Fresh Off the Boat by Melissa de La Cruz Page B

minutes, he stood up and walked over to the counter. What now? I wondered.
    He stared askance at my book, as if the mere sight of it causedhim pain. “I really hate seeing someone waste her time on it. You deserve to read something more rewarding.”
    “Yeah, like what?”
    “Like this.” He smiled, pulling out a battered copy of Stephen King’s It from his back pocket and laying it on the tiled counter next to the cash register. I scrutinized both books side by side—the Stephen King with its silly clown-skull cover and the Ayn Rand, with its cool Art Deco graphics. Stephen King? Give me a break! I waved off the book, inadvertently brushing the back of his hand.
    “You’ve never read any Stephen King?”
    “No.” I shuddered. I hated horror books. And Stephen King was a pulp fiction writer—cheap trash as far as I was concerned. I prided myself on being a little high-minded when it came to literature—I’d already read the first volume of Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past —not that I could understand any of it—and had just devoured Kafka’s The Trial for Honors English. Dr. Avilla said I was reading at college level. I discovered Ayn Rand all by myself in the library. I didn’t have time for Stephen King.
    “Take it,” he said, pushing it toward me.
    “I don’t really—”
    “No, seriously—you should read it, it’s a great book.”
    “Okay,” I said reluctantly. Whatever.
    Paul looked at his watch. His wrist, I noticed, was so knobby it stuck straight out of his arm. His arms were long, tanned, andfreckled. “I’ve gotta go. Break’s over.” He downed the last of his Pepsi. “Can I?” he asked, motioning to the trash can behind me.
    “Sure,” I said, moving out of the way.
    He pretended to dribble and shot it in an arc. It bounced off the top and rolled down the floor.
    “Oops!”
    “I’ll get it,” I said, but he was already behind the counter and bending over to reach for it. “Sorry about that,” he said as he straightened up. He was so tall I only came up to the bottom of his chin. I’d never noticed that before—it’s kind of hard to gauge from behind the cash register.
    “You gonna read that book?”
    “Maybe,” I said, running a finger on the well-worn spine.
    “All right. See ya.”
    “See ya.”
    He walked out of the cafeteria, swinging the doors behind him. I put down The Fountainhead and stared at the ugly clown head laughing at me from the cover of the grotty Stephen King book. I opened to the first page, where he had scribbled his name, Paul Hartwell in the top right-hand corner.
    I opened the cover of The Fountainhead where I had written my name, Vicenza Arambullo, in the top right-hand corner as well.
    FROM: [email protected]
    TO: [email protected]
    SENT: Tuesday, November 3, 7:30 PM
    SUBJECT: present!
Dear Peaches,
DYING!!! Claude was so sweet yesterday. I went over to his house in the afternoon to watch his band practice. Yes, he’s in a band! Isn’t he so talented? He plays lead guitar. He writes all the songs. Maybe he’ll even dedicate one to me, like Chris Martin did to Gwyneth! When I left, he handed me a present! A book I’ve been dying to read. He even wrote the sweetest dedication in the front. Do you think this means he likes me?
Still confused,
V

9
The Last American Virgin?
    I ’ VE BEEN IN this country for almost four months now, and I really don’t think I’m that strange. Sure, my parents are a little weird and I just moved here and everything, but most of the time I feel just as American as anyone else. I bought a Clay Aiken album (for my mom, but I secretly listen to it all the time). I wear Gap jeans. I have a favorite Pizza Hut pizza. But yesterday I found out how truly, totally out of it I am. It happened in gym class. Whitney was going up to everybody to ask them questions for this “survey” she was taking.
    Lately, she has all these projects she’s working on all the time. If it’s not about getting a theme