Victor: Her Ruthless Crush by Theodora Taylor (beach read book TXT) 📕

I looked between Dad and Byron, feeling my younger brother's misery as if it was my own. Yeah, it was wrong to lie. But Dad would have exploded if he found out the real reason Byron got that black eye.

“By the way, how did you do on your math test today, Dawn?” Mom asked me in the ensuing silence.

Ughhhhhh!!!!

I was down with changing the subject again, but I wished Mom hadn’t chosen this topic. Had my parents made a secret agreement to take turns picking on their kids before dinner?

“82,” I admitted, setting down my chopsticks because I already knew I was going to need both hands for this conversation.

“82?” she repeated with a gasp like I had just admitted to ax murdering somebody, not getting a less than perfect score on a math test. “How are you going to get into a good school and become a doctor with an 82 on your math exam? You have to try harder if you want scholarships.”

“I will,” I mumble, even though that 82 was a result of me studying for hours this weekend. I'd tried the "doing the best I can" defense with my mom before. Once. And as any child of a Korean mother with sky-high expectations could tell you, it hadn't gone well.

“It is probably because you’re spending valuable study time at that silly art club. No more! From now on, you go to the library or come home to study on Thursdays after school until your math grade comes up.”

“What?” My chest ripped open at the thought of having to give up the one after school activity I was doing for me, not because I'm hoping it will look good on my American college applications. “Mom, I love art club! And it doesn't have anything to do with me not getting a 100 on that—”

Mom cut me off before I could finish, both her hands and her voice sharp as she answered, “Not hard enough. Obviously. Do not talk back to me! Or we will no longer give you an allowance to use on sketchpads instead of your college applications.”

Good threat. The only thing that would make me sadder than losing art club would be not being able to buy any more art supplies.

I crossed my arms and flopped back in my seat. And when I looked over at Byron, I saw that he was sitting in the exact same position as me. Too frustrated to talk and too angry to eat.

I got that my parents wanted the best for us. My mother grew up so poor, college wasn’t even a possibility. And my father said that Army or Drug Dealer were his only two career options coming out of his neighborhood in Trenton. They’d pushed us because they wanted the best for us.

But still, sometimes it felt a little bleak, knowing that none of my mother’s dreams for me included anything I remotely liked. And now she was taking away art club too?

The sound of the doorbell brought our heads up from the four-way argument.

Mom, Byron, and I looked at Dad. No one ever came here after the dinner hour unless they wanted to speak with him.

Dad frowned.

“Stay here,” he said, his voice grim.

He didn't draw a gun as he walked out of the kitchen. But we all watched him go in the direction of the master bedroom where he kept his weapons safe. And when he reappeared in the front room, he was wearing a blazer over his polo shirt. I was pretty sure Dad was packing underneath his new ensemble choice.

We couldn’t see the front door from the kitchen, but we heard the creak of it opening. Then a few quiet words, so low I couldn’t discern anything they were saying.

A short few moments after that, the door closed again, and Dad returned. His expression was grim, and he had a gold foil envelope in one hand and a box with the latest NTT Docomo in the other. The only reason I knew it on sight was because I'd seen advertisements for them on teaser billboards all over Tokyo. Their ads had customizable ring tones, a cute little golf game, and you could even use it for video chats.

“Is that the NTT Docomo N901iC?” Byron asked, speaking aloud in wonderment. “Whoa! Mr. Nakamura really is a boss! Can I help you set it up?

Dad pursed his lips. “You can help your sister set it up. This phone is for her.”

A shocked moment, and then both my mother and brother erupted.

“You got Dawn an expensive phone after she failed her math test?” Mom asked, her sign for FAILED huge and exaggerated.

At the same time, Byron whined, “Dawn gets a phone and not me?”

“Mom, an 82 is not failing,” I pointed out, defending myself. But I had to admit, I was wondering the same thing as Byron. “Why did you get me a phone?

“Not me,” Dad answered, setting the phone and the envelope down next to my rice bowl. “The Chinese boy. He got you this phone, and there’s some money in that envelope. He’s saying he wants you to tutor him on Thursdays from now on.”

Then he signed-told my mother, “No arguments, Doll. She can study at school instead of going to art club, but we’ve got to let her tutor the Chinese boy. He’s a son of one of Mr. Nakamura’s most important associates.”

I picked up the phone. And as it turned out, there was no setup required. It was already fully powered up with a number 1 next to the icon for text messaging.

Mom agreed to let me tutor but wondered who would do something so extravagant. Byron offered to teach that Chinese kid ASL if it meant he would be getting a new NTT Docomo. But everything they were saying faded to the background as I clicked on the icon to see my message.

A text message appeared on the phone’s screen from a name written out in Chinese—one