands meeting the heat of my cheeks. Tears seep through my closed eyelids and slide down into my mouth, but I hold in the heaving sobs that threaten to send me into hysterics in the middle of campus. I reach for the periodic table buried somewhere beneath the fear, the hurt, and the nerves. Iron, cobalt, nickel, copper, zinc. I fly through them until the flood of anxiety contracts enough for me to pull in a calming breath.
“Grace, are you okay?”
Jason’s voice breaks through the terror and grief churning inside me. My head shoots up, and I swipe at lingering tears with the backs of my hands before turning to face him.
“Fine.” I twist my lips into a smile, though it makes my cheeks ache with the effort.
“Was she upset about something?”
“What makes you say that?” I laugh, though it sounds fake even to my ears.
He frowns. “If you want to change your mind and go home, don’t feel like you have to come with us. I thought—I mean, we thought you would like to come. But we understand if you can’t.”
“No! No, I want to go. And Momma can just deal with it if I don’t go home.” This time, my laugh is genuine, and it helps release some of the pressure built up inside my chest.
He still studies me, his gaze perusing my face, no doubt picking up on my splotchy, tear-stained cheeks and the red rims around my eyes. Gah, why can’t I be one of those girls who’s pretty when she cries?