I laugh at him. “So you’re going to die an incompetent hero?”

“I’m going to die trying,” he says, and we laugh together.

We cross the street. “This way,” I tell him when he starts heading straight instead of right. “We need to go over to Eighth.”

He pivots and grins at me like we’re on an epic adventure.

“Hang on,” he says, shrugging out of his jacket. It seems weirdly intimate to watch as he takes it off, so I watch two very old, very cranky guys argue over a single cab a few feet from us. There are at least three other free cabs in the immediate vicinity.

Observable Fact: People aren’t logical.

“Will this fit in your backpack?” he asks, holding the jacket out to me. I know he’s not asking me to wear it, like I’m his girlfriend or something. Still, carrying his jacket strikes me as even more intimate than watching him take it off.

“Are you sure?” I ask. “It’ll get wrinkled.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. He guides me off to the side so we’re not blocking the other pedestrians, and suddenly we’re standing pretty close. I don’t remember noticing his shoulders before. Were they this broad a second ago? I pull my eyes away from his chest and up to his face, but that’s not any better for my equilibrium. His eyes are even clearer and browner in the sunlight. They are kind of beautiful.

I slip my backpack off my shoulder and place it squarely between us so he has to back up a little.

He folds the jacket neatly and puts it inside.

His shirt is a crisp white, and the red tie stands out even more without his jacket on. I wonder what he looks like in regular clothes, and what regular clothes are for him. No doubt jeans and a T-shirt—the uniform of all American boys everywhere.

Is it the same for Jamaican boys?

My mood turns somber at the thought. I don’t want to start over again. It was hard enough when we first moved to America. I don’t want to have to learn the rituals and customs of a new high school. New friends. New cliques. New dress codes. New hangouts.

I scoot around him and start walking. “Asian American men are most likely to die of cancer,” I say.

He frowns and double-steps to catch up. “Really? I don’t like that. What kind?”

“I’m not sure.”

“We should probably find out,” he says.

He says we as if there’s some future of us together where our respective mortalities will matter to each other.

“You really think you’ll die of heart disease?” he asks. “Not something more epic?”

“Who cares about epic? Dead is dead.”

He just stares at me, waiting for an answer. “Okay,” I say. “I can’t believe I’m about to tell you this. I secretly think I’m going to drown.”

“Like in the open ocean, saving someone’s life or something?”

“In the deep end of a hotel pool,” I say.

He stops walking and pulls me off to the side again. A more considerate pedestrian there’s never been. Most people just stop in the middle of the sidewalk. “Wait,” he says. “You can’t swim?”

I shrink my head down into my jacket. “No.”

His eyes are searching my face and he’s laughing at me without actually laughing. “But you’re Jamaican. You grew up surrounded by water.”

“Island heritage notwithstanding, I can’t swim.”

I can tell he wants to make fun of me, but he resists. “I’ll teach you,” he says.

“When?”

“Someday. Soon. Could you swim when you lived in Jamaica?” he asks.

“Yup, but then we got here, and instead of the ocean they had pools. I don’t like chlorine.”

“You know they have saltwater pools now.”

“That ship has sailed,” I say.

Now he does make fun of me. “What’s your ship called? Girl Who Grew Up on an Island, Which Is a Thing Surrounded on All Sides by Water, Can’t Swim? Because that would be a good name.”

I laugh and thump him on the shoulder. He grabs my hand and holds my fingers. I try not to wish he could make good on his promise to teach me to swim.

I AM A SCHOLAR COMPILING the Book of Natasha. Here’s what I know so far: She’s a science geek. She’s probably smarter than me. Her fingers are slightly longer than mine and feel good in my hands. She likes her music angsty. She’s worried about something having to do with her mysterious appointment.

“Tell me again why you’re wearing a suit?” she asks.

I groan long and loud and with feeling. “Let’s talk about God instead.”

“I get to ask questions too,” she says.

We walk single file underneath more sidewalk scaffolding. (At any given moment approximately 99 [give or take] percent of Manhattan is under construction.)

“I applied to Yale. I have an interview with an alum later.”

“Are you nervous?” she asks, when we’re side by side again.

“I would be if I gave two shits.”

“But you only give one shit?”

“Maybe half a shit,” I say, laughing.

“So your parents are making you do it?”

A sudden yelling from the street grabs our attention, but it’s only one cabdriver shouting at another.

“My parents are first-generation Korean immigrants,” I say by way of explanation.

She slows her walking and looks over at me. “I don’t know what that means,” she says.

I shrug. “It means it doesn’t matter what I want. I’m going to Yale. I’m going to be a doctor.”