Fresh Off the Boat by Melissa de La Cruz Page A

was talking about, my ears pricked up whenever they chatted about him. She and her crew were always mooning over him during break, talking about howhis muscles bulged when he picked up the washer-dryers or how cute his butt looked in his 501’s. I already knew he was a sophomore, lived in San Mateo, and liked to surf.
    “Wanna listen to something cool?” he asked.
    “Sure.” I shrugged.
    He handed me his headphones and I stuck them in my ears gingerly. He turned down the volume a bit, and I heard jangly guitars playing and a low voice growling a surprisingly plaintive, catchy tune.
    “It’s good. Who is it?” I asked.
    “You really think it’s good?” He smiled, cocking an eyebrow.
    “Yeah.” I nodded, getting into it. It had a hard edge, but the lyrics were kind of nice. It was some sort of love song.
    “It’s me,” he said, “and a couple of guys. We’re kind of in a band.”
    “No way!” I reached over and turned it up a little more. It was definitely his voice—deep and kind of gravelly. Funny that I didn’t notice before. “Did you write it?”
    “No, Led Zeppelin did.” He laughed. “But I’m getting some of my own stuff together,” he explained, as I handed him back his earphones. I suddenly felt shy and a little self-conscious about the intimacy of having something in my ears that was just in his.
    “Well, it’s really good. You guys ever play anywhere?”
    “Nah,” he said. “It’s just a hobby. It’s not like I really thinkI’m going to be some guitar god or anything. I’m not that much in denial. Besides, the corporate-industrial-music complex has totally ruined the world.”
    “What, like MTV and stuff?” Jeez, I loved MTV. What was his deal? I didn’t peg him to be such a cynic.
    “Yeah, MTV, radio—it’s all corporate rock. There’s nothing real out there anymore.”
    “That’s not true,” I argued. “And, besides, it’s just entertainment. You shouldn’t take it so seriously.”
    “No, music matters, man.” He shook his head. “That’s the worst thing about the world right now—everything is trivialized into entertainment. What about passion? Art? Soul?”
    “You’re telling me Britney Spears doesn’t have a soul?” I joked.
    He made a face. “How can you listen to that crap?”
    “I like Britney,” I defended. “Give the girl a break. She’s been through some tough times.”
    “V, you disappoint me,” he said, shaking his head and looking down at the counter. “Oh man! And don’t tell me you’re reading that !” he said, flicking his thumb at my copy of The Fountainhead .
    “What do you mean?” I asked, annoyed. Ayn Rand was a genius! She was a philosopher! What would some Sears stock boy know?
    “That’s a terrible book!” he said. “She started a cult. She was a dangerous person. That book is incredibly dogmatic andmanipulative. It’s not a novel. It’s a…whatchamacallit…a manifesto…a rant!”
    “Have you ever read it?” I asked.
    “Yes and believe me, it’s even worse than listening to teen pop. At least Britney doesn’t try to tell you how to think.”
    Only how to dress , but I didn’t want to seem like I was coming around to his way of thinking, so I just shrugged.
    “You don’t believe me, do you?” he teased.
    “No, no…” I said, not wanting to be rude.
    “Look her up sometime. You’ll see what I mean.”
    “All right,” I said coolly, even if I had no intention of doing so.
    I gave him his Pepsi and his Kit Kat before he even asked for them.
    “Thanks,” he said, and handed me exact change. I put it away in the cash register and went back to my reading, still a little annoyed by his criticism.
    I peeked over the pages and watched him sit down at the nearest table. He pulled out a worn paperback and began to read.
    Even if we didn’t see eye to eye on pop culture, I still liked having him there. It felt oddly comfortable, like, even if we were alone, we were being alone together.
    After fifteen