How We Fall Apart

by Katie Zhao

  I started to type: Can u come home now?

  But then I paused. Thought hard. Shook my head. Backspaced.

  Baba wasn’t going to come back to the States just because I’d gotten into Sinclair Prep. He had a new life in China. We’d been separated for so long now with so little contact that we were practically strangers.

  Maybe all my hard work had, in the end, been for nothing.

  Later that night, Mama returned from work holding a large gift-wrapped box in her hands. “For you,” she said.

  Mama rarely left the restaurant looking so happy, nor did she give me presents. Carefully, I unwrapped it—and gasped. “A MacBook Pro! But these are so expensive.” I’d drooled over this laptop for months, dreaming of saving up enough money to buy it one day.

  Mama’s cheeks glowed. “Do you like it?”

  Like it? I loved it. I hugged the box as though it might vanish the moment I let it go. “How . . . ​I . . . ​How could you even afford to buy this? It costs over a thousand dollars.”

  “It’s a present to you for working so hard to get into Sinclair Prep. From your father, too.”

  My throat thickened. Tears welled up in my eyes. I blinked them back. “From Baba?”

  Instead of looking angry as she talked about Baba, Mama seemed . . . ​neutral. Maybe even a little happy. “He’s very proud of you.”

  “You spoke with Baba?” Hope bloomed in my chest. Maybe my parents weren’t fighting any longer, and maybe Baba could come here, and maybe we could be a normal family again.

  “It was your father’s idea to buy you this laptop. You need the best equipment to attend the best school.”

  A better gift would’ve been Baba coming to the States, but I decided not to mention that. “Thank you.”

  “That computer is a reminder not to be lazy,” Mama warned, although she didn’t look that stern. “You’re going to be a student at the best private high school in the country. The next four years will be very difficult.”

  “I’ll work hard,” I promised. “I’m not weak.”

  I eagerly opened the box, while Mama laughed and took pictures of me on her cell phone.

  Tomorrow, everything would go back to normal, my initial euphoria overshadowed by everything else I had to do to make Mama proud.

  But that night, for the first time in a long while, even without Baba there, we were like a real family. The happy, perfect American family my parents had sacrificed everything to be.

  CONFESSION TWENTY-SIX

  Unconfirmed: heard from a friend of a friend that the Golden Trio is gonna be reunited back in UES soon. —Anon

  *****

  EXCLUSIVE: “THE PROCTOR” REVEALED TO BE SINCLAIR UNVEILED’S OWN LOUISA WU

  In a series of interviews, six students reveal their thoughts on recently deceased classmates Jamie Ruan and Louisa Wu

  By: Isabel Lim and Mark Gowain

  Going back to school was agony. These dark brick walls, like a prison.

  I hated these walls. Closing in, suffocating me. Hated that I had another year of being stuck in this place.

  I hated that even though I hated Sinclair Prep so much, I’d still spend the next year of my life clawing to the top of the class, doing everything I could to get into the best university possible.

  The school courtyard burned down, but the firefighters had managed to stop the fire before it reached the buildings, so school was still in full swing. The statue of Richard Sinclair survived, with minimal smoke and heat damage.

  The only good thing was that our newspaper club was making a comeback from the brink of irrelevance. On Wednesday, they couldn’t distribute the latest issue of Sinclair Unveiled fast enough. The students had never been so interested in the school newspaper.

  Even better, I could breathe a sigh of relief. Our names were cleared now. For good.

  But Jamie and Emily were still dead, and their families would never get their daughters back, and that would never change.

  A week after everything that had happened during prom, Sinclair Prep was still all over the news. And not for sending a record number of seniors—fifty—off to Ivy League colleges. Not a day, or even an hour, went by without whispers of Jamie’s and Emily’s names.

  On the outside, Sinclair Prep students and faculty could give the appearance that nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Emily’s family wasn’t punished for her crimes. In fact, many of their friends were defending Emily, saying she couldn’t have possibly been the one who’d killed Jamie.

  But something inside the elite college prep school had changed. I could feel it in the air. On the seniors’ last day of school on Thursday, all the students were ushered into the huge auditorium for an assembly about mental health awareness. The school board brought on more educators and experts to work on providing counseling services for students who might need them.

  It was a start. But I wasn’t naïve enough to believe it was going to solve the problem.

  The problem started at home. It started with the parents who always pushed for more, more, more. Why were they never satisfied?

  The problem lay with this school, with all these institutions. Walls too high to climb, doors shut to all except the most privileged. Lies about not seeing color. Lies about merit-based education, about hard work translating into success.

  These ancient walls, taking from us. Stealing our money and our happiness. Stripping us of who we were as they watched us become undone, watched us unwind into nothing. Taking and taking until there was nothing left to give.

  Jamie’s story went viral. Principal Bates’s best efforts to keep student information classified were no match for social media. I read through heated Reddit threads and watched YouTube discussions. There was some push for reform of the education system, but still too many who refused to believe there could be any real, deadly repercussions for mental health.

  Too many who still called Jamie—called us—weak.

  Flames leapt all around me, scorching my hair and clothes and skin. Scorching away the weakness.

  An acrid smell of smoke. Invisible hands, closing over my throat. Choking me. Making me. Undoing me.

  Burning flesh. Inhuman screams. Was it Em burning? Jamie? Whoever it was, they were in horrible pain. I was in horrible pain. I had to rescue them, but I couldn’t open my eyes. The flames suffocated me.

  Someone’s hands, pressing the life out of me. Jamie. No—Em.

  No—Peter.

  Everybody was burning.

  Nobody was burning, except me.

  “. . . wake up, Nancy! Le-Le! Please!”

  I woke, convinced I was on fire, convinced the world was burning.

  Mama was shaking me, sobbing, tears rolling down her cheeks. It took me several moments, as my heart hammered madly in my chest, for me to remember where I was: safe in my warm, soft sheets.

  “I—I had a nightmare again,” I said unnecessarily.

  Mama’s trembling hands grasped mine. “Was it the same one? The one you’ve had a few times since . . . ?” Her voice trailed off, letting me fill in the blanks. Since the fire. Since that girl died.

  “Don’t worry about me, Mama. It was a dream. And I’m going to therapy now, remember? Soon, all of this will be in the past.” I flashed my mother a smile, which she didn’t return. “Wait,” I said as I glanced at my bedside clock. “It’s already ten. Shouldn’t you be at work?”

  “I scheduled time off,” Mama explained. “It’s not good for you if I’m away all the time.”

  “I can manage by myself—”

  “Rest today, okay?” My mother ran her weathered, calloused hand through my hair. “I’m making scallion pancakes. You love scallion pancakes. Get up and eat them whenever you’re ready. Don’t push yourself too hard, okay, Le-Le?”

  Don’t push yourself too hard. The permission I’d waited for, my whole life. A long-held sigh, escaping from my lips. Muscles, relaxing. I nodded. “Okay.”

  An hour later, when I finally couldn’t stand th
e taste of my own breath, I climbed out of bed and threw on my most comfortable old T-shirt. The air filled with the smell of something sizzling. Something that smelled tasty. My mouth watered.

  I poked my head into the kitchen. My mother hummed as she attended to the frying pan. I recognized the tune, although I hadn’t heard it in many, many years. It was Teresa Teng’s “Yuè Liàng Dài Biǎo Wǒ De Xīn,” a Mandarin song from the seventies. A song Mama and Baba used to dance to when I was much younger.

  “Ah, you’re finally up. Feeling better?” Mama said. I nodded and yawned. She gestured toward the kitchen table, from where the tantalizing smell of onions and something savory wafted toward my nose. “Sit and eat your scallion pancakes.”

  I obeyed. As I sat at the table, I watched the TV in the living room.

  “. . . ​amid mixed reactions from the public, the court has made a controversial decision: Jeremy Ruan, former VP of Matsumoto Technology Corporation, is to be released from his prison sentence in two weeks’ time. Ruan was charged with crimes of embezzlement earlier this year . . .”

  “What’s wrong?” Mama’s voice sounded far away.

  I turned as my mother came to the table and placed a plate with a pancake slice in front of me. But I’d lost my appetite now. “Jamie’s father. He’s already being released.”

  Mama sighed. “When you have that much money and influence, the world is your oyster.”

  “But . . .” Jamie’s father was a criminal. Worse, he’d verbally abused his wife and daughter. “He’s really going to walk free?”

  It shouldn’t have surprised me. And yet still it did. The injustice of it all.

  “Life isn’t fair. Eat your pancake before it gets cold.”

  Obediently, I dug into the pancake. An explosion of savory tastes entered my mouth when I bit into it. It was good enough to momentarily distract me from the news of Mr. Ruan’s release. “This is really good, Mama.”

  My mother finished chewing and gave me a pointed look. “It’s almost as though I manage a restaurant, or something.”

  “Are you picking up sarcasm?” This was it. Sarcasm. The ultimate proof that my mother was truly getting acclimated to the American way.

  Mama laughed. I smiled, but only for a moment. It was hard to smile knowing that Mr. Ruan, an embezzler and someone who’d played a role in Jamie’s downfall, would soon be free.

  After we finished breakfast, I cleaned the dishes. Mama left for a few minutes, and when she came back to the kitchen, she was holding some envelopes and a small package.

  “For you,” my mother said, handing me the flat, rectangular package.

  I didn’t remember ordering anything. I ripped it open.

  And there it was. A pink, worn-down journal. My Diss Diary. There was no return address on the package, but I knew it came from Em.

  My hands shook as I picked up the journal. I flipped through it from cover to cover. Aside from the entry Em had ripped out to display on the PowerPoint at honors night, she hadn’t tampered with anything. These words, this secret, still mine.

  I paused, my fingers tracing the back cover. Em had left one last, final message for me.

  If you’re wondering how I got this journal, Jamie knew about it all along. She took it the last time she was at your place and gave it to me at the end.

  This answer, at last. And this message, along with the return of my journal, was the proof that Em must have known, or guessed, that I might survive prom night. I didn’t know what to do with that knowledge. Didn’t want to look at the journal that had caused me so much grief.

  I shoved it into a drawer, out of sight, and checked my phone. I’d missed a bazillion messages from Krystal, Akil, Alexander, and—­

  My heart clenched at the name. Peter.

  As much as I knew I should put Peter and everything we had, or never had, behind me, a small part of me had expected this. Had wanted this. After all, why else would he crop up in my nightmares? We had unfinished business, Peter and I.

  Peter: I know ur upset with me and probably don’t want to talk to me again. I get it. The way I handled things was bad. I wanted to check in with you and make sure ur ok tho. I’ve been really worried since that fire at prom. Shit’s been crazy. I’ve been thinking a lot, and I’ve decided to resign from teaching at the school. Anyway . . . ​message me when ur feeling up to it. I wanna know ur ok.

  I stared and stared and stared at the words on my phone screen. The text, shaking. My hands were shaking.

  Peter. Peter, and the fire. Both so lovely from a distance. Lovelier as you drew closer and closer. Lovely until you strayed too close, until the flames consumed you.

  Enough. Enough of Peter, enough of our mutual destruction. I focused my attention on Alexander’s text instead.

  Alexander: Hey, wanted to make sure you’re doing all right after what happened

  Nancy: I’m . . . surviving

  Alexander: I feel that

  Nancy: Hey are you free today? I’m around if you wanna chill

  Alexander: Yeah I don’t have to go in to work today, so I’m down to clown

  Nancy: Yaaaaay How about we meet at the Washington Square Park fountain and go get ice cream or something?

  Alexander: Sure, meet at 3?

  Nancy:

  Alexander: Quick question tho . . . ​is this a date?

  Nancy: Yeah, I guess it is

  Alexander: Cool, just checking

  A glance at the time showed me it was already almost two. Washington Square Park was about twenty minutes away by train, so I didn’t have much time to plan a date outfit. Probably shouldn’t have suggested this so last minute, but oh well.

  I threw on a simple baby blue sundress from H&M and swiped on a quick coat of lip gloss. When I went to tell Mama I was leaving, I found her fast asleep on the couch. Sleep smoothed the weary lines on her face, making her appear years younger. Tiptoeing around, I quickly wrote Mama a note telling her where I’d gone and that I’d be back in time for dinner.

  Then, I headed out to meet Alexander.

  CONFESSION TWENTY-SEVEN

  Spotted: N.L. and A.L. on a date at Washington Square Park. Seems like N.L. is more concerned about lip gloss application than college applications . . . first that thing with P.S., now she’s moving on to A.L.

  N.L. and A.L. sitting in a tree, aren’t they moving too quickly? —Anon

  *****

  After circling the fountain twice, trying to spot Alexander through the crowds of NYU students and families, I finally saw him standing in front of one of the benches, waving at me.

  I smiled for the first time in what felt like days. Alexander wasn’t wearing anything fancy, just a plain black T-shirt and blue jeans, which helped me relax. The whole train ride here, I’d been more nervous than I’d been sitting through any of my exams.

  It was silly. This was Alexander. We’d hung out plenty of times before, studying or working.

  “Hey,” I said.

  We stared at each other for a moment, and then both looked away at the same time.

  “So . . . wanna go get that ice cream?” Alexander asked.

  “Oh, y-yeah!” Duh. I’d suggested it, and somehow I’d forgotten. “Let’s do that. It’s crowded today, isn’t it?”

  “It’s always pretty crowded.”

  “Yeah, that’s true . . .”

  “Man, I can’t remember the last time I had a full day off to relax,” Alexander said wistfully, staring up at the sky. I raised my head, too, and noted that it was impossibly blue, the perfect blue. “Like, what do I do with myself outside of studying and working?”

  “And catching killers,” I added. “Sorry, too soon?”

  Alexander snorted. “Let me add that to my resume when I get home. ‘Strengths include studying, working, and catching killers.’ ”

  “Harvard would have to be nuts to turn down your applications.”

  Laughing, we grabbed some ice cream from a place called Van Lee Ice Cream. When I pulled out my wallet t
o pay for my chocolate ice cream, Alexander smoothly reached over the counter to put his credit card in front of mine. “We’re paying for ours together.”

  “Oh, wait—I couldn’t—”

  “I’m not letting you pay on the first date, Nancy.”

  My pulse raced. “Thank you,” I remembered to say, smiling down at my shoes.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Once we’d left, ice cream cones in hand, I glanced at Alexander out of the corner of my eye. He was smiling, also slightly red in the face, looking pleased with himself.

  “Smooth, Alexander Lin. Very smooth,” I said.

  “Thanks. I’ve been practicing—I mean, no, not practicing, that’d be weird—I mean—ahhh, so much for smooth.” He ruffled the back of his messy black hair, his expression now turning sheepish.

  “Add that to the resume, too. ‘Strengths include studying, working, catching killers, and being smooth.’ ” That earned a laugh from Alexander, which made me smile.

  We walked around for a bit. The sun, beaming down on us. Here, the world at peace. All the stress, all the drama, all the events of the past few weeks simply melted away along with our ice cream.

  Soon, though, I couldn’t ignore the constant vibrating of my phone in my pocket. As soon as there was a lull in our conversation, I drew it out and glanced at the string of texts I’d received.

  Krystal: Ummm someone posted about you and Alexander on Tip Tap . . . ​did you forget to tell me that you guys are on a date?!?!

  Krystal: Nancy WHERE ARE YOU

  Krystal: WHY DID I HAVE TO LEARN FROM A STUPID GOSSIP APP THAT SOME OF MY BEST FRIENDS ARE ON A DATE

  Krystal: Answer your phone!!!

  Krystal: Unless you and Alexander are making out then please DO NOT ANSWER YOUR PHONE

  Krystal: Not to be dramatic, but I am withering away and my crops are dying. pls promise you’ll tell me everything soon

  “Who’s blowing up your phone?” Alexander asked.

  “Krystal. Hang on, let me text her back.” Smiling and laughing, I composed a reply to Krystal before she did something drastic.