How We Fall Apart

by Katie Zhao

  Now it was too late. Jamie had gone somewhere I couldn’t follow, where my words would never reach her.

  Jamie was so happy, Mrs. Ruan had said. If she believed that, then she knew less about her daughter than I’d thought. Maybe if Mrs. Ruan had spent less time with her girlfriends and more time at home with Jamie, she’d have at least known that much. Known that Jamie Ruan, the girl who had everything, had never had the one thing she wanted above all. Jamie’s parents hadn’t even known that Jamie was bi, that she’d dated Krystal for a while during freshman and sophomore year. They couldn’t have possibly known if she was happy or not.

  They’d never really known their own daughter beyond her accomplishments, beneath her seemingly perfect surface. And now it was too late.

  It was going to take us a while to reach Jamie’s family, given how many people wanted to speak with them. Richard and David still had their backs turned to Mama and me. Maybe I could escape to the bathroom and never come back. Before I could think of an excuse to get away, a low voice shouted: “You!”

  My heart leapt into my throat. It was Richard. Taller than almost everyone here, he glared at me over the heads of the crowd like he wanted nothing more than for my funeral to be next. I backed away and almost tripped over someone’s foot.

  “You must’ve done this to Jamie. It was you!” Richard began shoving his way toward me, but Peter swooped in and grabbed his arm.

  “What are you doing?” cried Mrs. Ruan, who gazed at Richard like he was a wild creature set loose. “This is a funeral. A funeral for my daughter!”

  “You should be asking her the questions.” Red-faced, Richard pointed through the crowd—straight at me. Gasps and murmurs of confusions followed. I buried my face in my hands, but not before catching sight of everyone’s heads turning toward me. “She’s more than capable of doing something like this. Y-You guys have no idea. Ask her about the truth about Em, what happened two years ago. Ask!”

  “Richard, that’s enough,” I heard Peter yell.

  Richard fired back, “No, I’ve had enough of all this—this pretending and lying and hiding the truth.”

  “Le-Le, what’s going on?” Mama whispered. She wrapped a warm arm around my shoulder. “You’re shaking! What is that boy talking about?”

  “I . . .” I took a deep breath and braced myself for what was to come. Richard, who knew about the Incident and had been sworn to secrecy, had finally cracked. He was going to spill our greatest, darkest secret to everyone present.

  “Get out!” a female voice bellowed. Tiny Mrs. Ruan strode toward Mama and me, the hem of her white dress billowing around her feet. I couldn’t tell if her eyes were red-rimmed from tears, or anger. “Both of you. Out. How dare you show your faces around here and cause a disruption at Jamie’s funeral. I want you out of my sight!”

  Mama drew herself to her full height, her body trembling in rage. I hadn’t seen her like this since Baba had left us. “How dare you and this boy harass my daughter. We came to pay our respects. Now we’ll go. No need to see us out,” she snapped. “Our pity was wasted on you.”

  “The Ruans have no use for your pity,” spat Jamie’s mother. She was so furious that her jade earrings shook. “We pity you. Get out. We won’t see you again.”

  Shaking, I allowed my mother to drag me out of the church. I knew that at least five people would have already posted about the blowup on Tip Tap. It was probably going to take me the rest of my time at Sinclair to live down a scene like that.

  And yet, part of me was happy that Mama had gone to bat for me. Mama never raised her voice against anyone, ever.

  It wasn’t until we were home that my mother dropped my arm, turned around, and pinned me with a stare that could’ve pierced right through me. “Le-Le, you can tell me the truth. What were they talking about? Did you do something to offend the Ruans?”

  “No.” It was the truth. I hadn’t done anything—not to them, at least. “They must—they must still have a grudge against us, since we stopped talking to them after Mr. Ruan’s scandal.”

  After a long moment, my mother softened her gaze. It seemed like she believed me. “The Ruans’ world is very different from ours. I was right to ask you to stay away from their daughter.” She shook her head sadly, and then glanced at the clock. “I have to leave for work. There are leftovers in the fridge. Study hard today.”

  “I know,” I mumbled.

  I’d known all along that my world was different from Jamie’s. Knew I had to be careful. Knew I had to contort my body, do whatever it took to fit in. Bad things happened to those who didn’t play by the rules.

  Just ask Em.

  JANUARY, JUNIOR YEAR

  “Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to die,” Jamie said with a wistful sigh. Whispered it to the textbook in front of her, to the library walls that surrounded us.

  I started, my SAT flashcards falling through my fingers, clattering to the table. “What?” Sure that I’d heard Jamie wrong. These words, uttered like a confession, so unlike her.

  “I feel . . . ​not myself lately. Weak.” Jamie turned her eyes up to me, now. Pleading eyes. Sunken eyes. “Haven’t you ever wondered what it’d be like to—to disappear?” Jamie gripped my arm like a drowning man to a lifeboat. “Am I—Am I weak for having those thoughts, sometimes?”

  Jamie, like this, scared me. Jamie, and these words that said more than I was willing to hear. Jamie, and her eyes begging for help I didn’t know how to give.

  I forced myself to look away from the sight of Jamie, Jamie unwinding. Less than twenty-four hours before our next SAT practice test, only six weeks until the real thing in March, and here she was distracting me from my studies. Mama might even say Jamie was being pathetic for not being able to handle this school and all its demands.

  And I didn’t have time for this. Didn’t have time to entertain the whimsies of rich kids who had more than me, always had more than me, even if they didn’t graduate at the top of the class.

  “Yes,” I said, and it was like I wasn’t me, like the harsh words coming out of my mouth weren’t my own. “Yes, Jamie. You are weak.”

  Jamie, who’d always been above me, now a tiny ant at my feet. And I crushed it and left without looking back at the ruined remains.

  CONFESSION FOURTEEN

  Is it normal to daydream about flinging yourself off the balcony and never worrying about Orgo again? —Anon

  *****

  By Monday, the rumors about Krystal had died down somewhat. Everyone was more preoccupied with the upcoming exams. Finals week was both a blessing and a curse in that sense.

  Krystal put on a brave face and came for classes, despite all the pointing and the staring. Despite the jeers she got from some of our more meatheaded classmates, like Parker Xiao and Jack Kimball.

  “Bet she’s the one who did it,” Parker said to Jack in an exaggerated whisper-shout as they passed Krystal and me in the hall before third period. “Probably beat Jamie to death . . .”

  Krystal flounced past in her Azzedine Alaïa black leather booties, dignity intact, as though she couldn’t hear them, even though her tightly clenched jaw told me otherwise. But I shot Parker and Jack the middle finger behind her back. Krystal had enough dignity for the both of us, I think.

  Unfortunately, the true consequences of Krystal’s secret being exposed went beyond the whisperings of the school. We’d made it to our third period class—AP Lang—when Krystal let out a choked gasp, staring at her phone.

  “What is it?” My stomach lurched. Already, I was preparing for the worst. “Is it another post from the Proctor?”

  “N-No . . . ​I—the director of the James Hale Law Summer Internship Program just . . . ​rescinded their offer,” Krystal said. “Saying they don’t think I’d be the right fit for the job, due to recent information that’s come to light about my background.”

  “Oh, Krystal . . . ​I’m so sorry.” I knew Krystal had been looking forward to the internship, even though it wasn’t a fa
shion internship, like she’d wanted. It was one her parents had approved for her.

  “They—they can’t do this,” she spluttered. Then, in a tremulous voice: “Can they?”

  I shrugged helplessly. Wishing I knew what to say. Wishing I knew what to do to make this right.

  “My parents are going to kill me when they find out,” Krystal moaned. And she hardly said another word for the rest of the class.

  The knowledge that we’d be regrouping with the newspaper club this afternoon kept me going through the school day. But when I headed down there after classes, I found a crowd of students and faculty standing outside the door, Principal Bates and Peter among them. Murmuring, whispering.

  My heart sank. “What’s happened?”

  The nearest club member, Isabel, turned to me with tears in her eyes. “S . . . Someone wrecked our room.”

  I forced my way to the front to peer through the window.

  Papers that had been neatly stacked on the center table were strewn about the floor. Books pulled from their places on the shelves were scattered carelessly on the carpet. The chairs had been knocked onto their sides. Mark’s camera had been smashed to bits. It looked like the intruder had torn through all our possessions in search of something.

  Louisa and Kiara stood beside me, staring in, looking shocked and horrified.

  “What happened here?” Principal Bates asked them.

  “W-We got here for today’s meeting, and the room . . . ​ it . . . ​it was like this,” Louisa squeaked. She gestured toward the room, then drew back and wrapped her arms around her body, shivering.

  “Did you see who it was?” demanded the principal. They both shook their heads.

  “Why would someone attack the newspaper club?” Peter asked, pounding a fist against the window in frustration.

  Mark stepped forward. “Um . . . Mr. Shui . . . you should check Tip Tap.”

  His words caused a flurry of movement as everyone pulled out their phones. And there it was, the first post on Tip Tap.

  This is what happens when curious student journalists and nosy teachers snoop around where they aren’t wanted. Let this be a lesson.

  Stay out of this. In this game, you can’t win.

  —The Proctor

  Guilt twisted in my gut like a knife. It was my fault the newspaper club had been trashed. My fault for coming up with the idea to ask them for help with the investigation.

  The message here was clear. Nobody was to help us. And we were not to uncover the Proctor’s identity.

  In the crowd, Peter’s eyes met mine, his face arranged in an unreadable mask. I knew what that look meant. He’d given it to me at the end of my freshman year. He wanted nothing more to do with this investigation. With us.

  “We’re done here,” Peter said in a quiet voice.

  Bates scrunched up his nose. “We haven’t even gotten started, Mr. Shui. I’m going to check the footage on the security camera. Everybody else, stay outside this classroom.”

  Peter wasn’t talking to the principal, though. He was talking to us. The newspaper club, our only allies, were deserting us. We were going to have to face the Proctor alone.

  In the room, Bates stood on a stool to check the camera next to the American flag. After a few moments, he stormed back out, looking frustrated. “Camera got turned off. Looks like our culprit covered their tracks well. I’ll have to head down to the security office. Peter—get these students away from this room.” Muttering into a walkie-talkie, Bates hurried past us and down the hall.

  Alexander and Krystal turned up a few minutes later, and by then Peter had dispersed the crowd. I relayed what had happened to them, saw my own shock and horror reflected in their faces as they registered what this meant for us. Extracurriculars were cancelled for that afternoon.

  Now that our work with the newspaper club had been destroyed, and our plans to go after the Proctor had gone up in flames, I went home. I texted Peter from the subway.

  Nancy: Hey, I’m rly sorry about what happened to the club room earlier today.

  Peter: It’s ok. Not ur fault. I’m glad u texted tho, cuz I do wanna talk to you about something kinda serious

  Nancy: What’s up?

  Peter: I don’t think we should be too friendly with each other anymore. At least, not for now while this all blows over . . . ​It’s too risky. Treat me like any other teacher, and I’ll treat you like any other student

  Nancy: Are you saying this cuz ur worried about the Proctor coming after you if you help me?

  Peter: Even if I’m only a student teacher, I’m still a teacher, and you’re my student. My job is on the line and so is your enrollment

  Nancy: Didn’t stop you from being friendly before

  Peter: That was then, now is now

  Nancy: k whatever

  Peter: “k” . . . sounds bad

  Nancy: k

  Peter: It’s only for now. Wait a little bit, ok?

  Even though the logical decision was to shut this down—not only for now, but forever—still a part of my mind whispered, whispered that Peter was leaving me for a second time, because I wasn’t good enough for him.

  Because wasn’t that the truth? I had never been good enough. Not for him, and not for them.

  My mother had once told me to become strong. Once, I had promised her I would become the best. Once, I believed I could give my family everything—everything they’d given up, given to me. Everything they needed me to be.

  But the truth was, I wasn’t strong enough.

  The truth was, I had never been good enough for my parents’ impossible dreams, and never would be. The proof was that Baba didn’t stick around to watch me grow up.

  I was six years old, standing in front of the intimidating, sleek, tall building. The black gates rose sky-high above me, impossibly high. Mama and Baba stood at my side, holding my hands.

  “Richard Sinclair Preparatory School. The best private high school in America. You will get into this school one day,” Baba said with confidence. He gave me a rare smile. “You are going to prove that you’re the best. You are not weak.”

  I nodded because I knew it would give me Baba’s approval. And nothing was more important to me than his approval.

  I was nine years old, sitting at the tiny, cramped dining table across from Baba. Mama bustled around the kitchen making dinner. She ignored Baba; they’d had a fight over something earlier.

  Baba grunted as he marked up my math worksheet with his red pen. I bit my fingernail nervously. My father was in a foul mood, which meant he’d be extra strict.

  “Nine out of ten,” Baba reported, sliding the piece of paper back toward me. He frowned. “This isn’t good enough. Do it again.”

  Nothing was ever good enough for my father. “But, Baba,” I pleaded. “Jamie invited me to go hang out at the pool. You promised I could go.”

  “I’m taking back that promise.”

  “You can’t do that! Take-backs aren’t fair.”

  A cold, ugly look cut across my father’s face. I knew enough to shut up before he got really angry.

  “Nothing in life is fair. But that’s why you have to work your hardest when the other kids are playing. You have less than them, which means you must be better than them. You must work ten times as hard as your classmates to have what they have. Remember that, Nancy. You are not weak.”

  I bit my lip. I picked up my pencil and then brought the lead down on the paper so hard it snapped and went flying.

  I made a pact with myself. If Baba wanted me to, I would prove that I wasn’t weak. That I was his good girl, good enough to be his daughter. I was the best.

  I was twelve years old, holding Mama’s hand at the airport. My mother wept. I didn’t really understand why. Baba was only supposed to go back to China for a brief work stint. Besides, Mama had screamed at him to leave the night before—so why was she upset now that he was doing that?

  Baba was upset, too. I could tell because he’d ignored Mama the whole t
ime we drove to the airport.

  Before he left to board his plane, my father turned back to look at Mama and me. The years we’d spent in the States, barely scraping by, hadn’t been kind to him. Wrinkles lined his forehead and cheeks.

  My father raised a hand in farewell. He didn’t cry. Baba never cried. But his eyes were slightly redder and brighter than usual.

  “Work hard, Nancy. Harder than anyone else. You’re the smartest girl there is. And remember—you are not weak.”

  I was fourteen years old, holding my acceptance letter to Richard Sinclair Preparatory School, complete with a scholarship that covered full tuition. The official-looking letter, embossed with the prestigious school’s stamp, with its motto.

  In inceptum finis est.

  Those school gates that had always risen too high for me to climb, I’d broken them down with nothing but sheer willpower. I was in. I’d made it.

  I was bursting with excitement to tell Mama—and Baba. Until I remembered that Baba had been gone for two years now. That he’d broken his promise and hadn’t returned to the States.

  But Baba had believed in me. You are not weak, he’d insisted.

  I hadn’t been good enough for him before. But now, I would work hard—harder than anyone. I had to show my father how strong I was. If I could do that, he would return to Mama and me.

  Yes. The only reason Baba had left us was because I hadn’t been good enough. Strong enough. It was my fault. Mine. At Sinclair Prep, I would prove that I was every bit as strong and capable as my parents needed me to be.

  Then, even if we’d forever be wanderers in this country, never able to find a place to truly call home, we could at least be a family again.

  CONFESSION FIFTEEN

  I get beat if I bring home anything less than an A-minus. —Anon

  *****

  A day went by without much incident, besides Akil’s return to school. Our morale for catching the Proctor had hit an all-time low. This person knew our secrets, was always a step ahead of us, and had thwarted us at every turn. How could we defeat someone who could predict our every move?