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JULIE

“Absolutely not,” I declare as Tyler bursts into my bedroom.

He shoves his phone in my face. “Look at how cute this boy is.”

The boy in question is incredibly hot, with long brown hair, brown skin, and the kind of gorgeous smile that’s hard to look at. His eyes sparkle with glittery silver eyeliner.

“Are you in love with him?” I ask. I plop on my bed.

Tyler sits next to me and sighs. “Desperately.”

I give him a look. “Have you actually spoken to him?”

Tyler grabs a teal velvet pillow off my bed and smacks me with it.

“Why must you ruin every romance I embark on?” He lays down with a theatrical sigh.

Tyler is in love with a different boy every week. I can’t even take his crushes seriously because if a boy actually expresses interest in Tyler, he immediately grows bored and moves on.

“Because you’re dramatic and complicated and you’re not in love,” I say loudly.

He squints at me. “What do you know about love? Aside from reading romance novels and watching every rom-com ever made?”

I pounce on Tyler, and he easily tosses me aside. “I’ll have you know that I was in love once,” I say.

Tyler rolls his eyes. “Crushes on celebrities hardly count as being in love, Jules.”

I hate him sometimes.

“Anyway!” I say pointedly. “I still don’t want to go to London Park’s party. You know I hate those kinds of parties.”

“You mean, parties where people have fun?”

One glare makes Tyler hop off my bed.

“Listen,” he says, “we can do a simple in and out. I just want to chat with Ricky for a few. Maybe make out. Then, we can come back here, and we can play Scrabble until our eyes bleed.”

I lean in close to him. He smells of lavender aftershave and mint gum.

“You’re just sore that I always beat you at Scrabble.”

“You’re delusional,” says Tyler. “Plus, a little birdie told me London Park thinks you’re cute.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not in sixth grade. That’s not going to work on me.”

“You owe me.”

I hate Tyler’s impeccable memory. I went out after curfew once and Tyler covered for me with Mom and now he lords it over me every chance he gets.

“Fine!” I say, “But I refuse to have any fun.”

Tyler grabs my arm and drags me to my closet. “Come on, Princess Fun, let’s get you dressed.”

An hour later, we roll up to London Park’s house. Excuse me, mind-blowing gargantuan mansion. London lives in the fancy part of Pasadena where the houses have so much space that they have their own tennis courts.

Not really the place for Tyler’s 2014 Toyota Corolla, but I could care less.

A valet takes our keys as we step out. London is so over the top.

Tyler whispers, “In and out. I promise.”

The place is packed already with almost everyone in my junior class. Tyler loops his arm in mine and leads me straight to the kitchen.

The enormous white marble kitchen island is covered in red Solo cups and a various assortment of liquors, including London’s parents’ soju brand, Moon Seoul. Tyler beelines for the pineapple soju. He pours himself a healthy gulp.

“Liquid courage,” says Tyler after he downs his shot.

“Like you need it. You could talk to a wall,” I say.

Suddenly, Tyler grabs my arm and drags me into the walk-in pantry. The floor-to-ceiling room is filled with Korean groceries, tan bags of white rice, and so much soju that it takes up one entire wall.

“He’s in the kitchen,” whispers Tyler.

“Okay. So why are we in here then?”

“What if he thinks I’m way too needy?”

“You are. What else?”

“He’s like extremely hot. Like I can’t look directly at him,” says Tyler.

“Do you want me to say that you’re hot? Because you’re my brother and that’s a step too far for me.”

Tyler actually seems nervous, his foot tapping repeatedly, his white tennis shoes squeaking on the pristine tile floor. I soften.

I put my hands on his shoulders and look him in the eye.

“Ty, if that boy doesn’t think you’re hot, then he’s losing out,” I say.

Tyler finally smiles. “Okay. I’ll be back.”

He strides out of the pantry. I wait a few minutes before I peek out. The boy is laughing and touching Tyler’s arm. He has nothing to worry about.

I step out of the pantry and run smack-dab into London.

“Oof, I’m sorry.”

“Oh Julie, I’m so happy you’re here,” says London.

London Park is attractive. Sleek cheekbones, short styled black hair, and a fantastic wardrobe, like his current floor-length black quilted coat with a white tank top that screams Los Angeles cool. But he’s always seemed arrogant, his money-all-the-time attitude making me less interested. He pours me a generous serving of mango soju. I take one tiny sip. Soju made me barf all night last week, so I have a love/hate relationship with it.

“You’re into baking, right?” asks London. He leans closer to me to talk over the noise, so that we’re only inches apart. “We just hired a French pastry chef, if you want to come over sometime.”

What a line.

I back up and cross my arms to get more space. He doesn’t get the hint, so I stand behind a black barstool so there’s a physical barrier. Don’t get me wrong. London Park is being a gentleman, I’m just not interested in him like that.

I look past him, trying to find Tyler, but I don’t see that wench anywhere.

“Cool. Anyway, I have to go to the bathroom. My bladder is the size of a pea,” I say with a shrug.

I dart out of the kitchen and run up the stairs. It’s not a total lie , I think, as I join the bathroom line. That’s when I realize Randall is the one waiting ahead of me. I turn my back so he doesn’t see me, but of course, he still does.

“How bad do you have to go?” asks Randall.

“Definitely a ten,” I say.

“I’m at eight, so you go first.”

When the bathroom door finally opens, I rush in. Is Randall trying to make amends for what happened at the market by letting me use the bathroom first?

Five minutes later, I slip back out and Randall goes in. I wait. When he comes out, he’s surprised I’m still there.

“I thought you were done?” asks Randall.

“Don’t think that letting me cut in line for the bathroom makes up for the market mess you caused.”

“I caused?” retorts Randall. A few people walking by look at us.

I don’t want people listening in so I gesture for Randall to follow me into a darkened room at the end of the hall. When my eyes adjust to the low light, I see red velvet movie theater–style seats and dark heavy curtains draped in front of a large projection screen.

“ Of course London Park has a movie theater in his house.”

Randall cackles. “From the illustrious House of Soju.” He flips down a seat in the front row to sit.

I stand in front of him, fully prepared to lecture him on how what happened Saturday was his family’s fault, when I see his beat-up Scrabble board on the carpeted floor. The corner of the board still has the root beer stain from when I spilt mine during a heated game with Randall in sixth grade.

He notices me looking at the board.

“Is it weird that I brought it?”

I simply raise an eyebrow in response. He will absolutely not distract me with Scrabble.

“Back to Saturday—”

“The glass jars didn’t knock themselves over, Julie,” interrupts Randall. He runs his fingers through his short, dark brown hair.

My brain must be playing tricks on me because I notice how much I like his hair and how cute he looks with a slightly angry scowl.

I fold my arms over my chest. “You tattled to Enrique like it was kindergarten.”

“You busted out the dim sum cart like it was a Taipei night market.”

I glance down at the board again and notice that it’s half-finished. I point at it.

“What is this mess?”

“I played a round with Brian Dunphy. When it was clear he was losing, he booked it,” says Randall.

“You need a more worthy opponent,” I say.

For a few seconds, we both stare at the Scrabble board like it’s the last dumpling in a steamer basket. I should absolutely not play Scrabble with Randall, but my brain is already calculating a word point score based on the tiles Brian left behind.

“How about whoever wins has to say one nice thing about the other’s family?”

“Never,” I sneer. But somehow, sitting here, just us, my heart doesn’t feel fully in it.

“Okay.” Randall tries again. “If I win, you never get to mention that I tattled to Enrique again.”

“You admit it!”

He laughs. “I allegedly tattled.”

“What do I get?”

“I’ll convince Enrique to give your family your Saturday spot back.”

“Game on,” I say.

As we sit down to spread out the letter tiles and the game board, we slip into silence as we plot and plan our words.

“You can go first,” I say, “Since you let me go to the bathroom first.”

He places his tiles in quick succession: grudge. “Double points for the first word,” says Randall triumphantly.

I grunt in response. I use the “e” in “grudge” to spell “nemesis.”

Randall laughs. “You only got nine points for that.”

“Worth it,” I say.

Randall’s brows furrow as he focuses on his tiles, and suddenly I can’t help but wonder if we’ll ever talk about why we stopped talking.

“There,” he says, laying out the last tile. “Unfair.”

Tonight doesn’t seem to be that night.