Free Nothing But the Truth by Justina Chen Page A

my pink panties flutter to the ground. I pluck them off the carpet, and then stand there, The Statue of Lunacy with my underwear in one hand. Fortunately, Anne grabs the panties out of my paralyzed hands and crams them and whatever else she can stuff into her nearly empty duffel bag. Saved by the Geek Scout. I would say thanks, except my lips are so swollen with shame that I can’t get a sound out of them.
    Which is a good thing, otherwise who knows what I would have gargled out when the guy at the next station asked in startled disbelief, “Anne?”
    I watch, openmouthed, as the Asian Adonis hugs Anne. He’s one of the few boys my age who’s actually taller than I am. Long bangs hang down into his eyes. In an unwrinkled, fitted white T-shirt and knee-length khaki shorts, he’s more chic than any boy at my high school.
    Mama’s sex-dar is on high-alert, too. She demands, just as if Anne is her daughter, not me, “Who that?”
    “This is Stu.” Anne introduces us casually like we’re all at a civilized English afternoon tea instead of at the airport with my luggage open for all to see. “We went to the Spring Fling together.”
    Strategic information so that Mama doesn’t drive straightto Mrs. Shang’s house to share a cup of jasmine tea and the juicy gossip that
(aiyo!)
Anne’s been hugging a boy!
    I can’t take my eyes off Stu, but I tell myself it’s because I’m trying to decode their hug, and figure out how a hunk like him could possibly go to a dance with a nerd like her. Was it a friendly-good-to-see-you platonic kind of embrace or a friendly-I-want-to-feel-all-of-you one?
    Unperturbed, Anne continues, “This is Patty. She’s going to math camp, too.”
    “Nice to meet you,” I say, shaking Stu’s hand, hoping that my palm doesn’t feel clammy. Inside, I’m screaming, I’m going to SUMaC! After insisting to Janie and her mom that Asian guys don’t do anything for me, I am now officially eating my words as a hearty mid-morning snack.
    I’ve almost forgotten all about my baggage claim to idiot fame until Stu brushes his bangs out of his eyes to see me better. His face is all angular
yang
with stark cheekbones and a strong nose. He asks me, “You need some more room for your stuff?”
    “No, no,” I manage to say, channeling confidence, poise and sophistication. An image that gets blown the second the snotty-nosed, sticky-handed toddler pokes the stuffed cups of my bra that’s lying by my feet.
    The truth is, I realize while my face grows hotter and Mama
hunhs
behind me, that no amount of extra room can hold all my excess baggage.

11Turbulence
    T here are three truly awful seats on an airplane, ones to be avoided at all costs—right over the wing (if you get sucked out, the turbofan will mangle you), wedged next to a size XXXXL person (who inevitably commandeers your space), and behind a screaming child (who will throw up, if not on you then within your smelling distance).
    Oh, lucky me. I am officially in plane purgatory with the bra-poking kid now barfing out his entire system in front of my seat. Not that I blame him. The plane jolts and lurches hard. My short life flashes before my almond eyes, and I grip one armrest, the other one taken by my aisle mate, Mr. Big Man on Airbus. I tug upward, as if I could personally keep the entire plane aloft in the air.
    “Please fasten your seat belts,” says the flight attendant as if anyone would be crazy enough to be a human Ping-Pong ball inside this plane. Her smooth voice is cut off by the pilot, who sounds like a cowboy enjoying this hell of a ride. He crows, “All righty, folks! I’m going to fly just a wee bit higher to see if we can catch some smoother air.”
    Yee-haw, the plane is a bucking bronco in the Not-So-OK Corral.
    “Do you mind?” Anne sighs heavily, not like she’s resigned to sure doom with me, but because I’m encroaching on her personal airspace.
    Of course, I mind. Can’t she tell that I’m focusing all my energy