Trade Me (Cyclone #1)

But he’s looking at me now as if he expects some kind of explanation.

I let go of my purse and tilt my head back. “You’re never going to be terrified.” My voice is low. “Because if something goes seriously wrong—if you get sick, if the laptop stops working—you can always cheat. I can make you walk a tightrope, but yours is only a foot off the ground. If you work so hard you can’t keep up with your classes, you get Cs…and then what? It makes no difference. I would lose my entire future plans.”

“Okay.” He runs his hands slowly over his bare arms. “I get that. But you said your mom was terrifying. Not just your life. How does that play out?”

For a moment, I don’t know how to respond. My throat closes, trying to communicate everything. Instead, I open my laptop again and navigate to a familiar website. I motion him to sit down next to me.

It’s a mistake. He does. His legs brush mine; his shoulder is inches from me. When I look down, I see the circuitry of his tattoo.

Here we are, sitting on the bed together.

I take a deep breath and try to push away my awareness of him. It doesn’t work. He’s still there, so close. So warm.

I give my head a little shake and log on to the website.

My parents’ electricity bill comes up. I’ve been away from home for more than two years, and I’m still checking this website.

“See?” I say. “Terrifying.” I point to the amount due—$83.26—and the due date—which is two days from now. “It gets worse,” I tell him.

I get out my phone, find my mother’s number, set the call to speakerphone, and dial.

It takes a few moments for her to answer.

“Hi, Tina!” she says excitedly. “I just got home. Guess what happened today?”

“I don’t know.”

“The big boss-lady showed me something cool at work. I’m on the blog again!” She sounds absolutely delighted.

Since I immediately know exactly what she’s talking about, I put my head in my hands. “Oh, God. Mom. What did you do this time?”

“Just what the customer asked,” she says, far too innocently. “Go look. You’ll like it.”

“I’m bringing it up now.” I type in the URL for a blog that catalogs terrible professionally decorated cakes. I’m pretty sure that most cake decorators don’t consider it an accomplishment to have made the “worst of” lists for three years running, but my mother has a twisted sense of humor. She decorates cakes in the classical style known colloquially as OMG, what the hell happened here? with an occasional dash of WTF just for seasoning.

I bring up the day’s offerings and scroll down. I know—immediately—which one is hers.

“Mom. No.”

“Exactly what they asked for,” she insists.

The cake pictured is a large, white sheet cake, fringed in iced purple flowers. “Welcome back, Bonzo!” proclaims the main lettering.

That’s not the bad part. Little bits of encouragement have been added around the edge. Things like, “Way to go!” in the upper left, and “Here’s to good behavior time!”

“They said they were putting on encouragement for a man just out of jail,” my mother explains. “I just added the best advice.”

Sure enough, she has. It’s in the lower right. “Only talk to cops with a lawyer there.”

Blake, who is reading over my shoulder, puts his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing.

“Don’t know why the family was so mad,” my mother continues. “I gave them what they asked for. Encouragement to keep him out of jail. It’s better than ‘You can do it.’ You have to be careful what you say to the cops. Everyone knows that!” She tsks. “Even the blog comments agree with me. Read them.”

“Well,” I say dryly. “If the internet commenters agree with you, you couldn’t possibly be wrong.”

“Speaking of internet. I got an email from Zhen Liu. Why didn’t you tell me you have a boyfriend?”

Crap. I know Mr. Zhen because he owes my mom a favor. I should have known he’d talk to her.

“Oh,” I say as breezily as I can, not daring to look at Blake. “He’s not a boyfriend. Just a friend who is a boy.”

“Not according to Zhen Liu,” my mother singsongs. “He says you came for him after work.”

Shit.

“Zhen Liu says he’s nice, for a white boy. He says he speaks Mandarin.”

“Yeah.” I frown at Blake. “Seriously, Mom. He’s not a boyfriend.”

“Is he rich?”

God. I blush fiercely and grab for the phone to take it off speaker, but Blake takes hold of my wrist and shakes his head.

“Do you think he’d be washing dishes for Mr. Zhen if he was rich?” I ask instead.

“Ah. Too bad.” I can almost hear her shrug. “I thought—maybe, if you had a rich boyfriend giving you money—but no, never mind.”

“Speaking of money.” I swallow. “Mom, is there a reason you haven’t paid the electric bill yet?”