Victor: Her Ruthless Crush Theodora Taylor (fantasy books to read TXT) 📖

assuming it didn’t go too good,” my father said, interrupting all the “I hate myself” thoughts swirling around my head.

I shrugged, trying to act like I didn’t care one way or the other. “He said it was a one-time thing because his father wanted him to learn ASL. So, I won't be going back.”

“Probably for the best, sweet pea,” Dad answered after a moment of consideration. “We don't want to be dealing with the Chinese. They’re a whole ‘nother animal.”

What did that mean? Was Dad talking about Chinese people in general? Or Victor and his father specifically?

I thought about asking, but Dad raised his newspaper like the conversation was already over and done.

“I’m glad you didn’t get this job. You have better things to do than tutoring some Chinese boy on Thursdays anyway. And you’re already wasting after school study hours with that silly art club.”

I turned around to find my mother standing in the kitchen’s open arch entrance.

Ugh! She must have been reading our lips from afar. Unlike Byron, she adores “watching in” on other people’s private conversations. And, she’d deny it, but I’m pretty sure learning to read lips was the only thing she liked about going deaf in her twenties.

“Hi, mom,” I signed and spoke. “How was your day? Good?”

Mom was like Victor's girlfriend, except I’d never seen her in a dress as tight or short as that girl’s. But my mom was the same kind of small and willowy. She was also stunning.

Even in her early forties, it was easy to see why my father fell so hard for her back when he served in Korea. She had silky black hair, which she wore tied back in a braid. The hairstyle perfectly framed her delicate features.

My dad called her Doll, even in sign language. My mom said it was because he had so much trouble pronouncing or hand-spelling her real name, Gyeong. But I think it was because that’s exactly what she looked like; a beautiful doll come to life.

Byron had inherited her good looks and my father's height. Lucky him. I’d inherited my mother's height. But according to her, all her beauty was hidden underneath all my fat.

“Where’s your jacket?” she demanded, scanning me up and down.

“Um…” I debated how to answer. My mother had already complained bitterly about having to buy all new oxford shirts for me a week ago. The last thing I wanted after that Victor session was another lecture about how I needed to stop “growing out of my clothes.”

“She spilled some paint on it at art club, so I took it to the cleaners,” my dad said and signed behind me.

That was one of the reasons I loved him so much. He was always willing to tell a little white lie to keep my mom from coming after me.

But Mom quickly found a way around Dad’s criticism roadblock.

“That’s why I say that art club of yours is no good,” she signed-spoke, putting extra emphasis on the “no good.”

“You better hope that paint comes out,” she groused. “Those uniform jackets are very expensive. And we need that money for your college applications!”

Okay, did I say that reading lips was the only thing she liked about going deaf? I’m pretty sure she also loved that she could take her spoken exaggerations to even more ridiculous levels by over-emphasizing them with her hand signs.

“Go wash up and tell your brother it’s time for dinner,” she signed in a huff before I could defend art club or my completely made-up paint spill. We didn’t even work with paint in art club today. It was a digital workshop on using all the tools in the Adobe Photoshop Suite our school had just bought.

“No arguing, sweet pea,” Dad said, cutting me off just as I was coming up with a good response to mom’s latest unfair rant against art club. “Go do like your mom said.”

I stomped off in a frustrated huff. But after telling Byron dinner was ready, my thoughts returned to that “Chinese boy” as I washed up in our apartment’s one bathroom.

What was Dad's real connection to Victor and his family? Why had he asked me to tell him if Victor said anything he should know about? And what had he meant about not wanting to get involved with the Chinese?

At this point, I had more questions than answers. But I figured Dad was probably right about one thing. Me never seeing Victor again was definitely for the best.

Dinner lifted my mood. And scooping second and third servings of the delicious tender meat into my rice bowl was worth having to endure a lecture from Mom about knowing when I’m full. Or her much less subtle signed advice that I’d never be able to find a husband if I looked like a pork chop.

“Leave her alone, Doll,” my father said and signed. “Black guys in America won't mind that she's a little thick.”

“Okay, can we stop talking about me like I’m a piece of meat?” I asked.

“Yeah, let’s talk about something else,” Dad agreed. He pointed his chopsticks at Byron. “Like how you really got that shiner.”

Mom looked between them, confused. Dad had stopped signing when he decided to change the subject to Byron’s eye, and she hadn’t been able to lip-read what he’d said to my brother.

Usually, I would fill her in when Dad forgot to sign. But not this time.

“I told you already,” Byron mumbled, scooping a fourth serving of bulgogi into his rice bowl. Of course, Mom didn’t give him any lectures because he was skinny. I didn’t want to accuse God of straight-up being unfair. But Byron could eat anything he wanted and never gain weight.

However, at that moment, I felt sorrier for my brother than I did for me.

Silence, weird and suspicious, rose between him and Dad at the table.

“I've got to work for Mr. Nakamura tonight. But tomorrow, I'm going to show you how to throw a few punches,” Dad eventually said. “Real men don't let themselves