Chapter 1
[Hailey Just Fall from Grace?]
The notification popped up just as I was squatting by the greasy stove in my rented room, scrubbing furiously with baking soda at Robert's white shirt, which was splattered all over with soy sauce. The screen lit up and then dimmed again, its glow catching, in the dull yellow of the energy-saving bulb, a flicker of numb exhaustion I hadn't yet wiped from my face.
My phone buzzed on the water-stained countertop like an ominous warning. I didn't need to look to know who it was. At this hour, no one but Robert's mother, Ariana, who worshiped Hailey like a goddess, would be blowing up my phone like this.
Sure enough, as soon as I swiped to answer, Ariana's sharp, frantic voice pierced my eardrums. "Eva. Eva, have you seen it? All that nonsense online. It's all lies. Someone must be trying to harm Hailey. You have to go find Robert. Don't let him see that filthy trash. He'll lose his mind."
"Yeah," I replied, my tone flat. "Ariana, I'm doing laundry."
"What?" Her voice rose even higher. "Hailey is such a good child. How could she possibly do those things? It must be photoshopped. Where's Robert? His phone is off. You have to find him. He can't handle this."
I looked down at the white shirt, wrinkled from scrubbing, in the basin. The stubborn soy sauce stain on the collar looked like an ugly scar. "I know," I said. "I'll go after I finish scrubbing this."
She was still screaming more instructions on the other end. I hung up directly. The kitchen was left with only the drip-drip of the faucet and the monotonous sound of my scrubbing. It was so quiet. I held the shirt up to the light. The stain had faded a little, but was still there, just like the place Hailey occupied in Robert's heart. No matter how hard I tried to erase it, it remained unmoved.
Robert found me in the first semester of our second year of high school. He was carrying a stack of physics competition materials, a bruise from playing basketball still fresh on his temple. He walked through the noisy hallway during break, like a tall, somewhat reckless poplar tree, and stopped directly at the back door of our classroom.
"Eva," he called me, his voice clear and bright, carrying the certainty unique to teenagers. "My mom says the pickles your family makes are really delicious. She asked me to come and see if... I could have some?"
The surroundings instantly fell silent. Countless eyes felt like they were drilling into my back. My hand, clutching a pen, grew sweaty, and I hardly dared to look up. Everyone knew Robert, the top three in our grade, captain of the basketball team, the common recipient of love letters in countless girls' desks. And I was Eva, quiet, average grades, my only label being "the one whose family runs a noodle shop."
"Okay." I heard my small voice. After school, I took a detour to our family's noodle shop. From the huge earthenware jar, I carefully scooped out a full glass container of glossy, oily pickled cucumbers. When I handed it to him, the jar was cold, but my hands were burning.
Later, this became a peculiar connection between us. He would always appear during some break, with various clumsy excuses. "My mom says your family's chili oil is really fragrant," "My mom keeps talking about how chewy your alkaline noodles are"... Then, naturally, he started waiting for me after school, riding his bike, slowly keeping pace beside me through the noisy streets of the old district.
The old district had narrow alleys, the bluestone paths worn smooth by time. The air always carried the scents of cooking oil, dampness, and a faint mustiness. Our small Martin's Noodle was crammed deep in an alley, a greasy sign, a faded door curtain. The first time Robert followed me inside, we walked right into my mom yelling at my dad for being slow.
"All thumbs. You're spilling the noodle soup." My mom's voice was loud.
My dad hunched his back, mumbling, "I know, I know..."
Robert paused for a moment, his expression unchanged. He just found a small table in the corner and sat down, saying loudly, "Ariana, beef noodles, extra cilantro." My mom immediately switched to a smiling face. "You got it. Robert's here. Eva, take care of him."
At that moment, watching him sit so naturally on our greasy little stool, as if the surrounding awkwardness and noise had nothing to do with him, he was like a beam of overly bright light suddenly shining into my dim little world. It stung my eyes, but something in my heart quietly began to sprout.
Light that bright was bound to burn anyone who got too close.
The first time I clearly realized the perfect girl in Robert's heart was in the first semester of our final year of high school. After evening self-study, he was pushing his bike, walking silently beside me. The late autumn wind carried a chill, swirling the occasional fallen leaf on the ground.