Taylor

Considering that our parents live in the same neighbourhood, that our mothers have been best friends since forever, and that we have known each other since kindergarten, I really shouldn’t be so surprised to see Noah Bricks standing at the gate to our school. Except that he is a year older than I, and last I heard, he was taking a gap year to volunteer as a teaching assistant in Guatemala. Which makes it weird for him to be here here. At this moment. Holding my art project and looking at me like he always has: Smug as hell, and as if he belongs right where he is. Which he really, really doesn’t. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” I greet him, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

A raised eyebrow adds to the smirk on his face, and I want to punch that expression off him. It has become an instinct for me to switch to hissy fit mode as soon as I meet Noah. At least my mom calls it that. I would never.

Noah holds up my architectural monstrosity of a hat. It is littered with artificial flowers, moss, bird figurines, fern leaves, and tree branches. I’m not sure it can still be called a hat, to be perfectly honest.

“Saving your forgetful ass,” Noah answers my question while not answering it at all, careening sideways to look around the hat. I throw a glance back at the school, as if the building could hold an answer, before resigning. It’s my own fault for forgetting the damn hat this morning. I’m in no position to dish out insults.

“Thank you,” I press out instead, and take the hat, suppressing the impulse to throw it down on the ground and kick the ugly fucker. The hat, I mean. If the crowds of Haverfield High have any say, Noah is not ugly by any accounts.

“Quite a forest you have there,” Noah says, and I swear I can hear ridicule in his voice, even though his face is nothing but neutral. 

“Oh, you know Mrs Fletcher’s ideas…” I say vaguely, not wanting to make any indication that I wish for a conversation. After a short, awkward pause, I add “Well, I should be going,” and turn around. My mumbled “Thanks” disappears in puffs into the cold winter air.

“Good to see you again, Tay,” Noah calls after me. 

I make a half turn and nod in his general direction. I was going to go for the awkward wave, but thankfully, my hands are full. 

For the rest of the day, I hold it in. During lunch, where Caya teasingly asks me about the ‘hot guy at the school gate’ as if she didn’t know exactly who he was; during art class, where Mrs Fletcher gushes over every single one of our ugly hats; during the bike ride home, where a car almost runs me over. Even as I arrive at home and go through the motions of doing homework, cooking dinner, and cleaning the kitchen, I hold it in.

As soon as I hear Mom’s keys in the door, though, I race to the entrance. She hasn’t even stepped inside when it explodes out of me. “Why the hell would you ask Noah Bricks to bring me my art project?!”

My mom pulls the key out of the lock. “Ah, right, I forgot Noah would be back from Antigua by now. I should call Susu.”

I grip my curly hair and pull hard. “That’s not important right now, why-”

“I don’t know, Tay,” Mom interrupts, and I shrink under her sharp gaze. “I was at work, and only Susu has a spare key, so after your ‘Mom, the world is going to end if you don’t bring me my ugly hat’ call, I asked her for help. I guess since Noah was at home, he must have offered to take care of it. Courteous as he is, it wouldn’t be unlike him.”

And there it is. That dreamy voice whenever Mom mentions Noah. Perfect, smart, polite Noah, who is the dream son she never got to have. Instead, she got me. Average, chaotic, impulsive Taylor.

“I didn’t call it an ugly hat,” I mutter, her words taking the wind out of my storm. Or was it boat? Whatever. She gives me the look and slips out of her shoes before passing me by. That exasperated-mother-look that Noah has probably never seen in his life.

“What’s for dinner?”

I plop into my chair. “Stir-fried leftovers,” I answer, still subdued and in a bad mood, while Mom uncaringly sets the table. I don’t even know why Noah’s appearance has rattled me this much. I should be grateful I didn’t get another C for an art project handed in too late. Mrs Fletcher is a free spirit in art, but not when it comes to deadlines. 

My mom sits down and picks up the chopsticks to eat. “It’s good that you have seen each other. I wasn’t sure how to bring it up, but since we’re at it …”

I pause, my chopsticks halfway to the bowl. “What have you done?”

My mom rolls her eyes. “A while ago, I asked Susu if Noah could be your German tutor while he is waiting for his college summer courses to begin after his return.”

“You did what?!” I lose grip on my chopsticks. They clatter along the kitchen floor, one rolling somewhere to the deep end. 

“Seriously, Tay,” Mom chides and gets up to gather the chopsticks as if I’m a three-year-old. “Don’t act so dramatic. I think it’s a good idea to brush up on your German before your grandparents visit for your graduation. Didn’t you also want to take a certificate exam during college? You might as well start preparing for it now.”

“But why him?! Why can’t you send me to a language school like normal parents?”

My mother places the chopsticks down next to me with a loud clack.

“Oh, you want to go to language school instead? Great, then you'd better start working a side job to pay for it.”

I frown. “Wait, you are telling me Noah will tutor me for free? The don’t-bother-me-I’m-studying Noah? The you-are-so-noisy-go-play-somewhere-else Noah Bricks?”

Mom laughs, “Come on, Tay, that was over ten years ago. Don’t tell me you still hold a grudge from your childhood.”

Well, if she says it like this, of course, I can’t admit that I hold onto that grudge like a squirrel clinging to its stash. I poke my chopsticks into my food, with a few pieces flying out of the bowl.

“It’s already been decided. From next week on, you will go over after school every Monday and Thursday to polish your German back to an acceptable conversation standard, so you can at least talk to your grandparents once they arrive here.”

I still to observe Mom, who is picking at her nails. Her nervous habit. It almost makes me feel bad for making a fuss. 

Ever since my grandparents announced their decision to come for a visit in June for my graduation ceremony, Mom has been high-strung. My grandparents claimed they want to travel the US, but knowing them the little I do, they probably want to make sure I haven’t forgotten my roots. 

My dad once mentioned that they wished I would go to a university in Germany. ‘Over my dead body’ was my answer to that idea.

I don’t even remember the time I lived in Germany. When I was about one year old, my mother got an irresistible offer to work at the university in Haverfield, and my father had been supportive of her chasing her dream job, to the dismay of my grandparents. As for me, my roots are here. Dad, who spoke English with me, had been my main caretaker. Thus, even though Mom did try to teach me German and I can say easy sentences, I can hardly hold a whole conversation. Which is unfortunate, considering I do want to get a language certificate for my CV.

I sigh and catch Mom’s smile the moment she knows she has won. She places her hand on mine to deliver the critical hit.

“Please do me this favour. You know how much it would mean to your grandparents and us.”

I choke on a groan and give a defeated nod. 

“And don’t be too harsh on Noah,” she adds. “He is a really nice boy. If you made an effort, I’m sure you would get along.”

Right. Noah Bricks. A-student, former student council president, valedictorian, and as if that wasn’t enough, organizer of the school’s annual fundraiser for a range of community causes. Like the animal shelter last year. Or the LGBT Youth Center, the year before that.

My mom is absolutely right, Noah Bricks is a nice boy. That damn angel isn’t easy to hate. But I’ve never backed down from an uphill fight.