When the Moon Turns Away: A Novel

Copyright © 2005 by Tracy S. Ma

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Printed in the United States of America

To my mother and father…

who shined my pearls

when I could not.

Contents

P R O L O G U E

C H A P T E R 1

C H A P T E R 2

C H A P T E R 3

C H A P T E R 4

C H A P T E R 5

C H A P T E R 6

C H A P T E R 7

C H A P T E R 8

C H A P T E R 9

C H A P T E R 10

C H A P T E R 11

C H A P T E R 12

C H A P T E R 13

C H A P T E R 14

C H A P T E R 15

C H A P T E R 16

C H A P T E R 17

C H A P T E R 18

C H A P T E R 19

C H A P T E R 20

C H A P T E R 21

C H A P T E R 22

C H A P T E R 23

C H A P T E R 24

C H A P T E R 25

C H A P T E R 26

C H A P T E R 27

C H A P T E R 28

C H A P T E R 29

C H A P T E R 30

C H A P T E R 31

C H A P T E R 32

C H A P T E R 33

C H A P T E R 34

C H A P T E R 35

C H A P T E R 36

C H A P T E R 37

C H A P T E R 38

C H A P T E R 39

C H A P T E R 40

C H A P T E R 41

C H A P T E R 42

P R O L O G U E

High school.

These two words evoke a whole Pandora’s Box of emotions for people all over the nation. You’ve seen movies about it, and you’ve read books about it. You’ve heard people groan about it, and you’ve heard them giggle about it.

So what do the high school years mean?

Perhaps high school is most difficult because at a time of sensitive egos and wavering self-esteems, people are most susceptible to the popularity bug. A majority of students in high school care about the appearance they give off to the rest of the student body. The top of the social ladder is a prestigious place reserved for only the most athletic, the most talented, and the most beautiful.

Odd, isn’t it, that the most intelligent do not often find their way to that hallowed rung on the ladder? With their sights set on the zenith of the social mountain, high school students more often than not place their academic needs below their social needs.

As much as I’d like to say that I was immune to this, I was not. I made many mistakes in high school. Drugs, alcohol, and sex abounded everywhere I looked, and I fell victim to all of them.

C H A P T E R 1

A person’s life is like a pearl, my mother once told me. It begins life pure and lovely, but if you fail to shine it, it will dull and gray into despair.

My mother recited this Chinese aphorism to me when I was a little girl. I remember nodding at her fervently, my little, black pigtails bouncing up and down. With each nod I convinced myself that I would make sure my life would not dull and gray into despair.

I used to shine my pearls laboriously until I could see my reflection in them; when I looked into the pearl, I would often smile vainly in approval at the dimpled Chinese girl peering curiously back at me. Sometimes, I would become so absorbed in my own reflection that I failed to notice the dust collecting slowly on the pearl. After a while, the pearl would begin to dull and gray. Into despair.

I saw the old scene many times. As the dust settled comfortably over the gleaming whiteness, the girl in the pearl would gasp in dismay to find her striking smile cloaked with dust. I only had to lift my hand to clear the smudges that obscured her pale face, but all I could and would do was watch in alarm as dust veiled her beautiful face.

People have always treated me differently. When I first meet a person and tell them the name of my hometown, the reaction I usually receive is one of surprise laced with civil esteem. The brow slightly wrinkles as the chin lowers daintily to nod in polite acknowledgement. I know what passes through the mind of every single one of my new acquaintances: How is this girl from Fairfield County?

In a nation that is considered an aggregate of nationalities, a Chinese family in one of America’s richest counties still causes some turned heads and a few raised eyebrows. People are quick to assume that only the rich, the well-bred, the American elite, in short, the Caucasians, live in America’s wealthiest towns; in meeting a girl with dark hair of obvious Chinese descent who claims to be from New Canaan, Connecticut, my new acquaintance becomes baffled.

Although I do not like these societal preconceptions, I must admit that such stereotypes hold true. Few Asian families inhabit New Canaan, or any other Fairfield County town. Faced with this paucity of children from Chinese backgrounds in my neighborhood, I naturally assimilated the customs and habits of the Caucasians around me. But in adopting these white mannerisms and views, I suffered the label of banana.

When I was twelve years old, one of my friends marked me with this term when we were having dinner in a quaint little Chinese restaurant in New York. The menu was written entirely in Chinese characters, and my friend asked me what item on the menu she should order. When I responded with a laugh and an uncomfortable cough, she smirked at me.

You really can’t read a single character, can you, Crystal? she chuckled softly.

I laughed in reply, I think we should go with the Kung Pao Chicken.

My, my, her eyes twinkled, you’re just like a banana.

And so, with a Chinese menu that I could not read sitting mockingly before me, I was branded as a fruit.

What do you mean by that? I lifted my chin defiantly at her, uncertain whether I should take offence or not.

You’re yellow on the outside and white on the inside.

A slow smile spread across my lips as I allowed her comment to sink in. I was often met with this type of comment, but the concept had never before been formed under one single word.

I never know how to react to this sort of remark, the remark that I wasn’t Chinese or Asian enough. Should I be offended that my heritage had been unceremoniously effaced by one empty observation? Or should I be proud that I had actually been coined an American, thus brushing off any embarrassing stereotypes of Chinese people off my shoulders?

I dislike referring to myself as a banana, but it seems that there exists no better term to describe my life. Born into Connecticut’s Fairfield County, I spent my childhood among the most preppy children in the nation. We attended the same day schools and patronized the same country clubs; we dressed alike, talked alike, and vacationed alike; we even thought alike.

Perhaps, then, it was not so odd for me to be sent off to boarding school, like many of the other children in Fairfield County. Although New England prep schools typically accept students at the age of fourteen as freshmen, I chose to spend one more year attending day school before entering Hilson Academy in my sophomore year at the age of sixteen.

My parents approved of this extremely New England form of education, and they sent me to Hilson Academy to ensure that my future would glow as brightly as the new moon.

Once regarded as institutions reserved only for the male adolescents of America’s most elite class, New England boarding schools are now more tolerant of different socioeconomic backgrounds as well as more tolerant of the female gender. But while the student bodies of different prep schools now include boys as well as girls, the lessons learned at prep schools do not change.

Other parents in the world who choose local private schools or public schools often glance curiously at those parents who send their children to boarding school in New England. The mothers and fathers who are not parents of prep school alumni often wonder: what could New England prep schools possibly offer? How could a boarding school in the Northeast corner of the United States possibly be better than any other school? What is the secret?

In the end, they scoff and shrug, deciding that prep schools in New England aren’t better at all.

But they are so very wrong.

Parents who send their children to the culturally rich region of the Northeast know the secret. They know that a child in the perfect milieu of prep school will assimilate the relationships, the cunning, and the education vital for survival in the competitive real world.

So, with knowing winks, these parents smile in pity upon the other parents who continue to champion public schools and local private schools.

But while they smile in pity at other ignorant parents, my mother laughs. She laughs in pity of them all.

For my mother knows that merely owning a pearl isn’t enough. Neglected and forgotten, pearls may dull and gray, and in order to maintain the beauty of the pearl, it is necessary to shine it.

I spent the better half of my years shining my pearls until I could see my reflection in them. But no amount of shining could prepare me for the sin of the underground prep school world.

September brought red and gold leaves to the trees of Massachusetts’ Hilson Academy. A harbinger of fall, the stunning leaves brilliantly ornamented the setting of one of the finest prep schools in New England. The arrival ofhundreds of students back to the buildings that had stood so quietly during the summer months disrupted the idyllic setting of the campus.

All around the pastoral campus, returning students shouted cries of recognition and excitement at seeing their friends and classmates. On the other end of the spectrum, new students, nervous and bemused, stood uncertainly at the Admissions Office, awaiting the keys to their dorm rooms as well as to their new lives.

Teachers positioned themselves around campus, deliberately making themselves visible and available to the bewildered families, new to the Academy. Dorm residents stood at the doorways of each dorm to welcome the new additions who arrived in flocks, luggage in tow, to the buildings.

I arrived in the fall as a new sophomore at Hilson Academy, but I did not share the other new students’ feelings of anxiety and apprehension, for, you see, I was from New Canaan.

That isn’t to say that all children from New Canaan are overbearingly confident on their first day at boarding school, but I was given this liberty because many of the people with whom I had grown up also attended Hilson Academy, and I felt perfectly at ease. I had no close friends attending Hilson, but the familiar faces still offered me some comfort.

As my parents and I carried my boxes and bags into my room and started the daunting task of unpacking, many of my friends from New Canaan, as well as the neighboring towns of Greenwich and Darien, stopped by my dorm room to welcome me to the Academy.

At first my parents were delighted in seeing all the friendly students stopping by to help me make the purportedly difficult transition from home to boarding school; but after a while, my father declared that it would be impossible to try to get any unpacking done with all the unwanted interruptions, so he sent me to the Academy Building with a package for the Headmaster.

Magnificent green hills enclosed the campus in the distance, and autumn’s gentle sighs sent cool breezes through the slowly reddening leaves. I strolled casually down the brick path as I breathed in the feel of the campus. Everything seemed so peaceful and wonderful, and I felt so comfortable that I was almost certain that nothing could ruin the state of tranquility I was in.

As I neared the Academy Building with the lumpy, brown package in my hand, I saw a few boys playing with a Frisbee out on the quad at the side of the building. They looked quite at ease in their Nantucket red shorts and Ralph Lauren polo shirts. I guessed from their confident swagger that they were returning students, enjoying a sunny afternoon as nervous new students arrived.

I turned away from them and began to walk up the stairs to the building when, all of a sudden, I was hit in the back of the head with a sharp blow. My head jolted forward, and my eyes stung with the impact. Slightly bruised and a little surprised, I held tightly onto the package as I used my free hand to rub the back of my head.

A boy ran up the stairs to me, and the first thing I noticed was his glaringly bright blue polo shirt. Deciding that I had better take my eyes off the boy’s chest, I brought my gaze up to the boy’s face and gasped.

When you walk down a busy street in New York, you pass many different people. Not all of them are attractive, but a fair share of them catches your eye. But there’s usually only one person, one gorgeously stunning person, who catches your eye so sharply that you turn your entire head and sometimes part of your body to try to keep that person in your vision just a little bit longer. Usually, this phenomenon occurs without any acknowledgement on the part of the other person, but sometimes, if you’re really lucky, the other person’s eyes and yours will meet briefly, and in that split second, your heart skips a beat.

The most handsome boy I had ever seen was frowning down at me with his brow knitted in concern. I awkwardly rubbed the back of my head as he peered down at me. He seemed to have captured pieces of the sky to mix with the hue of his shirt to make the intense blue ofhis eyes. Dark, wavy hair framed his perfectly chiseled face, and a wondrously crooked smile flashed at me. I felt my knees go weak.

I fought to find words to demonstrate to this boy that I was capable of speech, but none came to rescue me from this temporary state of idiocy.

I’m so sorry, the boy exclaimed as he reached down to pick up a green Frisbee at my feet. Are you all right?

I nodded feebly and bit my lip, hoping that he wouldn’t expect me to do much talking.

The boy extended his hand. I’m Brett Killingston.

I clumsily shook his hand and mumbled my name incoherently.

Brett smiled gently and excused my behavior with, That’s all right. I probably wouldn’t want to introduce myself to the guy who just hit me with a Frisbee either. He paused, and when I didn’t respond, he made a move to leave but then turned back around. "I hope to see you around, and maybe next time, I’ll get

your name." He smirked and turned to jog back to his friends who were out on the green quad waiting for his return with the Frisbee.

I turned around and entered the building, cursing myself for blowing my chance to make a good first impression. But when I entered through the tall, double doors of the Academy Building, thoughts of Brett Killingston were immediately replaced by surprise and awe at the picturesque setting of the room I had just entered.

I saw a spacious room resembling a large parlor, complete with fireplace, armchairs, and even a piano. Pompous adults and restless children mingled around the room, and a magnificent oak table with a large bouquet of orchids sat in the middle of the room. Depicting a scene at a typical cocktail party, the room looked incredibly familiar to me, and I breathed a sigh of grateful recognition.

Rubbing the back of my head, I stepped closer into the room and looked up at a grand oil painting that hung above the fireplace. The painting illustrated a thin, gray-haired man wearing a pin-striped suit. His eyes twinkled and his thin lips were pulled gently into a smile. Drawn by his pleasant countenance, I moved through the groups of people and distractedly made my way to the fireplace.

Basking in the warmth of the fire, I inspected the painting closely and found a small plaque below the painting read, J. S. Hilson—An extraordinary man with an extraordinary dream.

Smart-looking fellow, isn’t he? a voice said from behind me.

I turned around and saw a jovial man with spectacles who looked like an exact replica of the man in the oil painting.

Glancing back and forth from the man to the painting, I asked, Are you ‘J.S. Hilson’?

The man laughed. If you’re referring to the man in that painting, then no, my dear. The man in that painting died a long, long time ago. He paused thoughtfully before he held out his hand and said, My name is also J.S. Hilson, but I can assure you that I am not the man in that painting.

I shook his hand and smiled sheepishly. I’m Crystal Li. I’m a new sophomore.

Mr. Hilson smiled at me and chuckled, I thought you might be a new student because I didn’t recognize you.

Excuse me ifI’m being rude, Mr. Hilson, I said, but who is the man in the painting?

That, my dear, is the first Headmaster of Hilson Academy.

I raised my eyebrows. I didn’t think an academy’s name ever associated with the names of its headmasters.

He was born into an affluent, old New England family who gave the funding for the founding of the Academy, explained Mr. Hilson. He peered at me intently before he said, And I am his descendant, here to carry on the proud family name.

Are you the current Headmaster, Mr. Hilson? I asked him.

He nodded at me, and I presented him with the package that I was sent to deliver. I told him that my father was an alumnus of Hilson who wished for me to bestow the package on the Headmaster of the Academy.

Oh, Mr. Hilson’s eyes widened when he heard who my father was. Miss Li, your father is more than an alumnus; he’s a trustee.

How interesting, I thought, that my father’s name would be so welcomed into the Academy now.

When my father first applied to Hilson in 1975, he was politely refused and wait-listed. The following year, he reapplied but was once again put on the waiting list. My grandfather, suspecting foul play, paid a formal visit to the school and received the stiff impression from his visit that Asian Americans were not welcomed with open arms into a school that was founded near the time of the American Revolution. Staring intently at the Headmaster of the Academy, my grandfather had dropped a fat check on the man’s desk and walked over to a couch to observe the man’s reaction.

The Headmaster’s eyes had bulged as he picked up the handsome check. He had raised his eyebrows at my grandfather, who simply said, I enjoyed writing the school’s name out on a check. Perhaps I will do it more often in the future.

Needless to say, the Headmaster contacted the Board ofTrustees with information about the hefty sum, and the following fall, my father walked through Hilson as a member of the Class of 1979.

I gave a small smile at Mr. Hilson’s reaction to my father’s name and then handed him the package.

After a few avuncular words and an affectionate pat on the back, Mr. Hilson dismissed me, and I left the Academy Building to return to Genteeline Hall, my new dorm.

Once a boys’ dorm before the Academy decided to become co-educational, Genteeline Hall was an immense two-story, underclassmen dorm with dark ivy burgeoning on the brick walls. I guessed from its massive size that the building had the capacity to house nearly fifty girls.

A middle-aged woman with bright eyes and a quick smile and who was not at the dorm when I first arrived stood benevolently near the front entrance to the dorm. She made a move to open the door as I approached her.

Are you another new resident of Genteeline Hall? she asked me kindly.

I nodded and smiled at her, taking hold of the door as I entered the building. She stepped in after me and gently closed the door behind her. I thanked her and then told her who I was.

When she heard my name, her eyes widened and she exclaimed, Oh, you’re Crystal! She shook my hand and gave me a warm smile. My name is Ms. Edi-fya. I’m your academic advisor.

Every student at the Academy is assigned to a member of the faculty who serves as the student’s academic advisor. I smiled up at the short-haired woman before me and thought, I guess I could get worse.

Not only am I your advisor, Ms. Edifya was giddy with joy, "I’m also the dorm resident for the North side of Genteeline hall.

I widened my eyes and said in ignorance, Is there more than one part to the dorm?

She laughed and told me that the dorm extended in two different directions and comprised of a North side and a South side. I informed her of my room number and inquired as to which side I belonged. She laughed in delight when she told me that I would live on the first floor ofher side of the dorm, the North side. She smiled and wished me a smooth first day and then sent me along my way.

I made my way slowly down the hall and almost made it back to my room when I was stopped once again.

Well, oh my goodness, I heard a voice say nearby me. Crystal? I had no idea you were accepted, how delightful. I turned slightly and saw a tall, young woman with light brown hair.

Hello, how do you do? Accustomed to formal meetings and small talk, I automatically stuck out my hand.

Taking my hand in hers, the woman laughed, a loud, pretentious laugh that I immediately recognized. Unconsciously, I withdrew my hand and stepped back.

The woman before me was Ms. Peccadille; she was an excellent addition to business parties, but it was common knowledge in my family’s circle of friends that she held not only the position of assistant to a man named Mr. Sheffield but also the position of his mistress. Because Mr. Sheffield’s wife had long lost interest in her daughter, Ms. Peccadille now eagerly took the place of mother to Mr. Sheffield’s only child. The Sheffields lived in upstate New York, and though I had never personally met them, I had heard stories of the Sheffield-Peccadille love triangle.

I frowned, and Ms. Peccadille smiled, completely unaware of my disapproval ofher. I looked past Ms. Peccadille and saw a girl with green ribbons braided into her red hair, Elisabeth Sheffield.

Well, I certainly am glad that you are here as well. Elisabeth has been here at Hilson one year already, but you can never have too many friends, and now she has one more with her at school.

I nodded politely. Yes, I’m so glad that Elisabeth goes here, too. I opened my mouth to excuse myself but Ms. Peccadille laughed once more.

I wonder why we don’t see more Chinese people at Hilson Academy, she continued, I mean, they’re a smart bunch of people and can get into Hilson as well as the next person. I lifted my chin stiffly and raised my eyes to give her a glaring stare, but she continued, In fact, I don’t see much of them in your hometown either. I cleared my throat sharply. Ms. Peccadille smiled kindly at me as she pressed a slender, perfectly manicured hand on my shoulder. Now that you’ve been accepted, Crystal, you should look into telling your Chinese friends to apply here.

The muscles in my mouth tightened, and then pulled themselves into a polite smile as I frowned at her racial slight. I think it would be a wonderful idea to tell other Chinese people about Hilson, as long as you promise to do the same, Ms. Peccadille, I smiled at her with innocence. It would also be wonderful to see more of the Peccadille family at Hilson. Won’t you be kind enough to pass the idea on to your relatives?

Ms. Peccadille’s smile faltered, and she turned to close the window as if the cool breeze gliding in had caused her sudden loss in facial control. While her back was turned, I politely excused myself and stepped out to return to my own room.

As I reached out my hand to open my door, I looked back and saw that Elisabeth lived a mere three rooms away from me. Thinking that I should check up on my parents, I stepped into my room.

To my surprise, I found an empty room, fully unpacked and furnished, even the clothes were hung up and folded. I looked around for an indication that my parents had played a hand in this, and I found a note on my desk:

Crystal,

Your mother and I need our daily caffeine fix, so we’re off to find a Starbucks. Hope you like the room. We’ll be back around 4:00.

Love,

Mom & Dad

I chuckled softly to myself. Like many Starbucks junkies, my parents literally could not function without a trip to America’s most popular café. I crumpled the note up and tossed it into the wastebasket, and as I did so I heard a knock at the door.

Come in, I said, turning to face my guest.

Elisabeth Sheffield walked into my room. I’m sorry about Ms. Peccadille, she said. She doesn’t know when to stop talking and when to begin. I sometimes wonder what my father sees in her.

Come in, Elisabeth. Sit down. I managed to say, shocked to hear her talk of her parents’ marital strife so lightly.

Elisabeth walked in and sat down on my bed.

I love this bedspread! she gushed. Who makes it?

Lilly Pulitzer, I replied. My mom thought that I should have something bright for my room for when the snow sets in, and everyone gets depressed.

Good thinking, Elisabeth said thoughtfully.

A laconic silence.

So, Elisabeth. I trailed off, racking my brain for ways to make the situation less awkward.

You can call me Lily, all my friends do. So your name is Crystal?

I nodded at her and then smiled.

When I was first born, my parents had decided on the name Crystal for me. They liked this name a great deal, but my mother’s parents had objected to a Western name. Since I had been born in the United States rather than in China, my grandparents suggested a Chinese name to tie me back to the Middle Nation.

But my parents disagreed, for they knew that a Western name would help me fit in better while a Chinese name would only set me further apart.

The argument was mitigated by my mother’s Feng Shui consultant, Mr. Shu, who suggested Crystal as my first name and "Míng Yùe as my middle name. Thus the name on my birth certificate reads, Crystal Míng Yùe Li."

Míng Yùe roughly translates into English as Moon, and both my parents and my grandparents greatly approved of the name because the moon is extremely important to the Chinese.

The majority of the world lives by the twelve-month Gregorian calendar because Western astrologers believe the sun is the most significant force in the galaxy due to its immense size.

But the Chinese view the moon as the more influential force when it comes to humans because it is closer to the Earth than the sun is. The moon has mysterious effects on bodies of water, and humans are water-based, so the Chinese believe the moon’s powers are far greater than any other force. Thus the Chinese calendar comprises of twelve years and is based on the moon rather than the sun.

Every month on the lunar calendar has thirty days, and every so often, an additional month is added to adjust the calendar. Oriental astronomers carefully study the relationships between the moon, the sun, and the Earth to determine the proper time to add a month to adjust the lunar calendar.

Today in Beijing at Gu Gu#n Xiàng Tái, the Ancient Observatory, tourists can gaze up at the astronomy tower that the royal astronomers once used to observe the heavenly bodies so many years ago.

So Crystal, Elisabeth said, jerking me out of my thoughts. Are you a sophomore?

I nodded.

Hey, me, too, she grinned.

She asked me who I had as teachers. I pulled out a sheet from my handbag that had all the names of my teachers and handed it to her. She gave a sharp intake ofbreath when she saw the classes that I was taking, and then she began to give me tips and advice on my teachers. She told me the habits of each teacher, the mannerisms they looked for in students, and the best places to sit in class. She even informed me of which teachers would let me break dress code every once in a while.

Dress code’s not so bad. The boys have it worse, Elisabeth laughed. "During the spring, some teachers won’t let the boys take off their blazers or even loosen their ties during class. And in the winters, fleeces don’t pass for dress code, so they have to wear a dress shirt, a blazer, and then an outer coat. She chuckled to herself and then said, The girls have it so much better. I swear girls can get away with anything when it comes to clothes. She paused and frowned slightly. So how come you got dropped off by yourself?"

I tilted my head at her. By myself? I repeated.

Well, she clarified, Hilson always gives transportation except on the first and last day of school because they figure that all the parents want to accompany their children to and from school.

Oh, no, I said, I wasn’t dropped offby myself. My parents are just out getting some coffee.

I see, Elisabeth said.

I quoted my father’s note, My mother just needs to get her daily caffeine fix.

My mom doesn’t really want anything to do with the family ever since she found out about my dad and Ms. Peccadille, and my dad’s at a fundraiser. Ms. Peccadille has this ridiculous maternal obsession, and she’s taken to watching over me. Elisabeth casually leaned back against the wall.

I was a little taken aback by her relaxed attitude, and I mumbled, I’m sorry, Elisabeth.

She simply smiled and said, Don’t be sorry. And the name’s Lily.

C H A P T E R 2

The start of the school year began pretty smoothly. With the help of many friendly upperclassmen and underclassmen alike, I was able to familiarize with the different schedules of the week. I even began to recognize each building despite the fact that all of them were made of brick and were host to patches of ivy clinging to the walls.

Even though my first few days were academically packed, I still found time to ask around campus about the mysterious boy whom I had met my first day at Hilson. After a few questions here and there, I soon discovered his identity.

Brett Killingston IV was a charming boy from Rye, New York. He dressed sharply and acted even sharper. He was a triple legacy, and his grandfather was well-known among the older Hilson faculty who knew Brett Killingston the first when they were students at the Academy.

Brett continued the Killingston line at Hilson, and although he wasn’t the best student academically, his victories on the hockey rink were legendary. The previous year, Brett was on the Varsity hockey team, thus securing the title as the only freshman in Hilson history to be accepted onto the Varsity team. Although he didn’t get a lot of playing time out on the ice during games, his name still traveled through the campus in awed whispers, and his reputation boomed.

His good looks also helped his social position at Hilson. He had dark hair, and intensely blue eyes framed with long, dark lashes, and his muscular build towered over six feet, though he was only a sophomore. Needless to say, he was extremely popular among the ladies.

I kept my eye out for him during my first week at Hilson. I wanted to make sure that our next encounter would be more graceful, and that I would be able to come offlooking more intelligent than the first time we met. But Fate would not have it so easy.

At the end of a stressful day in the middle of the second week of school, I had just exited my Chemistry classroom and was walking in deep thought on one of the brick paths leading back to my dorm. The sun was shining brightly over the peaceful campus, and already, students were making plans for the approaching weekend.

I was walking hurriedly and trying to shuffle papers together when I ran head-on into a tall figure on the same path. We collided, and all my papers flew from my hands and into the air, showering my assailant and me with loose-leaf.

Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I quickly exclaimed as I tried to look through the stream of papers at the figure calmly brushing himself off. I was on my knees, grabbing at my worksheets and tests when I looked up and saw who it was I had run in to.

To my horror, Brett was smiling debonairly down at me. Hey, we’ve got to stop meeting like this, he laughed.

I bowed my head, knowing that my face was blushing uncontrollably. Contrary to popular belief, Chinese people are known to blush just as well as the next person in embarrassing situations; it just doesn’t happen as often because the Chinese are seldom caught in complete acts of idiocy. I, however, am the exception.

Brett helped me retrieve all my lost papers, and I tried desperately to make the situation less awkward by running my mouth about how clumsy I was.

Good God! Brett let out a low whistle as he reached down to pick up a piece of paper a few feet away from me.

What is it? What’s wrong? my mind ran through all the possibilities for his exclamation as he walked slowly over to me.

He held up the piece of paper in his hand. It was a Chemistry test that we had just gotten back, and in the top right-hand corner in red pen was the score, 100.

Who’s your teacher? Brett raised his eyebrows at me.

Mr. Johnson.

You got a 100 on one ofMr. Johnson’s tests? Brett exclaimed. How the hell did you do that?

I shrugged. I just studied the material.

I study the material, too, but all I can pull off is a 73 each time, he handed the test back to me. I’m sorry, we never got formally introduced. Or rather, I introduced myself, but you never told me who you were.

Crystal Li, I smiled apologetically as he shook my hand.

Well, Crystal, we always meet up accidentally, and one or both of us always walks away feeling a little bruised, so how about we plan our next meeting to avoid a serious injury? He turned a charming smile on me. Would you like to go catch a movie with me this weekend?

I don’t know, Brett, I refused, cursing myself even as I did so. I have a lot on my plate right now, and I really need the weekend to just recuperate.

Brett