Nothing But the Truth by Justina Chen

my seat as my head orbits into outer space:
Could the classroom dominatrix be a bedroom one, too?
    But before I can find out, all six foot three inches of Stu are leaning against the seat in front of us. Stu, Anne’s gorgeous dance date with forearms corded with muscles I didn’t know boys could have. Stu, her partner in math and mashing? Hot gusts of envy buffet me. I am jealous of Anne Wong, head geek at Lincoln High, closet romance writer and object of Stu’s attention.
    “All righty,” he says, tipping his imaginary cowboy hat. “That was interesting, folks.”
    What’s
really
interesting is how fast Anne hides her romance novel, the core textbook for her advanced MBA program,Master of Boobs and Asses. But as they compare notes on their last math competition, I realize just how wrong I was.
    “Just turbulence” is realizing that Anne is being true to what she loves, even if it’s smarmy romance. Me, I’m still searching for love.

12Amber-Colored Glasses
    M ama would have been tripping all over her size five feet, shoving me forward, if she had seen all the Asian boys clustered around the SUMaC sign at the San Francisco airport like it was a cattle call for every Taiwanese mother’s dream game show:
Who Wants to Be the Asian Bill Gates?
I may not be able to date casually, but according to Mama, it’s husband assessment time. So Mama, in her true accountant’s efficiency, would have screened all these guys in less than thirty seconds apiece, and then presented me with her choice. “You marry this Good One after you go to college, get good job,” she’d order, never mind that her own track record in marriage leaves a lot to be desired. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, not ulcerating his stomach with nightly lectures.
    I am waiting by myself in baggage claim. A few minutes ago, Anne dragged Stu away from the carousel with their compact luggage, drawn by an irresistible math homing instinct to the camp counselor, a man in his twenties with spiky blond porcupine hair. In his tank top and flip-flops, helooks like he should be teaching surfing instead of SUMaC, even though the group gathered around him would be more at home surfing the man-made waves of the Internet.
    If I were Janie, I’d be singing, “Aloha,” right about now as I boy-watched on the beach. But I’m Ho-Hum Patty Ho, watching for my behemoth baggage. It’s the last suitcase spit out onto the carousel, as if it’s reluctant to go to math camp, too, having already suffered the indignity of Mama’s strip search. When it does finally show up, I’m tempted to hop on the conveyor belt myself and spin around in an endless loop rather than huff and puff my way to the group of math misfits.
    On my way to the SUMaC circle, a petite Asian girl slips effortlessly past me with her backpack and ergonomically correct roll-on luggage. She would have been a top contender for the China Dolls Club, except her ears are pierced in at least five places and she’s got a black-and-white tattoo of the yin-yang symbol on her shoulder. Even though we’re indoors, she’s wearing cat’s-eye sunglasses.
    “Heading over there, too?” she asks, slowing down and pointing to the SUMaC sign with an arm more defined than any woman’s I’ve ever seen, including Janie’s exercise-obsessed mom. She is The Asian-ator.
    “Unfortunately, yes,” I mutter, switching the suitcase from one gangrene-threatened hand to the other.
    Her lips, shellacked a heart attack red, spread into a grin, and the girl flips back hair so long it hangs past her hips. Then it occurs to me. She’s one of those Asian chicks who dyes her hair almost exactly my shade of brown, but white-balls me from her inner circle of friends. Just like the skinny girls I see on our quarterly trips to Chinatown, the ones who snicker when they see me towering over my mom and Abe.While I’m trying and convicting her of bi-racial prejudice, she says, “Thank God, someone normal.”
    It’s the