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

were openly staring at me that I must have looked a mess. As a black foreigner in a city composed of like, 80% people who looked fully Japanese, I get a lot of looks in general. But usually, they tried to hide it. Not this time. In fact, a few people openly stared at me as I found my way to an empty pole.

As soon we got into the tunnel part of this trip, and the windows were nice enough to provide a reflection, I could see why. Victor must've taken my hair out of its braid and ponytail holder while he was kissing me. It was now a messy bush of curls around my head. Also, my uniform shirt was buttoned the wrong way, and one of my socks was bunched up around my ankle.

I looked exactly like what I was—a schoolgirl who’d just been thoroughly first sexed.

I pulled up my sock and rebuttoned my shirt as covertly as possible before tucking it into my uniform skirt. Then, I grabbed my hair in three parts and plaited it into a braid over my shoulder. By the time I made it to Adachi-ku’s above-ground station, I’d lost the window reflection.

I could only hope I looked halfway decent as I made my way off the train. But I didn’t run from the station to our apartment.

First of all, it was a lot farther walk than the distance between Victor's place and the Roppongi station. We couldn’t afford to live nearly as close to a station as Victor did. Second of all, I didn’t want to sweat out my tenuous braid job and look sloppy on top of being late when I arrived home.

I had my excuse about losing track of time at the arcade with the kids from art club ready to go as soon as I walked through our apartment door—as naturally as possible.

“Hey! I’m home!” I called out. I took off my backpack, and transferred it to my hands, prepared to set it right down. But no one was in the living room.

Or in the kitchen.

Though four empty plates sat on the table along with the remains of pork bulgogi. My heart skittered at the sight. Not just because I’d missed out on my favorite dish for dinner. But also, because my mom never left food that could be used for tomorrow's school lunches on the table.

There could be a tsunami siren blaring outside, and she'd still put everything in a couple of Bento boxes before she made her way to shelter. And absolutely no one but my father got to leave the kitchen without cleaning off their plate in the sink.

Where was everyone? A new guilty rose to the surface. Were they out looking for me?

But no…

A low murmur of voices in the distance let me know they were still here. And my stomach pooled with dread as I made my way to the back of our apartment.

My heart sank as soon as I got into the hallway. My door, which I always left closed, was wide open. And my parents and brother were gathered inside my room.

Byron sat uncomfortably on my bed. Meanwhile, my mother stood behind my father, who was sitting hunched over my desktop computer with his reading glasses pushed up on his nose.

I guess I really must have been an artist. My first thought was that with my open door acting as a frame, they looked like one of those hyper-realistic portraits. My second thought was that if I had made this hypothetical piece of art, I would label it “High School Girl Totally Found Out.”

My third thought wasn't nearly so poetic. This was bad. This was really bad. I was in so much trouble.

“Hi,” I said, nonetheless, coming all the way into the room. “Sorry, I'm late.”

“Where were you?” My mother demanded, turning on me and signing at the same time as if she’d pre-loaded the question in her hands before I arrived. “We know it wasn't art club! The teacher said you haven’t been there since January.”

Some sixth teenager sense told me to check in with my brother before answering right away.

Byron shook his head covertly, which was enough to let me know better than to double down by bringing out my prepared lie.

“What are you doing in my room?” I demanded instead.

I might have been some people’s definition of a woman now that I’d had sex, but the bratty teenage spirit was still strong inside of me.

“Trying to get the password to your Docomo account,” my father answered without any shame whatsoever. “I wanted to see just how long you've been lying to us.”

He took off his reading glasses and turned around in my desk chair to fully face me for his next reveal. “By the way, that art school you applied to in Rhode Island emailed you about your application…”

My heart leapt at the same time that my stomach bottomed out. It was such a weird sensation.

“What?” My mother screeched and signed. “You applied to art school?”

She signed “art school” with the same expression and emphasis she would use for “strip club.”

“Who said you could do that? You're going to be a doctor!”

“I said!” I answer-signed angrily. “I paid for it myself!”

Dad sprang to his feet. “Don't you speak to your mother like that after what you did! All the lying!”

“I didn't want to lie!” I yelled back at them, my hands flying over the signs. “I would've loved to have shared with you that I was applying to art school and that I was dating someone who loves me. But you guys are so strict! I couldn't. You don’t care about my interests or my opinions on anything. I had to lie. That was the only way!”

“You think that Chinese boy loves you?” my father asked, his lip curling with contempt. “Let me tell you about the Chinese. They don't love anybody but money. They use girls like you up, get you hooked on drugs before trafficking you off