Page 4

JULIE

I glance around at the other groups. They are chatting, laughing, and acting like a team. Meanwhile, twenty-four hours of dread later, London, Randall, and I are staring at each other, each waiting for someone else to break the silence.

With a sigh, I stare down at our group project worksheet. Normally, I could answer these questions so fast that I’d be done already, but I’m not doing Randall’s homework for him.

What’s your civics community service mission statement? Be sure to include specific details of what community you are helping, why the need is necessary, and what you aim to do.

Calculate a working budget for your project. How will you secure funds to carry out your plans?

Please share a proposed timeline for your project from start to finish. Projects will be presented to the general public on May 25.

Who will be in charge of what items in your project?

What do you hope to achieve with your project?

When I glance up, I see that neither London nor Randall has written a word. Sigh. I’d hate to ruin my GPA, so I decide to put aside my intense dislike for Randall. For now.

“Any ideas for what we should do?”

London taps his fancy fountain pen on the paper. “Maybe something for the Asian American Native Hawaiian Pacific Islander community?”

“That’s a good start,” I say. “I had some thoughts about finding a way to use leftover food from events to feed people who are hungry.”

“I love that idea,” says Randall.

Well, this is a surprising turn of events.

“But the Feed the Hungry program in downtown Pasadena already contracts with local restaurants to make sure leftovers can be given to shelters. We donate meals that don’t sell at our booth too,” says Randall.

“I didn’t know that,” I say.

Back to square one. Also, I had no idea that Sebae gave their meals away. We should be doing the same. I jot a note to myself in the margins of my sheet.

“Something with animals, like a rescue group or the Pasadena Humane Society?” suggests Randall.

“I blow up like a puffer fish if I get a whiff of cat or dog hair,” says London.

Why is it so easy for the other groups to land on an idea? Everyone else is almost done filling out their sheets. It’s killing me that we haven’t written one word down.

“How about this? We take ten minutes and jot down any and all ideas and share them aloud. We can see what sticks,” I say.

London gives a thumbs-up. Randall nods. I set a timer on my phone.

I wish I could say that I had a ton of incredible ideas, but even as I write, I know that I’m not in love with any of my suggestions.

Help an after-school program

A fancy bake sale?

A car wash

Silent auction of stuff

Gather toiletries to distribute to local shelters

Randall bites his lower lip, stuck deep in concentration, and London taps away on the Notes app on his phone.

I sincerely hope one of them has a better idea than me.

RANDALL

Brainstorming has never been my strength. Whenever I’m forced to come up with ideas, it feels like my brain takes a vacation.

I can’t believe that for the next four months, I have to work with these two.

London scrolls on his phone while Julie stares at me. Why is she looking at me so intently? Do I have something on my face?

“What?” I mouth.

“Nothing,” says Julie. “Time’s up.”

We each share our ideas, debating the merits of some and not feeling excited about others. But nothing is jelling. Everything is half-baked.

“Instead of going in circles, how about we just pick a date to meet outside of class, and we can each do some research on our own?” I say.

Julie pulls out her paper planner. A thick rose gold notebook that is of course decorated with sparkly stickers and the most perfect handwriting. Some things never change.

London texts us his calendar app so that we can see all of his “engagements” as he calls them. His schedule is full of Korean language classes, student council meetings, and piano lessons. Gosh, he’s the perfect Korean son. My halmeoni would love me to date someone like him, but London’s not my type.

Not that I’ve figured out my type just yet.

“It looks like the only afternoons we all have free are Tuesdays. I could join you both after my garden club commitments,” I say.

“Sounds great,” says Julie.

“Happy to offer my house. Neutral territory and all,” says London with a huge toothy smile.

He directs his statement at Julie, who gives him her fake smile, the one she gives to people she cannot stand, which now includes me. He takes hold of Julie’s phone and types his number into her contacts. He saves it as “LP.”

“So we can stay in contact. About the project, of course.”

“Sure. Is your number the same, Randall?” asks Julie.

“I’m surprised you still have my number in your phone.”

She turns her phone to me to reveal that my number is saved under “Former Friend,” instead of my actual name.

“Ouch,” says London with a light laugh.

My cheeks redden. At least I had the decency to delete her number.

“Text me. I don’t have yours anymore,” I say.

My words have the desired effect. Julie looks wounded. Part of me feels bad. The other part of me remembers when she ghosted me for a month before I erased her from my phone.

She used to be on my Favorites list, right under Mercy. Our text group chat (with Tyler too) was epic. Our sleepovers never-ending. We were joined at the hip.

Sometimes I miss it.

Julie’s text pings in my phone.

Julie

Hey

I save her number in my phone as Former Friend. Two can play at this game.

Me

Got it, former friend

She sends me back an emoji face sticking its tongue out. I don’t respond and instead tuck my phone away. I’ll delete her number again after this project is over. We can go right back to not existing for each other.