Stalling.

There are more details behind my brilliant scheme to return Jiyong’s pencil, but that’s basically what it comes down to— stalling. I intend to dawdle on my way to Spanish so I won’t have time to return it before class. Then, when the lunch bell rings, I’ll stand up, turn around to block Jiyong’s path, and give it back to him. If everything goes according to plan, I’ll be able to keep him talking all the way to the dining hall.

My heart is racing as I arrive at the door. The bell rings, right on cue, but as I walk into the classroom and pass Señor Argotta, he claps and announces, “Conversation practice! Time to move, everybody!” He bursts out with it like he’s declaring a celebration.

No. Not conversation practice. This is the worst of Argotta’s clever little group exercises. I’ve timed my arrival perfectly, but it won’t matter if Jiyong ends up on the other side of the room again.

Argotta’s walking through the rows of desks, breaking us up into pairs, and passing out laminated cards that depict a situation no one would ever find themselves in on a trip to Spain—or anywhere else in the world, for that matter. He gives me my card, and I shut my lids tight, fearing the worst. I open one eye and read: Partner number one, you are interviewing for a job as a waiter/waitress at one of Madrid’s finest restaurants. Partner number two, you are the restaurant owner. I look over at Siwon, my usual partner, and he winks.

Señor Argotta stops and turns back. “Señorita Park, partner with Señor Kwon, por favor.”

What? No. I’m sorry, señor. I cannot partner with Jiyong Kwon. All night I’ve pictured how I’m going to return his pencil. How I’m going to ask him again—when he’s not under  Bom’s and Chaerin’s scrutiny—if he was at the track on Monday. I’m going to ask him why he seemed to know me then, but now he doesn’t. I’ve pictured the whole discussion, right down to the last detail; but I’ve never pictured talking with him in Spanish.

I consider running for the door. Faking a seizure. I could move across the room and take the open seat across from Señor Kestler, as if I’ve misunderstood Argotta’s accent. But it’s too late. Jiyong has heard the instructions just as plainly as I have, and now he’s eyeing me with this “don’t worry, I won’t bite” look. He lifts his chin like he’s commanding me to stand up, and when I do, he turns my desk around to face his.

“Hi,” I say when we’re both settled again.

 “Hi. Dara, right?” Jiyong looks completely relaxed, and the act of verbalizing my name doesn’t seem to cause the odd reaction it did in the dining hall two days ago.

“Yeah.” I look down at the table, trying not to look at his eyes for fear of getting trapped in there again. “Jiyong, right?”

He nods. “Do you ever go by ‘Ji’?” Where did that come from? Oh, God. He grins. “No. Just . . . Jiyong.”

And here comes the flush. I wonder if he is as curious to know what I look like without a red face as I am to see him with a haircut. “Thanks for the loan.” As I pass him the pencil, I can feel all my questions just sitting there, waiting for me to launch them one by one, but I can’t seem to find my voice now that he’s sitting here across from me.

“Any time,” he says as he sets it in the long groove at the top of the wooden desk. The pencil must have magnetic properties, because it seems to be pulling both of us into it. “So, what’s our assignment today?” he asks as he leans forward, and I swallow the questions down.

“I’m afraid it’s a tough one.” I reach over, bridging the gap between our two desks, and set the card down with the words facing him.

He picks it up, and a grin gradually spreads over his face. “Oh, this should be easy.” He leans forward, like he has a secret. “I’ve interviewed for several waiter jobs in Madrid before.”

 “Really?”

“No.” He smiles. “I’m kidding.” I laugh too loud. “Well, good.” I take a deep breath to steady my nerves and press my palms flat on the desk to keep my hands from shaking. I move in toward him and say, “I have no idea how to hire someone in this country or any other one.