It didn’t matter because the decision was made for me. A curtain in Max’s house lifted a few inches, letting golden light escape into the dark yard. Someone inside peered at me. Busted! Next the porch lights and the lights lining the sidewalk blinked on, blinding me.
I guessed that meant I was going in. I felt like a juvenile delinquent as I shuffled up the neat sidewalk and rang the bell.
My heart sped up as footsteps approached. The door opened, and Max’s mom stood framed in the doorway, holding a microphone.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m sorry to come over so late, but I wanted to check on Max and—”
She was looking at my hair. “You’re Gemma! Come on this way.”
Max had told his mom about me. He must like me! But no—he could have told her Carter’s date had striped hair, nothing more. Shutting the front door behind me, I followed Max’s mom through the foyer, into the den. Max’s dad sat in a recliner with a Japanese newspaper open in front of him. Max’s sister wore pajamas and screeched karaoke into her own microphone while she watched her avatar on a video game on TV.
Max was stretched out on the sofa in a T-shirt and track pants, his head cradled on one arm. His other arm, wrapped in a plaster cast, balanced on his stomach. He was sleeping in this room full of racket. I sucked in my breath and moved to stop his mom from waking him.
But she was already stroking his hair and whispering to him in Japanese. He’d told me he couldn’t read his T-shirts, but he obviously understood the spoken language. He sat up in a rush and blinked at me. “Cool shirt, Gladys.”
I had forgotten I was wearing my new-to-me vintage shirt. For him. “Thanks,” I murmured, absolutely certain that no girl had ever blushed this brightly when a boy noticed her bowling shirt. “I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have come over if I’d known you were hurt.”
Max’s dad had stood and put his newspaper aside. Max stood up too, moving slowly now, like he was sore. His sister had stopped singing and stared at us while the music howled on in the background.
Max glanced uncomfortably around the circle and cleared his throat. “Gemma Van Cleve, this is my dad, Dr. Hirayama, and my mom, the other Dr. Hirayama.”
Max’s dad smiled, said, “Pleasure,” and shook my hand. Max’s mom put her hands on her hips. “How come I am the other Dr. Hirayama and Daddy gets to be the main one? Why can’t Daddy be the other Dr. Hirayama?”
Max stared blankly at her. She grinned.
Max gestured to the girl watching us. “And this is my sister, Taylor.”
“Are you Max’s girlfriend?” Taylor asked. Their mom giggled.
“No,” Max and I said at the same time.
“Why not?” Taylor asked.
“You’re grounded,” Max told her. He turned back to me. “I’m sorry we have to leave. My mother has superhuman hearing, and whatever we say inside the house will get translated into Japanese and repeated on the next seven family-plan phone calls to Tokyo.”
“Max!” his mom exclaimed. “I would never embarrass you. That is complete bullshit.” His dad started cackling.
Max pressed two fingers between his eyes. “Quick, get me out of here.”
“It was so nice to meet everyone!” I sang, pulling him gently by the good arm as I backed toward the door.
They sang back a chorus of good-byes. Max’s mom followed us to the door, speaking to Max in Japanese. He nodded. She reached up and pressed her hands on either side of his face, looking into his eyes, then said, “Okay, then. Have fun,” and shut the door behind us.
Max jogged down the porch steps like he couldn’t get away from the house fast enough. He stopped short when he saw my car.
“Birthday present from my dad,” I said sheepishly. “It’s no Aston Martin.”
Max laughed heartily at that. “Yeah, but it’s . . . wow.”
“You want to drive it?” I fished the key fob out of my pocket and held it up.
He shook his head, and his hair fell into his eyes. “I couldn’t do that to you. It’s your new car, and your birthday.”
“I came over to tell you that I’m not going out with Carter anymore,” I said. “So this may be your last chance.”
Without another word, he took the key from me with his good hand. When he turned the engine over, he grinned. “Grrrrrr,” he said along with the motor. We were laughing as he backed out of the driveway and pointed the car down the lamp-lit street.
“So, you’re not going out with Carter anymore?” he asked. “I take it your birthday date didn’t go well.”
“He gave me a bear,” I said. “He made me a bear wearing an ‘I love you’ T-shirt.”
I expected Max to laugh uproariously at this, like he laughed at just about everything I said, making me feel a hundred percent better about myself. Instead, he frowned at me and said, “That sounds like a good birthday, not a bad birthday.”
“I don’t love Carter,” I said. “And he doesn’t love me.”
“You make out with him like you do,” Max said quietly, watching the road. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought he sounded jealous.
“I don’t want to have that argument with you again,” I said quickly. “And now that you’ve pointed it out, I feel ashamed about my reaction to the bear. I should have more appreciation for the bear. Maybe I’m allergic to the stuffing. Or the fur.”
“Or sentimentality,” Max said.
“Yep.” I turned to the window, unable to look at him anymore without crying. Because I was allergic to sentimentality. Yes.
He glanced into the backseat. “Where’s the bear? Did you toss him?”
“No! I’m not that heartless. He’s in the trunk.”
Max pulled into a shady park with towering oaks. My cheeks burned at the thought that he wanted to be alone with me here. But as soon as he turned off the engine, he popped the trunk and bailed out of the car, saying, “Let’s see this bear.”
I met him at the trunk. He opened it, and we stared at the bear lying in the fetal position.
“It’s like you’re a serial killer,” Max said.
“I don’t fit the profile.”
He gave me a sideways glance. “It’s always the quiet ones that fool you. Mild-mannered. Keeps to herself.” He closed the trunk and leaned against it, crossing his arms with some difficulty because of the cast. “Have you told Carter you’re not going out with him anymore?”