A cold wind passed through the open window, rustling my loose papers like tumbleweed.
“I have no idea who that is,” I said.
Quentin was still trying to cement his “look at me being serious” face. It took him a few seconds to realize I wasn’t flipping out over whoever he was.
“The Sun Wukong,” he said, scooping the air with his fingers. “Sun Wukong the Monkey King.”
“I said, I don’t know who that is.”
His jaw dropped. Thankfully his teeth were still normal-size.
“You’re Chinese and you don’t know me?” he sputtered. “That’s like an American child not knowing Batman!”
“You’re Chinese Batman?”
“No! I’m stronger than Batman, and more important, like—like. Tian na, how do you not know who I am!?”
I didn’t know why he expected me to recognize him. He couldn’t have been a big-time actor or singer from overseas. I never followed mainland pop culture, but a lot of the other people at school did; word would have gotten around if we had a celebrity in our midst.
Plus that was a weird stage name. Monkey King? Was that what passed for sexy among the kids these days?
Quentin let go of his temples and began unbuttoning his shirt.
“What are you doing, you perv?” I shut my eyes and bicycle-kicked the empty air between us.
When he didn’t say anything I glanced between my fingers to make sure he was keeping his distance, and oh my god I shouldn’t have looked.
I wasn’t sure how anyone could get muscles like that without eating meat. He had the kind of body-fat percentage where he could have done it for a living.
“See?” he said, brandishing his tanned, professional-grade torso at me.
“Like that means anything!” I said, throwing my elbow back over my face. “So you’ve got abs. Big deal. I’ve got abs.”
“Not my body, you dolt! My tail! Look at my tail!”
With great reluctance, great reluctance I tell you, I ran my gaze down his stomach. The last two cans of his rippling eight-pack were partly covered by a fur belt running around his waist. I thought it was just a weird fashion statement until it twitched and pulled away from his body, unraveling behind him.
Quentin, it would appear, had a monkey’s tail.
I gaped at the fuzzy appendage dancing in the air.
“Go see a doctor,” I said, holding out my finger between us. “Have your weird mutation somewhere other than my room. Somewhere other than my life.”
Quentin seemed moderately disappointed with the way this conversation had gone, like he had the right to expect better than a raging dumpster fire. He got up and put his shirt back on but neglected to button it up.
“You’ve been through a lot today,” he said, using the same tone as a country gentleman who recognized that his lady’s corset was too tight. “I suppose I shouldn’t have sprung this on you all at once.”
“Get out.”
He smiled gravely at me. “Take some time to think. We can pick up where we left off tomorrow.”
I found a stapler and threw it at his head.
“Pei-Yi!” shouted my mother. She clomped up the stairs. “Where are you?”
Dear god, finally. I didn’t care how bad it would look to have an undressed boy with an abnormal pelvis in my room. I just needed not to be alone with him anymore.
My mom threw open the door to my room without knocking, her usual practice. She stood over me, judgment raining down from her birdlike frame. Her square, ageless face was a carved-in-marble ode to perpetual indignation.