“I don’t want to confuse the poor dear with English words,” she says—right in front of Sophie.
My roommate maintains her usual enthusiasm, however, and she and Jane bond over their mutual love of a KPOP band I’ve never heard of and the color purple, which leaves me to listen to Momma’s condescending remarks about the school, the food, and the culture all day—oh my gosh, is this what I sounded like when I first arrived? By the time Sophie and I have dropped them back off at their hotel and returned to our dorm, my head feels like it’s going to explode.
I drop onto my bed with a groan, throwing the comforter over my face.
“Are you okay?” Sophie asks.
I peek out from underneath my blanket-tent and watch Sophie plait her hair into pigtail braids. She peers at my reflection in the mirror, her eyes wide behind her glasses.
“I think I’m dying.”
“What’s wrong? Does your stomach hurt?” She takes a few steps back, like she’s afraid whatever has me cowering under the covers will spread to her.
“Migraine.”
Her face melts into a look of sympathy. “Oh, I’m sorry! Maybe you were outside in the sun too long.”
“More like I was with my mother too long,” I mutter.
Sophie frowns, turning to look at me. “It’s possible to worry so much that you make yourself sick, and you’ve been worrying a lot about your mother coming.”
“You think I stressed myself into getting a migraine?”
She shrugs. “It’s possible.”
Yeah, it is, but the admission freezes on my lips. “Well, you don’t know the Wicked Witch of the South the way I do. You saw some of her evil today. Multiply that times a million. Maybe if she was your mom, you would literally worry yourself sick, too.”
Sophie spritzes herself with perfume and slips on a pair of high-heeled sandals, and I ask, “Where are you going?”
“Tae Hwa and I are going shopping in Seoul—I need a dress to wear for the graduation ceremony.”
“But you’re going to be wearing a robe on top of it.”
“Not all day! Besides, I’ll know what I’m wearing underneath, and if it’s not pretty, I won’t feel pretty, no matter if anyone else can see it or not.”
I roll my eyes as she heads out the door, but I freeze when my phone vibrates and I recognize my mother’s number.
“Let’s go out to dinner,” Momma says before I can even say hello.
“Uhh … I don’t think tonight is good.”
There’s a long pause, then, “And what do you expect us to do without you?”
“I already told you about some good restaurants—”
She scoffs. “We’re in this country to see you. No point in going without you.”
A sigh passes through my lips.
“Don’t sigh at me, Grace Loretta Wilde,” she snaps, but the harshness in her voice somehow soothes the anxiety twisting in my gut—at least she’s being honest about her hatred for me, as opposed to hiding it underneath layers of politeness.
“So what’s wrong with you?” she asks. “Are you going out with a boy or something else supposedly more important than spending time with your mother?”
“No!” I cry, and I’m instantly rewarded with a slash of pain through my temples. “I have a migraine,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Well, let’s put the entire world on hold because you need an aspirin,” she huffs. “Call us when you get better.”
And she hangs up.
I blow out a slow breath, closing my eyes. I’ve escaped the noose for now, but I’ll have to face her again tomorrow.
My phone vibrates against my hand, and my stomach drops. Please don’t let her be calling back. Or worse, don’t let it be that reporter again. But when I check the number, a flash of surprise hits me. I pick up.
“Hey, where are you?” Jason says. “I thought we were meeting in front of the dining hall for dinner.”
I suck in a quiet gasp. “Oh, I’m sorry! I forgot to call you. I don’t think I can come out tonight.”
“Is something wrong?” he asks.
My stomach flips at the concern in his voice, but I immediately scold myself for reading into it. “No, I’m just not feeling well. I’ve got a killer migraine.”
Pause.
“Do you want me to bring you anything?”
Now my face heats, and no amount of self-reproach will dampen the flames underneath my skin. “No, that’s okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, totally, but thanks anyway.”
We hang up after a few more times of me assuring him, but the second after I disconnect the call, regret clenches my chest. Maybe I should have let him come, let him baby me a little. Lord knows he should take care of me, for once.
I fall into a light doze maybe twenty minutes later, and drift in and out of sleep for the next hour or so until a knock taps on my door. I linger in that hazy space of almost-dreaming for a few seconds until another knock.
With a moan, I shove off my blankets and shuffle to the door, muttering under my breath, “If that’s Sophie knocking because she forgot her key again, I’m going to kill her.”
But when I open the door, it’s not Sophie staring back at me. It’s Jason.
All the blood drains from my face and pools in my bare toes, and I’m temporarily struck dumb.
He holds up a pill bottle, glances at it, then looks back at me. And earns extra points for not staring at my disheveled hair or the polka-dot pajama pants.
“I wasn’t sure if you had anything to take for your headache,” he says, and a soft smile plays at the corners of his lips.
“Umm … well … I…” Have lost the ability to articulate, apparently. “Thank you,” I manage, taking the bottle from his hand. “I’m uhh … sure this will help.”
I expect him to duck out, maybe throw a jab about my bedhead, but he lingers, stays in my doorway. He stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets, tilting his chin down and looking up at me through dark bangs.