“Very well,” Ling said at last.
Henry’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s it? Just ‘very well.’”
Ling warmed her hands on the sides of her cup. “Yes.”
“You are a strange one, Ling Chan,” Henry said, shaking his head, the relief apparent on his face.
“I’ve never had a friend like your Louis. I’ve never really had friends.”
“Their loss,” Henry answered.
Ling turned on him. “Are you saying that just because you’ve been trained to be polite? Or do you mean it?” Ling put up a hand. “Don’t answer out of habit. Be truthful.”
“You really aren’t much for social niceties, are you?”
“Why should I lie? What good does that do?”
When she had lain in the hospital after the infection with her legs paralyzed, the nurses had smiled politely and told her not to worry. But she knew from their eyes there was reason to worry, and being told otherwise only made her fear greater. It was her uncle Eddie who had been honest with her.
“Will my legs get better, Uncle?” she’d asked him. “Will they be like before?”
“No, they will not,” he’d said, his face and voice resolute so that she wouldn’t have false hope. “This is how it is now. There is strength in acceptance, Ling. Your legs have been taken from you. But how you choose to live with that has not.”
“I prefer the truth,” Ling now said to Henry, a little less bitterly.
Henry hadn’t been trained in honesty, only avoidance. Back in New Orleans, he’d been raised with the sort of southern manners that meant never really saying what you thought. He’d learned to smile and nod and go along, to call something “interesting” instead of “hogwash.” To be a good southern gentleman meant prizing politeness and pleasantry above all else. Being honest was a strange sensation, like using a long-neglected muscle.
“I think being friends with you will be challenging,” he said at last.
“‘Will be challenging’?”
Henry shrugged. “I suppose you’re stuck with me now, Miss Chan. I apologize in advance.”
Ling’s smile was big and goofy.
Henry whistled. “That smile of yours is a real beauty.”
Ling shook her head, letting her hair cover her face. “It’s stupid.”
“Right. What I meant to say is, that stupid smile of yours is a real beauty.”
This time, Ling actually giggled.
“The creature laughs!” Henry said.
“I’m not such a killjoy!”
“Actually, you are. A bit. Hey! I’m giving that honesty you asked for a twirl. How do you like it?” Henry said.
“You’re awful.”
“Oh, you say the sweetest things. I think you’re awful, too, darlin’,” Henry said, and Ling couldn’t fight her grin.
“Thank you for saving me today,” she said.
“Thanks for saving me, too.”
The little jazz band in the corner picked up the beat. Boys led their partners onto the floor, moving them gracefully around and around. Ling watched the dancers wistfully, tapping her fingers softly against the table. Henry saw it all.
“Would you care to dance?”
Ling’s face clouded. “This isn’t the dream world.”
“I know.” Henry stood and offered his hand. “One dance.”
Ling stared at Henry’s fingers, and then she grasped his hand and let him lead her to the floor. Mostly, they shuffled in place slowly, but it didn’t matter to Ling. She was dancing. It was almost as good as dream walking.
As they emerged onto snowy Barrow Street, Henry looked at Ling and asked, “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?” Ling asked.
“Yank your skirt hem down over your braces when somebody looks at you.”
“They’re ugly. People are bothered by them.”
“They’re not bothering me,” Henry said, and Ling unfurled another of her rare smiles.
“So you really don’t like girls?”
“I like girls very much. Just… not in the marrying way, if you follow.”
Ling nodded.
“More important, I like you, Miss Chan. Friends?”
“I suppose so.”
Henry smirked. “That was a very Ling Chan answer. If you ever give me a compliment, I might fall over dead. What’s the matter now? You’re frowning again.”
“Henry, could I show you something?”