CHAPTER SEVENTEEN | INSUBORDINATION

willfully failing to comply with a referee's orders.

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          "Wren, what the hell did you do?"

          I straightened my shoulders, trying my damn hardest to not start cackling like a mad woman and piss off my parents on Thanksgiving, and remained focused on the task at hand. Without Jordan to serve as a mediator whenever my mother and I were at odds, even during the holidays, I wasn't willing to push my luck, but I also didn't come here to be disrespected and have my break spoiled by petty arguments. It was a holiday no one in this house or family even cared about—we much preferred the Mid-Autumn Festival, something we'd cheerfully celebrated as a family of three all the way back in September, far from Jordan and every other member of the family—so it felt odd that I was even upset over potentially ruining it for everyone.

          In theoretical terms, I hadn't done anything. Nothing that should have triggered such an emotionally charged reaction out of my mother, anyway, and, at first, I assumed she was, once again, offended by the septum piercing I'd gotten done a year prior and wisely chose to not show off around her most of the time. I hadn't bothered to hide it today, since I was already breaking so many rules by inviting Corinne to join us, and there were more important things my parents had to worry about—Jordan's absence at the dinner table, for example.

          Then, it hit me.

          I had made the mistake of rolling up my flannel's sleeves, as one would before peeling sweet potatoes for the salad, and, even worse, I'd done it right as she entered the kitchen and gave her a free glimpse at the tattoo marking the outside of my left wrist. The tattoo—a small ice skate for obvious reasons—had been my idea, against Corinne's protests and reminders that my parents probably wouldn't be too pleased with it, and was barely twenty-four hours old, still healing, but I liked it. It was a memory of Jordan I could carry around with me anywhere I went, even with him being so far out of my reach.

          "It's nothing," I replied. Corinne, sitting by the kitchen islands, dramatically rolled her eyes. She'd been fully against me getting the tattoo right before coming home to my parents and, no matter how many times I begged her to be supportive in case they complained, she'd refused to be used as ammo—much like I'd been acting when it came to her and Marley. "I'm handling the potato salad—"

          "A tattoo. That's a tattoo."

          I exhaled through my nose, exasperated. "It's not a big deal."

          "The piercing wasn't a big deal, but the tattoo—"

          "The tattoo stays hidden most of the time, so you won't even have to look at it. It's just ink."

          "What happens when you can't get a job?" She rushed to pull down my sleeve, covering the skate, and I jumped away from her grip. It was awfully convenient that I'd been studying to work in an office all day, just me and my little numbers and my little algorithms, and my physical appearance wouldn't be an issue as far as body modifications were concerned. "You're going to get that removed."

          "Dad has a tattoo. He also has a job. Why would it be any different for me?"

          Huffing, she yanked the knife right out of my hands, tossed it aside, and put on the serious Mom look. When she spoke again, she did so in Mandarin, fully shutting Corinne out of the conversation without ever giving her an opportunity to intervene—be it in my defense or not.

          "Because it's different for us women. What you think might not matter, might matter. You know you have to work harder, twice as hard as the men, three times harder than the women. They will not hesitate to pull you apart and use whatever they can to prove you're unfit or that you're difficult to work with. Do not give them any excuses."

          I squared my shoulders, clenched my jaw, and looked her straight in the eye. Though I knew she was right, coming to that conclusion was nothing short of exhausting. If women had to work three times harder than other women, they'd be stuck in a permanent cycle of one-upmanship with each other, while the men kept getting away with performances close to mediocre. I was naturally competitive, courtesy of my upbringing and figure skating background, and would go to great lengths to ensure I came out victorious, but I didn't play dirty, nor did I want to win at another woman's expense. There were lines I wouldn't cross, unlike the girls from Quinnipiac.

          "I'm good," I replied, also in Mandarin, even though it pained me to exclude Corinne and make her feel like she wasn't welcome in this house. "I know what I can do. It's not a tattoo this small that's going to stop me from getting to where I want to be."

          She shot a pointed glance towards Corinne, who, if by any chance, wasn't suspecting anything, certainly was now. "You're distracted. I can tell you're distracted, riding around with that girl on her bike, getting tattoos, and playing dangerous sports—"

          "For once in my life, I'm happy. All those things make me happy. Maybe that's the real issue here, huh? That I'm not nearly as miserable as you thought I would be when we first moved?" I reached out for the knife again, in what I hoped wouldn't be seen as intimidating or threatening, and resumed peeling the sweet potatoes. "I won't apologize for being happy. You don't get to force me to settle for being miserable."

          For a moment, she looked like she was ready to bounce back into the argument, with my father sitting in the next room, following the very American tradition of watching the NFL game on TV. However, she composed herself, relaxing back her shoulders, and took the knife from me, this time a lot gentler.

           "I'll do that," she said, switching back to English, now that she was no longer ripping Corinne a new one without her understanding a word of it. "You're probably overworked from college and skating. Why don't you go rest for a bit, spend time with your father?"

          "I hate football."

          "Drew plays football," Corinne chimed in, from behind us, as if I needed yet another reminder that Drew freaking Sterling was the best person on the planet and everything I'd never amount to be. 

          The worst part was that I couldn't even hate the guy. even if I wanted to—and everything would be a lot easier for me if I wanted to—because he was the embodiment of a Golden Retriever: big, would happily tag along with you everywhere with a grin on his lips, loyal to a fault. Now, he also played my father's favorite sport, so, if he had been invited for Thanksgiving, he and my mother would, undoubtedly, become Drew Sterling stans.

          Meanwhile, all I wanted was the girl.

          "Yes, yes, go watch the game," my mother replied, already distracted, and shooed us out of the kitchen.

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          Corinne watched the stupid game with my father, and, for a moment, it felt like it was their lifelong tradition, and she was the daughter he wished he'd had, interested in all the same things he was. I knew it upset him that neither Jordan nor I had ever shown great interest in football, as we'd always been happier skating on ice, and I was happy he finally had someone to talk to about his favorite sport. Meanwhile, I'd settled on one of the couches, keeping a close eye on my mother as she refused to let anyone help her with dinner, including the mooncakes, and paced back and forth between the kitchen and her phone.

          It was hard to ignore the empty seat at the table to my left. It was Jordan's designated seat, but, today, it hadn't been set, with Corinne planned to sit to my right, in front of my mother. Again, since this wasn't something we usually celebrated, it wasn't his absence during the holidays that was bothering me; it was the fact that a long time had passed since the last time I'd had a meal with my brother.

          As I carried the tray of turkey dumplings to the table, I couldn't help but think about how things were so different compared to the same time last year. We always ate the same thing—my mother's turkey dumplings, some nasi gureng to honor my father's Indonesian roots, the sweet potato salad that was one of the few things I could prepare by myself, and mooncakes—and watched the football games, but it all still felt so foreign to me now. I couldn't voice this near either of my parents, not wanting to run the risk of being called ungrateful or being accused of ruining the holidays for everyone, but I knew we were all thinking the same thing. We weren't a family without Jordan, and we needed to stop pretending otherwise.

          A significant difference this year, besides Corinne's presence at the dining table, was that both my parents were drinking red wine.

          Usually, with Jordan in the house, they wouldn't dare to touch alcohol, knowing just how quickly he could spiral out of control. They offered some to Corinne just to be polite, but they knew I wouldn't accept a glass; regardless, I still failed to comprehend why they hadn't done the same. Once again, I seemed to be the only one caring about his progress in treatment; with us being kept in the dark about mostly everything that went down whenever we weren't there, there was no way of knowing how the smallest things, like these glasses of wine, would affect him. I'd never been much of a fan of lack of transparency, especially when it came to my brother, and I hated feeling left out of his life.

          "I read about your game online," my mother said, handing me the salad bowl.

          "Bout," I corrected, before I could stop myself. Next to me, Corinne looked pretty pleased with herself, and I hated that I was giving her so much power over me, feeling all giddy and warm on the inside just because something I'd said made her smile. "The matches are called bouts."

          "Yes, that." She looked at Corinne, whose knee bopped against mine. I instantly straightened in my seat, an electric current running through each one of my nerves. "That was a nasty fall."

          "It was," Corinne agreed, "but I was wearing pads and my helmet. I was fine. We still won."

          "You did, but still." She sipped her wine, eyeing us both. "I've told Wren countless times how dangerous that sport sounds, even with the padding. You're literally expected to get violent. How is anyone supposed to stay safe? What do your parents even think about you being involved in this kind of thing?"

          Corinne visibly stiffened. "My mom is the coach."

          "And your father?"

          "I wouldn't know. Never met him."

          "Ah. I see." Corinne flashed her a tight-lipped smile, no longer a fan of the conversation. I was aware I should intervene, ask my mother to back off before she asked questions she shouldn't, but part of me also thought Corinne could hold her own. She'd managed just fine without me under much worse circumstances. She'd survived her own mother, someone who had put her under a lot more stress than my mother potentially could, so I wasn't that worried; if anything, I was proud she could stand up for herself. "Is that . . . all you do in college? Skate?"

          "I go to Yale, Mrs. Wu. I wouldn't survive just by playing a sport." She leaned back in her chair. "I'm majoring in English. Not sure what I want to do after I graduate, but I know I want to keep skating, even if . . . even if it's not an Olympic sport, or anything. That's only temporary, in my opinion. Things might change in a few years, and I want to make history. I'm ambitious, but I also know I'm good and how far I can go. I'm not limited by a college sports career."

          To my surprise, my mother smiled. "That's good. You know, Wren here stopped skating for a while; I didn't expect her to pick it up again, especially something so different from what she's used to." I clenched my fingers around my cutlery, a gesture Corinne noticed from the corner of her eye. Her own fingers gave my wrist a gentle squeeze. "I was also surprised she even bothered joining your team, especially since we'll only be here for a year. She never showed much interest in team sports before . . . well, before you."

          "Ah, well." Corinne flipped her hair back over her shoulder. I could only hope she wouldn't ask any questions about why I'd briefly quit skating, but there was no guarantee of what would happen once my parents had quite a bit to drink. "I've been told I'm a great influence on people. I knew she had a figure skating background, and thought she'd be a good addition to the team, but I still had to get her to show up for tryouts. It was easier than I thought."

          "You pretty much bullied me into it," I corrected.

          "It's not bullying if you're into it."

          I narrowed my eyes. "Shut up."

          She wrinkled her nose, still smiling. "See? It's really easy to get you riled up."

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          We soon came to a predicament: we hadn't figured out Corinne's sleeping situation.

          Though she was far from catastrophically drunk—and I'd seen her so pissed drunk she'd started crying—she'd still had a few too many glasses of wine during dinner and I didn't feel comfortable letting her get on her bike, so I'd channeled all my efforts into convincing her to stay in for the night. However, the couches in the living room weren't built for someone to sleep on them, and we had no guest bedroom, not to mention Jordan's room was out of the question. Naturally, that left my own bedroom, and my mind was already reeling over it.

          "I can totes sleep in the living room," she said, stumbling down the stairs, and I pulled her back by an arm before she fell.

          "You can totes not do that if you don't want to ruin your back."

          "Okay, Mom."

          Huffing, I dragged her behind me up the stairs, towards the dimly lit hallway on the top floor. The only light illuminating it was the one coming from my bedroom, as both my parents had already gone to bed, and I'd only stayed up to ensure she wouldn't do something stupid—like leaving the house and getting on that stupid bike.

          She stopped for a brief moment, regaining her balance once I let her go, but ultimately fell right on top of me, sending us both flying against the wall. I hit my shoulder blades first, luckily, and wouldn't be left with a concussion from the impact, but hurricane Corinne came right after, and, if she hadn't braced herself, supporting her weight on her hands against the wall, she would have headbutted me.

          "We have to stop meeting like this," I told her.

          She giggled. "You sound nervous."

          "You sound drunk."

          "Sure." She took a step back, finally making me realize just how close she had been standing. Had she moved forward just a tiny bit, her nose would have brushed against mine. "Tonight was fun. I liked your dad."

          "He's twice your age and married. Get a grip."

          "Hilarious! You're, like, so funny."

          Last time we'd been standing like this, there was a helmet pressed against my stomach and keeping us apart. Now, there was nothing but air, and I had to remind myself of three things: she was in a relationship, she was under the influence, and she knew I liked her. All three of those factors were important and terrifying to me, reminding me just how much there was at stake if I ever decided to do anything about these stupid little feelings of mine, and there were lines I wouldn't cross.

          "So, quick question," she continued. "Like, totally out of curiosity, obviously."

          "Obviously."

          Corinne glared at me. "Shut up and let me talk."

          "Last time you tried to talk to me like this, you asked me about the state of affairs between Marley and me." She scoffed at the pun. "I can only imagine this has something to do with Theo, since I coincidentally made the deadly mistake of telling you my parents took a while warming up to her."

          "Yeah. Basically. What's up with the two of you?"

          I sighed. "We never dated, if that's what's bothering you. No need to be jealous." She clenched her jaw. "She's my closest friend. Was. Things changed after I moved. Before that, we were just . . . friends with benefits, I think. Neither of us were ever interested in a relationship, but it was fun keeping things casual; at the end of the day, we were close, and it was nice to have someone to come home to. I think we were lonely, most of all. I wasn't close to a lot of people back in California."

          "Oh."

          "Is that a satisfying enough answer?"

          "Sort of, yeah." She briefly paused, looking like a stupid, beautiful golden angel with the light shining on her from behind. "I get that. Your mother was talking to me about your brother, you know. She didn't get into much detail," she quickly added, seeing an immediate change in my posture, "and told me you'd tell me more if you ever felt ready to do so, but I understand. She told me you two are really close. I can only imagine how lonely you must feel without him around, especially in a completely new state, away from everything you've ever known."

          The last thing I wanted to do was cry in front of her. She would never let me live it down, and I was certain she'd remember it in the morning. However, talking about Jordan always, always got to me, tugging at my heartstrings, and I didn't know how to properly keep it in.

          "He's my person," I said, speaking so low I could barely hear my own voice. "He's the most important person in my life. I think that's part of the problem; I never . . . I don't think I ever saw him as something other than my brother. It was always my brother, Jordan, and never Jordan, my brother. You know? And then he got sick, and all I wanted was my brother back, but I never stopped to think about how I'd contributed to all that happened. He was drinking himself to death, and I couldn't—I couldn't get to him. I thought that, if I couldn't do it, then no one could. I protected him too much, sheltered him too much, and look at where that got us. He got injured, ended his ice hockey career, and I couldn't even stand to look at my skates without thinking I was betraying him by going on without him. He nearly died, I nearly died over it, Theo opened her mouth about it, and my parents found him a good clinic. All the while, all I could think about was how I couldn't live without him, so, if anything happened to him, I . . . I didn't want to be around, either. So. That's that."

          I sniffled, wiping my nose on my sleeve, which was disgusting enough by itself, and felt so horribly humiliated for breaking down like this in front of her. She didn't laugh or make any snarky comments about it; instead, she cupped my cheek with one hand, pressed a quick kiss to my forehead, then pulled me close for a tight hug. I didn't know how someone that small had such strength in them, or was even capable of a bone-breaking hug, but perhaps that was just her superpower.

          "You'll be okay," Corinne muttered, against my hair, and there I was, ruining her sweater with my mascara. "He'll be okay, and so will you. At your own pace. On your own terms."

          "This is depressing. I'm sorry. This wasn't what you signed up for."

          With a chuckle, she stepped back, holding my shoulders. "I signed up for the good, the bad, and the ugly, babe. That's not how you're getting rid of me."

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drew rights? drew rights.