500 Words or Less Read online

  Thank you for downloading this Simon & Schuster ebook.

  * * *

  Get a FREE ebook when you join our mailing list. Plus, get updates on new releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster. Click below to sign up and see terms and conditions.

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive exclusive offers in your inbox.

  To my sister,

  for all the times you said,

  “Let’s read.”

  PART I:

  Rejection

  This was senior year

  Someone had written WHORE

  in bright orange lipstick

  on my locker.

  It was waiting for me

  after third period,

  like an old friend

  hanging

  around after class.

  For the past three weeks,

  I have filed down these halls,

  opened this locker,

  stuffed textbooks

  and slightly damp rain jackets inside.

  I’ve regurgitated facts,

  aced exams,

  daydreamed about life

  at an Ivy like Princeton,

  and sometimes I’ve thought

  about Ben.

  It was life in a holding pattern,

  circling around an airport

  where you can’t yet land.

  I glanced over to Jordan’s locker

  and saw its pristine state.

  No bright orange lipstick.

  Was there even a male equivalent

  to the word “whore”?

  There were words,

  but none that carried

  the same weight.

  Maybe I would have cried

  if I were

  a different girl.

  But this was senior year,

  and my life was more than

  a series of letters

  scrawled on a locker, vying

  to break me.

  This happened once before

  Two years ago,

  shortly after my mother

  disappeared.

  I tried

  scrubbing the lipstick

  off with toilet paper.

  Tiny bits of tissue

  crumbled in my hand,

  but the letters remained intact.

  Two years ago

  Jordan was there.

  “Who did this?” he demanded.

  Two years ago

  Ben was there.

  “My girlfriend’s not

  a whore,” he said.

  They both hulked out,

  pacing in front of my locker.

  When the bell rang

  and students streamed into the hallway,

  Jordan and Ben glared

  at each and every one of them

  who dared to glance

  in my direction.

  “Hey, ass face,

  you think my girlfriend’s a whore?”

  Ben assaulted a freshman.

  “Guys. Knock it off.

  Somebody go get

  a wet paper towel.”

  Jordan obeyed.

  Ben stood by my side.

  “Why would someone

  write that?” he said.

  “Don’t worry about it.

  It’s probably a mistake,”

  I said, but

  I thought about my mother,

  and the women

  who whispered

  about her.

  I thought about the words

  they used in replacement

  of her name,

  words that were never meant

  to be associated with someone

  I called “Mom.”

  If my mother had known

  what people were saying

  behind her back,

  if she had known

  what someone would write

  on my locker,

  would she have left?

  I wondered if the rumors

  were true

  about my mom,

  and people my classmates

  called “Dad.”

  I wondered

  who else believed

  these rumors.

  I wondered

  what

  people believed

  about me.

  But what can you do

  when someone writes WHORE

  on your locker,

  except wipe away the lipstick

  and move on.

  This time

  It wasn’t a mistake.

  This time

  I didn’t have Ben or Jordan

  around

  to defend my honor.

  This time

  I armed myself

  with a dampened

  paper towel and scrubbed

  fruitlessly.

  A green glob

  landed on my locker

  and dribbled down the front.

  Behind me

  a boy

  held out a bottle

  of dish soap.

  “Do you always carry that around?”

  I asked.

  Green goop mingled

  with the lipstick.

  Letters began to fade.

  “Don’t question. Just thank me.”

  He held out a dry paper towel.

  “Thanks?”

  I returned to scrubbing.

  The lipstick slid off easily.

  “Girl, you of all people should know

  that a wet paper towel

  isn’t gonna remove

  a petroleum-based lipstick.”

  “Huh?”

  I stopped scrubbing.

  “Last year

  you were the top student

  in AP Chemistry.

  “You beat me

  by .25 percentage points.”

  He handed me

  another paper towel.

  “And I’m damn good

  at chemistry.”

  I should have known

  his name,

  but at some point I stopped

  paying attention

  to details that didn’t matter

  for GPAs and college admissions.

  “Why are you

  an expert

  on removing lipstick

  from lockers?”

  I asked.

  “My sister used to think

  it was so hilarious

  to use lipstick

  on my car window,

  as if writing from a supposed

  secret admirer.

  “That shit ain’t funny.”

  He squirted more dish soap

  onto the locker.

  “Lipstick is a bitch

  to clean off.”

  I opened my mouth

  to say something snarky

  but stopped.

  “Thanks,” I said quietly.

  He glanced down at his watch.

  “I’ve gotta get to class.”

  The bell rang five minutes ago.

  “What are you still doing here?”

  I asked.

  “Dunno,” he said,

  and walked away.

  To the last period of the day

  I was early,

  but so was half the class,

  already seated,

  with textbooks out, because

  we were nerds who liked to get crackin’

  on mitochondria and mitosis.

  Someone was in my seat.

  That guy,

  the one with the dish soap.

  He wore fluorescent orange sneak
ers,

  with two silver stripes,

  like a safety cone.

  “You’re in my seat,” I said.

  “Nope. It’s my seat now.”

  The boy nodded

  toward words

  on a screen

  that read

  “New seating assignments.”

  Projected above

  the best seat in the class

  was the name

  “Ashok.”

  Ashok, I repeated.

  He looked up at me.

  “Yeah?”

  Shit.

  I didn’t mean

  to say it out loud.

  “Do you ever go

  by a nickname,

  like Ash?”

  I tried to recover.

  “Why would I go by Ash?

  That sounds like

  a white boy’s name.”

  “I have a white boy’s name,” I said.

  He snorted. “That you do, Nic,

  but you’re also not white,

  and you’re not a boy.

  So you just have

  a weird name

  like me.”

  “Okay, Ashok.”

  I hovered over his seat.

  “Tell me where I’m supposed to sit.”

  He scanned the air with his finger

  and motioned to the desk next to him.

  “Welcome, neighbor.”

  I slumped into

  the subpar seat.

  Jordan Parker

  Entered class

  with his hand raised.

  “Who can describe for me the process

  of embryological development?”

  our AP Bio teacher asked.

  We looked down at our textbooks,

  flipping through pages

  for an answer.

  “The embryological development process

  begins with fertilization

  where an egg is fertilized by a sperm

  and a zygote is formed,”

  Jordan said.

  “Mr. Parker, answering this question

  does not excuse

  your tardiness.”

  Jordan raised a finger

  and pulled a piece of paper

  out of his back pocket.

  Our teacher shook his head.

  “Okay, fine,” he said.

  “Please take your seat in front of”—

  he scanned the room, his gaze landing

  on the empty desk in front of me—

  “Ms. Chen.”

  Jordan saw the empty seat.

  “Of course,”

  we both muttered.

  You racist

  Jordan leaned back in his chair,

  imposing on my desk space.

  “Can you help me with my homework

  for Japanese?” he whispered.

  “I’ve never taken Japanese, Jordan.”

  I didn’t know why

  Jordan was talking to me

  now

  after weeks

  of silence.

  “But you speak it, right?”

  “You know I’m part Chinese, Jordan.”

  I didn’t know why

  Jordan needed

  anyone’s help

  with anything

  other than

  the quality

  of his character.

  “It’s like the same thing—

  Chinese, Japanese, Korean,”

  Jordan said.

  I couldn’t see his face,

  but I imagined

  a sheepish grin

  with arrogant eyes

  that still read,

  Ben doesn’t go here

  anymore,

  like it was

  all on

  me.

  I kicked his seat

  hard.

  Jordan lunged forward,

  laughing.

  “I only know Spanish, you racist,” I said.

  The class turned in our direction.

  Jordan stifled a laugh.

  I felt my face burn

  like a house to the ground.

  But I raised my hand

  to answer

  the next question

  on ectoderm

  and mesoderm

  and endoderm.

  I was still going to be

  the girl

  who aced

  this goddamn class.

  Lifetimes ago

  It was just the three of us,

  Jordan, Ben, and me,

  friends—

  not lovers or enemies.

  When I was little,

  I didn’t understand dolls.

  I didn’t like dressing things up

  and forcing plastic toys

  with shiny blond hair

  to drink tea

  or go on dates

  or drive around in a pink Corvette.

  I liked hanging out with Jordan and Ben.

  We stood around Jordan’s backyard,

  the three of us in our rain slickers.

  Jordan would hand each of us a shovel.

  “Today we’re digging to China,”

  he would say.

  Then he would turn to me,

  “You can visit your relatives.”

  Ben would start digging,

  always the loyal sidekick.

  I knew better.

  “This is ridiculous, Jordan.

  It’s impossible

  to dig to China.”

  Jordan would shake his head.

  “What’s ridiculous is not trying, Nic.

  How do we know what’s possible

  if we don’t try?”

  “Science,” I would mumble.

  “Science tells us this is impossible.”

  But in spite of my protests,

  I’d pick up a shovel

  and start digging straight into the corner

  of the Parkers’ perfectly manicured lawn,

  because

  maybe today

  it wasn’t so

  impossible.

  Tires screeching #2

  Jordan Parker’s Range Rover

  idled

  behind my parked car

  after seventh period.

  A blond sophomore hung

  on to the window

  like a lemur,

  her eyes big and black

  and foolish

  like a lemur’s.

  I laid on my horn.

  The sophomore turned around

  and glared.

  Jordan leaned closer

  to the wheel.

  He waved with his fingers,

  as if to say “Toodles” or “Cheerio.”

  “Move your fucking car!”

  I yelled

  out the driver’s-side window.

  He flashed a smile.

  “Jesus, Nicky.

  Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

  I thought about the sound

  of metal against metal,

  of black paint

  chipping off a shiny exterior,

  of the shrill screams and obscenities

  that would follow

  if I acted upon

  what I saw in my head.

  I kept it in neutral.

  “It’s Nic.

  My name is Nic, Jordan.

  Not Nicky,” I yelled back.

  You of all people should know this,

  I wanted to say.

  There was a time when I was a Nic to Jordan,

  like one of his buddies,

  not Nicky,

  like one of his conquests.

  Jordan’s mouth curled slightly,

  knowingly.

  Then he continued on

  with his business

  with the lemur.

  I slumped back,

  watching the two of them flirt

  through the rearview mirror.

  With one final toss

  of her hair
,

  the sophomore hopped

  into the SUV.

  They sped away,

  tires screeching around a corner.

  I hated that sound.

  It gave me that feeling

  in the pit of my stomach

  that’s not quite nausea

  but not quite

  not.

  That sound

  reminded me

  of Ben.

  Ben moved away

  And I felt so empty.

  I missed him so much,

  like the feeling of forgetting a sweater

  in the middle of winter,

  like the feeling of having no one to sit with

  in a crowded cafeteria,

  like the feeling

  of being restless,

  and so deeply alone.

  Almost every part of me wanted him back.

  The heart, the skin,

  the tired and achy muscles.

  But my rational brain kept telling me

  what an idiot I was

  for thinking that it would ever

  come true.

  There already was

  an end,

  between Ben

  and me.

  Except

  there was a place

  in my broken heart

  where possibility still remained.

  Hope sat

  On a back burner,

  in a teakettle,

  warming

  but never boiling.

  Never screaming.

  Never wailing.

  Only mildly percolating.

  Rumbling just enough

  to remind me

  of possibilities,

  of hope.

  “How was school?”

  Was one of those questions

  that adults asked

  just to get you talking.

  “It was fine,” I would say to Xiaoling

  every afternoon when I arrived home

  from school.

  My stepmother would shuffle around

  the kitchen and make me a snack,

  neither of us saying

  anything more.

  When Mom was around,

  she didn’t ask me questions.

  She already knew all the answers.

  “I heard

  that Jenny and Jordan

  are dating.”

  “The winter formal is coming up.

  You should go.”

  “I don’t understand

  why Meydenbauer parents

  condone sending their children

  on unsupervised

  spring break trips to Cabo.

  You’re not going.”

  When Mom was around,

  she knew the names of my classmates,

  she knew all their mothers,

  and she knew of the gossip

  that spread around town.

  But it wasn’t what happened in Cabo

  that any of the mothers cared about.

  It was the rumors

  of covert affairs,