American Panda

by Gloria Chao

  For Anthony, always, for believing in my words, for helping me find my inner měi, for giving me the world

  And for anyone who’s ever felt like they didn’t belong

  AUTHOR’S NOTE ABOUT THE MANDARIN WORDS

  In this book, I used the pinyin system for the Mandarin words because it is the most widely known Romanization system. For pronunciation: the marks above the vowels represent four tones, with the lines indicating the pitch contour of the voice.

  A straight line (ā), the first tone, is high and level, monotone.

  Second tone (á) rises in pitch.

  Third tone (ǎ) dips, then rises.

  Fourth (à) starts high and drops, producing a sharp sound.

  For some of the Mandarin phrases, I chose to depict the tones as the words are pronounced in conversation in my family’s accent. There may be some discrepancy with other accents and dialects.

  CHAPTER 1

  STINKY TOFU

  THE STENCH OF THE RESTAURANT’S specialty walloped my senses as soon as I entered. Even with seventeen years of practice, I didn’t have a fighting chance against a dish named stinky tofu. I gagged.

  My mother sniffed and smiled. “Smells like home.”

  Mmm. Who doesn’t love the scent of athlete’s foot with lunch? I held a fist to my face, desperately inhaling the pomegranate scent of my hand sanitizer.

  She swatted my hand down. “Don’t touch your face, Mei. Give yourself pimples for no reason. There are no ugly women. Only lazy women.”

  In my head, I counted to ten in English, then Mandarin. Two more hours, three tops.

  Mrs. Pan, a family friend who used to drive me to Chinese school, came over to our table to say hello, which apparently required grabbing my chin to inspect my face. My instinct to be deferential (heightened by my mother’s side-eye) warred with my desire to shake off Mrs. Pan’s bacteria-covered hands. When she finished her inspection and let go, I fought the urge to cover my now-sticky chin in pomegranate antiseptic, my trusty little sidekick.

  “I can’t believe this is little Mei,” Mrs. Pan squeaked. “You got pretty! And look how big your nose is! That’s promising.”

  I pasted on a well-rehearsed smile but couldn’t keep said nose from scrunching. I like my nose just fine, thank you very much, but years of “compliments” about its large size had made me insecure.

  Mrs. Pan misinterpreted my embarrassment for confusion and explained, “It’s a Chinese superstition—having a big nose means you will have lots of money.”

  Yes, because people will pay me to see my clown nose?

  “Aiyah,” my mother said, using the Chinese word of exasperation that, for her, preceded every faux brag. “I do hope Mei makes money in the future, not for her sake, but mine. She just started at MIT this week, premed of course, and her tuition is driving me to an early grave. Ah, if she hadn’t skipped a grade, I would have had one more year to save up money. Sometimes I feel her intelligence is a curse.”

  I probably should’ve been embarrassed, but this was the only form of praise I ever heard. I replayed my mother’s words in my head, letting the undertones of pride embrace me. Then, in anticipation of the round of my-child’s-brain-is-bigger-than-your-child’s that usually followed, I held my breath. Like if I breathed too loudly, I might miss it.

  But Mrs. Pan went in another direction. A much worse, infinitely more embarrassing direction.

  “Is Mei single?” she asked my mother as if I’d disappeared. “My firstborn son, Hanwei, is the sweetest, smartest boy, and he just might be interested in Mei!”

  This was a first for me, probably sparked by my entrance to college, which to some Asian mothers meant releasing the hounds—husband-hunting season had begun. Never mind that I was only seventeen and had been forbidden to date until a week ago.

  Mrs. Pan flashed a picture, always at the ready. The corners were dog-eared from frequent trips in and out of her pocket. I smiled, but it wasn’t because I thought Hanwei was cute. I could never date the boy who once peed on my foot. Sure, we were six at the time and in a car, but to me he would always be the boy who couldn’t control his bladder. And to him I was the carsick girl who had to carry a vomit bag—aka a recycled Ziploc my mother washed out by hand after each upchuck, too stingy to dip into the mountain of new ones in the garage. God, I might need a Ziploc right now at the thought of Pee-Boy and me together.

  “Mei has lots of suitors,” my mother said. A lie. “Nice seeing you. Enjoy your meal.”

  Perceiving her matchmaking to be a bust, Mrs. Pan turned off the charm and voiced what was really on her mind. “How did you get both of your children to be doctors? Especially your firstborn, Xing. He was always so tiáopí as a child, always getting other kids, even my guāi Hanwei, to do the worst things, like watch the R movies or play those violent video games.”

  To avoid acknowledging my brother’s existence, my mother covered her face with a menu and declared she was so hungry she could die—a common Chinese saying. Mrs. Pan hovered a minute, hoping to break through my mother’s defenses, but the situation was too awkward for even her to bear.

  As Mrs. Pan left, my mother leaned over and whispered, “Hanwei isn’t good enough for you, Mei. He went to Northeastern! And I heard from Mrs. Ahn who heard from Mrs. Tian—Remember Mrs. Tian? Her son went to Princeton—that after Hanwei graduated, he threw his college degree away to pursue music.”

  I wondered how he had pulled that off. How did he get his way when his mother dreamed of Dr. Hanwei Pan saving the world, a surgeon despite his nubbin bladder?

  “I bet you Hanwei’s nose is tiny—a peanut,” my mother continued. “He’s now begging for money in exchange for guitar lessons.”

  “You mean he’s teaching music? Like many other normal people?”

  “Not normal. Last resort. Soon he’ll be just like Ying-Na.”

  Poor Ying-Na. The Taiwanese-American cautionary tale of a girl who chose happiness over honoring her parents and was cut off financially and emotionally. Now she was the pìgu of every rumor, all created to support other parents’ warnings. Ying-Na decided to major in English and now lives in a refrigerator box. Ying-Na had an American boyfriend and he stole all her money. Ying-Na had one sip of alcohol and flunked out of college. And for my mother, Ying-Na veered off her parents’ career track and now takes off her clothes for quarters.

  “I’m so glad you will be a doc-tor,” my mother continued, her pride overemphasizing each syllable. “Doctors always have a job. Never have to worry. So stable, so secure. And so respectable. That’s why we’re so happy to pay your tuition.”

  I ducked my head in fear of her seeing the truth in my eyes—that bacteria-ridden patients made my skin crawl and biology put me to . . . zzzz. But unless I wanted to be Ying-Na 2.0, I didn’t have a choice.

  The waiter set down three Wet-Naps, which my mother immediately swept into her purse. Then our drinks: soy milk for my mother and a plum smoothie for my father, who was still out looking for elusive street parking.

  As the waiter handed me my papaya smoothie, my mother poked my breast. “These are still so small, like mosquito bites.”

  Due to rumors of a papaya-eating aboriginal village in China that churned out big-breasted women, my mother had been forcing mushy pink fruit down my throat since I hit puberty. Spoiler: It didn’t work.

  My B-cup breasts were too small for my “no-ugly-women” mother and the rest of my size-eight frame too big. She wished I was a classic Chinese beauty who would “fall over when the wind blows,” but I had missed the “skinny” gene on her side and instead inherited from my dad, whose college nickname was Lu Pàng, or Fat Lu. I preferred not to look like a chopstick with two cantaloupes for breasts, but I was in the minority.

  As if on cue, my mo
ther’s inspection traveled to my waist, which she pinched. “You’re getting fat. Have you been exercising?”

  It had to be a trap. If I admitted how much time I’d spent sneaking away to dance classes, she’d scold me for (1) not studying enough and (2) “throwing away” good money. I pressed my lips into a hard line, choosing silence. It’s because she loves you, I reminded myself. Right before they disowned my brother, they had stopped criticizing his negative attitude, his laziness, his weight. . . . It had been the last step before cutting him out. Reprimands meant they still cared . . . right?

  “You need to be careful, Mei. No man wants a panda—lazy, round, and silly. All yuán gun gun.”

  “Pandas are cute.”

  “Do you think the concubines won the emperor’s attention by being cute? Be a cat. They know how to sājiāo and get the man’s attention. They’re nián rén without being clingy—the perfect rice. Not too sticky, not too independent.”

  “Apt example, Mamá. People declaw cats, essentially cutting off their ‘fingers,’ and our ancestors used to break women’s feet to bind them into three-inch monstrosities. Except that was to keep them from running away.” I just couldn’t help it.

  She slapped the air with her open palm. “So disrespectful! How will you ever get a man?” She cleared her throat. “Actually, I have this friend—remember Mrs. Huang? Her son is interested in meeting you. Eugene is Taiwanese, a senior at Harvard, and will be a good husband. He’s applying to medical schools now.” She began pawing at my blunt bangs as if she were Edward Scissorhands. “We’ll have to clean up this mess before you meet him. Really, Mei, why you insist on having these? Just to give me a heart attack?”

  I had gotten bangs to hide the off-center mole on my forehead. The one that was so close to smack-dab-in-the-middle that my mother’s Buddhist friends were always commenting on how I had just missed out on it being in the center. Too bad, so unlucky, because that would have made it less embarrassing. After the hundredth friend had touched the mole without permission, leaving it sticky and violated, I had taken matters (and the scissors) into my own hands. And I haven’t looked back, not even when my mother said, Why you want the hairstyle of Japanese schoolchildren?

  I batted her hand away, then scooted my chair farther for good measure. “Yeah, Mamá, I can’t wait to meet this guy who needs his mom to get a girlfriend.”

  “Wonderful! We’ll set up a date for next week!” Sarcasm didn’t translate.

  “I was joking, Mamá.”

  She accompanied her signature tongue cluck with her signature phrase. “I’m your muqīn,” she declared, using the formal, distant version of “mother” that implied authority.

  This was becoming a pain in my pìgu. I tried to shut it down. “According to you, no boys were allowed in high school. And I’m only seventeen; I should be a high school senior.”

  “But you’re not. College is the best time to find a husband. American girls peak in junior high, high school with looks, but you will peak now. You hated that you got your period so much later than the other girls”—I covered my face to hide from any patrons who might have overheard—“but like I told you then, it’s a good thing. All my older friends with mean-o-pause—they look okay one day, then wrinkly the next. Like those suānméi your bǎbá loves.” She shuddered, probably from picturing faces on my dad’s prunes like I was. Then she straightened her spine. “I still have my period,” she said in a tone that others would reserve for I just got a promotion. “And you’ll have yours many, many years after your peers sag. It’s genetics.”

  Well, we rough-roaded it, but we managed to turn off course, away from preapproved Ivy League husbands. I just wish it didn’t have to involve my period. Or hers.

  “Wait, what was I saying?” Guess I spoke too soon. “Oh right. Mei, take advantage of your youth while you can. And I chose Eugene precisely because you’re still so young. He is a good boy. Won’t try anything. Other boys will try to trick you into having the sex, and you’re too young to know how to handle that. As your muqīn, I’m going to tell you the truth. It doesn’t feel good for women. It’s only to make babies, which you are not ready for quite yet. But soon. With Eugene.”

  Since I was about to toss my fortune cookies, I played my trump card. “Maybe we’ll see what Bǎbá has to say about this when he gets here.”

  Her mouth snapped shut, knowing my father, who still saw me as a five-year-old, would fly into a chopstick-throwing rage at the thought of me dating. She excused herself to the bathroom, most likely to touch up her makeup. Clarification: to powder and reapply mascara; her eyeliner and lipstick were tattooed on.

  My ears perked up at the sound of English amid the sea of Mandarin. Across the restaurant, a group of students was leaving their table.

  A familiar face. Well, a familiar outline of hair—he was still too far away to be more than a blurry shape. Because of my nearsightedness and my mother’s tenet that “no woman is attractive in glasses,” I recognized people by silhouette and motion. At orientation, his head had bobbed above the sea of freshmen, and I had been attracted to his spiky anime hair. It had taken me half an hour to work up the courage to smile at him, but he’d been too busy laughing with the perky blonde beside him to notice shy, not-blond me. My heart had lurched, and then I had traveled back in time to first grade. Wooden desk. Chalkboard overhead. And six-year-old me looking from one classmate to another, wishing I didn’t look so different.

  Oh God, I was totally staring. Probably because I could see him clearer now that he was only a few yards away, and, well, I’m just happy I didn’t drool. His face was all sharp angles and smooth skin, and he was that kind of lean muscular build—you know, nerd hot. Exactly my kind of poison.

  His eyes caught mine, then shifted down to my MIT shirt. While I was deer-in-headlights frozen at having been caught gawking, he said something to his friends (never had I wanted superhearing so bad), then weaved between chairs to my corner (!!!). I popped a hip-level wave, then regretted it immediately.

  He slid into the seat across from me, his knees bumping the table. “You look familiar. Did we meet at orientation?”

  “No, but I’m Mei.” I stuck a sweaty palm out.

  He took it and didn’t say ew. “Darren. Nice to meet you. Are you a fan of Chow Chow? I’ve never had Taiwanese food before.”

  “Did you like it?”

  When his head bobbed up and down emphatically, I smiled, excited to have one more person in on the secret. There weren’t enough Taiwanese restaurants on this side of the world, and braised pork rice and oyster pancakes were much too delicious to be so scarce.

  “It was amazing”—the right side of his lip quirked up—“although that stinky tofu smell does take some getting used to. Sorry if you’re a fan.”

  I shook my head. “Never tried it. I’ve already gotten enough of a taste through my nose. You know, smelling is a large part of tasting, so in a way, we’ve all ‘tasted’ dog poop and garbage.” What a charmer. Maybe Hanwei was my soul mate after all.

  But Darren wasn’t ruffled by my unladylike words. “Well, stinky tofu isn’t that far off, but I’m way more likely to try that than poop. In fact, I’m kind of curious about it—like, I want to try it because it smells so bad but it’s still food. Funny how that works, you know?” He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve never been tempted? Not even one bite?”

  “Ehhh, I’m good. I learned early not to trust my parents’ food preferences. Because of them, child-me thought stinky tofu was normal and Chili’s was the culinary master that invented fettuccine Alfredo.” I’d never admitted this to anyone before—it was too embarrassing—but instead of pity or judgment, there was . . . something else . . . on his face. Empathy? Dare I say, interest?

  “You must’ve been a cute little kid,” he said. I expected him to be embarrassed by his words, but he was leaning back in his chair, a small smile on his lips, completely comfortable.

  I wished I could be that self-assured, but since I was just me�
��not comfortable and completely awkward—I continued rambling. “Not according to my mother. I always talked with my mouth full, spoke when I shouldn’t, and said rude things.” I wondered if stinky tofu would taste better than my foot tasted right about now.

  He shrugged. “Honesty is sometimes misconstrued as rudeness, which is probably why it’s so rare.” Suddenly he snapped, then pointed a finger at me. “That’s where I know you from! You were the one who came to that girl’s defense at orientation.”

  Aiyah. How much had he heard? Even though I knew exactly which girl he was talking about, I furrowed my eyebrows at him as if I didn’t. Like I saved people daily.

  “When the international student didn’t get that joke,” he clarified. “How MIT is like sex without a condom; you’re glad you got in but—”

  “—sorry you came,” we said in unison.

  Darren finished recounting, and I breathed a sigh of relief. After I had chastised everyone for laughing at her—which had been a spur-of-the-moment decision fueled by my own experiences as the pìgu of the joke—I had told the girl, in an attempt to make her feel less alone, about that time in elementary school when I had brought my stuffed goat, Horny, to show-and-tell.

  Darren leaned closer as he said, “I thought it was really nice of you to stand up for her.”

  “Thanks.” I brought my eyes up to meet his and tried not to be too obvious about sneaking a deeper whiff of his scent. It was fresh, like spring, with a sprinkling of that distinct guy smell (the good kind).

  He ticked his chin up at the plum smoothie and soy milk beside me. “Meeting some friends?”

  “Sort of.”  I coughed into my fist. I couldn’t lie now after his comment about honesty. I coughed again. “My parents.” I shrugged, like I was so cool I was totally down hanging with them.

  “Are they still in town from moving you in?”

  I shook my head. “They live close by, in the suburbs.”

  “I wish my parents were closer. They’re in Southern California. Orange County.”