by Gloria Chao
No, I definitely couldn’t join them. “Sorry. I have to—”
Darren’s face drooped, his eyebrows angling down and his smile dropping into a frown. His disappointment was so endearing that imaginary Mǎmá Lu disappeared along with my fear of embarrassment.
“Well,” I amended, “I guess I can get to my p-set later.”
When he pumped his fist in the air, I blushed. Penny shot me an encouraging smile, which I returned.
I requested size eight skates from the sweaty dude behind the counter, reminding myself I was hanging out with all of them, not just Darren. Totally chill.
I took a seat beside Penny to emphasize that point.
“Are you an avid skater, Mei?”
“Uh, no. I’ve never tried it. But I dance, so maybe some of my balancing skills will transfer over?”
Darren scooted down the bench until he was directly behind me. “I didn’t know you danced.” His eyes twinkled as he said, “I know a thing or two about pas de bourrées and piques.”
My mouth went slack, and I stared until my tongue dried out. “You speak dance.”
“My sister is really into jazz, and I’ve listened to her talk about it my whole life.”
I was glad my mouth was already open. I snapped it shut, scratched my head, wiped my nose with my finger—anything to cover up the longing I was feeling toward him. Even if he stood up and did a pique on the spot, it didn’t change his background or mine.
“Such a show-off,” Billy said, breaking my bubble when he reached over me to smack Darren’s knee. “Don’t be fooled, Mei—he can’t dance worth a damn. It’s all talk.”
Darren chuckled. “How would you know? Last I checked, you haven’t given me the opportunity to waltz you around the floor. I accept your challenge.”
Billy rolled his eyes at me. “See what I mean? All talk.”
“But he offered to prove it,” I said. It felt so good to be included, to be seen.
“Uh, no,” Billy said with emphasis. “He just knew I’d refuse to dance with him because I’m a rotten dancer.”
Darren held his hands up in submission. “I never said I was a good dancer. But I dance.” He splayed his long, wiggling fingers into jazz hands. “For fun. No idea how I look doing it and never intend to find out.”
I couldn’t help imagining Darren flailing his gangly limbs around. A-dorable.
Annnd cue the guilt sweats. Imaginary Mǎmá Lu couldn’t even give me one freaking second.
“It’s all good, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome,” Penny said to Darren. “You don’t have to be great at everything.”
Amav pouted. Before he could speak, Penny leaned down, kissed him, and said, “Don’t worry, darlin’. I personally like ’em short, cute, and spunky.”
Amav picked her up, making her squeal, and they left to skate in their private, romantic bubble.
My eyes followed them around the rink, wondering if I’d ever be able to have that with someone. It seemed so difficult to find to begin with, let alone among the few fertile Taiwanese doctors my parents approved of. And it didn’t help that I seemed to be attracted only to spiky-haired forbidden fruit.
Once my skates were fastened, I clutched the seat and raised my butt a millimeter at a time, eventually standing successfully. So far so good. I held on to the side of the rink as I stepped onto the ice, but the second I let go, my torso flew forward.
Darren skated a graceful arc around me, his arm encircling my waist. “I’ve got you. Try to bend your knees a little, and keep your feet shoulder width apart.” He exaggerated his stance to demonstrate.
I couldn’t focus on anything with his hand burning a hole in my side. I had dreamed of affection like this for so long, but I never thought it would come with so many complicated strings.
I must have tensed because Darren let go. And, of course, I went flying forward again. He tried to grab me, but my flailing arm socked him in the stomach, and we crumpled into a heap on the cold ice.
Oh God.
“I’m so sorry,” I said from beneath Darren’s left arm and leg. “I should just crawl out of here on my hands and knees. That’d be less embarrassing.”
Darren laughed, loud and genuine, which put me more at ease as we untangled.
I stood slowly, trying to locate my center and use my dance training to keep myself upright. I tried a few short, choppy steps, but at this rate it would be graduation day by the time I finished one lap.
“Um, could you maybe help me out a bit?” I rationalized it was for my safety (and his). Perfectly innocent.
His arms were as cozy as a Snuggie. I took a deep breath to relax my muscles, and I finally allowed myself to sink into him.
To my dismay, I started to get the hang of it after a few snail-paced loops. But, fortunately, Darren’s arm remained snug around my waist. As our feet glided in almost-sync, I forgot about the other crap in my life and lost myself in his body heat, the crackling energy of the other skaters, the sound of blades scraping.
Billy skated over, jumping to a stop and spraying ice bits over our feet (and our moment). “Guys! I just heard from someone that LSC starts tonight! We have to go! If we catch Saferide, we can get there before previews start. C’mon!”
He was already speeding toward the bleachers before we could respond.
Darren turned to me. “Want to go watch a movie in a lecture hall?”
“But it’s Tuesday.”
“Exactly.” He grinned, crooked and boyish with just the right amount of mischief. It sent a thrill through me.
The MIT Saferide was packed, forcing us to cram in the aisles, grabbing on to whatever we could to stay upright. I tried not to think about the bacteria crawling on the shuttle and now my hands.
“This is the most spontaneous thing I’ve ever done,” I called out to Darren.
His gaze met mine over the other passengers’ heads. “Then I’m really glad we’re doing it. Among other reasons.”
Unsure how to respond, I fumbled in my bag for something—anything.
The shuttle lurched to one side, throwing me against a stranger. The guy glared at me despite my apology, and Darren squeezed closer, using his body as a barrier between me and the disgruntled student.
I secretly hoped for another lurch, but none came.
We followed posters for “The Lecture Series Committee” to 26-100, the largest lecture hall on campus. As we took our seats, Billy acted as if we were attending opening night of a Broadway show. I squirmed to make sure I was still in the wooden lecture seats, not cushy velvet.
Ouch.
Billy patted Penny’s knee like an excited child. “I’ve been hearing about all this MIT stuff for forever from my bro, and I can’t believe I get to do it all myself now.” Penny rolled her eyes playfully, like she’d already heard him say this a thousand times. He rubbed his palms together. “I’m ready to yell. I hope the picture cuts out or something.”
There were a few hundred people spread across the stadium seating. The lights dimmed and the front brightened as the projector flipped on. A few patrons whooped.
Giant letters appeared on the screen, and a male voice announced over the speakers, “Coming soon . . .”
The entire audience (except me) yelled, “IN STEREO!”
I looked around, wondering momentarily if they had all been possessed. The audience chuckled together.
As a trailer for next week’s screening came on—an action flick—the sound cut out. Explosions continued to fill the screen but in silence.
Someone from the far right of the room yelled, “L-S-C!”
“SUCKS!” yelled three hundred people.
“L-S-C!”
“SUCKS!”
The chanting continued among other chatter. “It’s the first showing of the season, damn it. We’re only one trailer in!” “C’mon, projector guy! Get your shit together!”
I pictured the projectionist flailing around his tiny space, driven more frantic by the taunts.
“Gi
ve him a break! He’s doing his best!” I yelled. I had tried to project, but my voice only reached a couple rows around me.
“It’s a tradition here,” Darren explained, his eyes slightly wide with . . . surprise? Amusement? “LSC has been around since the forties, when technology still kinda sucked. Whenever the film used to have problems, everyone would shout so that the projection guy would see and fix it. I think now they make mistakes on purpose just so we can yell—or at least that’s what Billy’s brother says. It’s lighthearted.”
“Sounds mean-spirited to me.”
He smiled, his eyes still dancing in a way that made me feel warm. “Just be glad no one’s hacking into the system to change the movie to porn or something.”
I tried to cover my flushed cheeks with some forced laughter. “And the ‘in stereo’?”
“It’s a holdover from the fifties. The previews used to start by saying ‘Coming next week, in stereo,’ and even though that’s long gone, we still yell it out.”
“That’s . . . interesting.” I didn’t really get it. But I guess any inside joke is fun when you’re inside it. Too bad I was still feeling my way around in the dark, trying to find the door that would let me in.
I sank into my seat, trying to feel like I was a part of the crowd. Like I belonged. Maybe if I faked it, it would eventually come true.
Darren slid his arm across the back of my seat. Without thinking, I curled into him, feeling snug and warm, like when we were skating.
But only for a second.
Now that I didn’t have an excuse—like how our canoodling was for my safety or his—the Mǎmá Lu in my head roared. I couldn’t deny it—between the movie setting and the dimmed lighting, I was full-on disobeying them.
Xing and Esther and the explosion at Chow Chow popped into my head. I couldn’t go down this road. Worse, I couldn’t take Darren down this road.
So when he started to lean closer, I ran. Just shot up out of my seat, mumbled that I left the stove on (I mean, what?), then started excusing my way past the other patrons.
The tangle of legs crowding the row and the reluctance of the students were quicksand, slowing me such that Darren and his long legs easily caught up.
Outside in the hallway, he asked, “Was it because I put my arm around you, or because I mentioned porn?” He paused. “I’m willing to take back one of those . . . the arm.”
I chuckled, which he took as an invitation, inching closer.
The laughter drained out as I took a step back. “I can’t. We can’t. But not because I don’t want to. It’s . . . complicated.”
He sighed. “Because your mother disapproves of me?”
Of course he had noticed at the restaurant—Mǎmá Lu wasn’t exactly known for her subtlety. I looked away, not wanting to know what he was thinking.
His voice was barely above a whisper when he asked, “Is it because I’m not Chinese? Or because I’m Japanese?”
Both. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Well, what do you want?”
No one had ever asked me that before, including myself. It almost felt forbidden. Partly because it was, by my parents. But mostly because it made things harder. Which meant . . . I already knew what I thought.
I think I had stopped asking myself what I wanted after the pre-prima-ballerina dream turned nightmare. Dreams could hurt you if they didn’t come true, but if they never existed in the first place . . .
“That doesn’t matter either.”
His eyebrows angled up in surprise. “How can you say that? Of course it matters. It should be the only thing that matters.”
I shook my head. “You don’t get it. You must not know the kind of pressure I’m under, the type of guilt I feel.”
He folded his arms over his chest—tired, not confrontational. “I have a lot of pressure from my parents too. I don’t come from very much, and there’s a lot riding on me and my ability to provide for them in the future.”
Strike two, I couldn’t help thinking. My mother once broke up with a boyfriend because he was the eldest of six and would have to provide for the rest of his family, meaning it wouldn’t leave much for her and her not-yet-born kids.
“And,” Darren continued, “my parents didn’t want me to go to MIT. They wanted me to stay near home, go to a local school, and not abandon them.” He made air quotes. “But I got a free ride here, and when I visited, I knew I had found my home. I didn’t let them get in the way of what I knew was best for me, and I don’t regret it at all.”
“I’m sorry,” I said sincerely. “I didn’t mean to imply anything about your situation, and I’m sorry about the pressure you have and what you had to go through to get here. . . .” I trailed off, unable to say what I was thinking, that it was different for him. Because what did I know? Just like how he didn’t know anything about my circumstances. “Look, what I feel—the sense of duty—it’s debilitating, makes me feel so ashamed that I don’t even care what I want.”
“It’s okay not to agree with them,” he said gently, as if I were an animal he was trying not to spook.
“Not to them. They believe having different opinions makes me a bad person. In Taiwan during my parents’ childhood, filial piety was as much a part of life as breathing—ingrained from birth, expected from everyone. Confucius’s Twenty-Four Filial Exemplars—one of the first lessons in school—spoke of warming an icy lake with your naked body to catch fish for your mother, tasting your father’s feces to diagnose his medical condition, and feeding yourself to the mosquitoes to spare your parents’ blood.”
Too far! Too weird! the alarm rang in my head. I snapped my mouth shut.
Darren’s eyes had first widened during the Filial Exemplars and seemed to still be going.
After a beat, he said, “That’s absurd.”
His words cut into me, each syllable a pinprick. He didn’t understand. But maybe it was better if he never did. Because no matter what, this would end in flames, and it was cleaner to extinguish it now, small and contained, than later, when, say, a certain tongue clucker could be involved.
Even though I tried, I couldn’t keep my voice even as I said, “Not as absurd as going after a girl who can’t be with you. Can’t you take a hint?” I hated myself. And I hated myself more when pain flashed across his face. It’s for the best, I told myself even though I couldn’t tell anymore whether it was me or Mǎmá Lu talking.
The pain morphed into sadness, such a contrast to his usual brightness. “Maybe I saw something in you that isn’t there. I didn’t realize you were so brainwashed that you couldn’t think for yourself.”
I turned and ran. And I didn’t stop, not even when he yelled after me.
No one understood me or how hard this was. How I felt like I had to split myself in two, neither of them truly Mei, just to make everyone else happy. The one person who I had thought would get it was too busy impressing sororities, and the one person I had wanted to get it had said, That’s absurd. The words made me cringe, made me want to disappear. Made me crave the one person who would understand.
I took out my phone and dialed. I didn’t have much hope—he had stopped taking my calls years ago—but I had to try.
“Mei?” Xing sounded like he had just seen a ghost.
“Hey, Xing Xing,” I said, calling him by his childhood nickname.
“Is everything okay? Are you okay?”
My eyes filled with tears. “I miss you.” I took a breath before I could say the words—the traitorous, condemning words. “Congratulations on your engagement.”
“Thanks. That means a lot.”
I took another breath. “Can we see each other soon?”
A pregnant pause. Then a protective timbre surfaced in his voice. “I don’t want you to get in trouble with them. If they find out, they might cut you off. No tuition, no roof over your head . . .”
This was the brother I remembered—the one who always tried to keep me safe. Who would play Chubby Bunny with me to make me forget the b
ullies at school, then call the principal to send them to detention.
I mustered my waning courage. “They won’t know.”
Xing was quiet for a moment. “Of course. Let’s meet for dim sum in Chinatown at noon tomorrow.”
I wiped my tears away roughly.
Voicemail from my mother
Mei! Yilong sent me the article and maybe you should try swinging your arms three thousand times a day. It’s supposed to help circulation.
Oh, and speaking of circulation, I read about these spoons that fight fat. I ordered them, of course. You press and push, push the fat away. Poof! Your belly needs it! Luckily your forearms and calves look good. Those are my genes. These spoons will make you měi, Mei.
I know you get out of class in ten minutes! I expect a call then! It’s your mǔqīn.
CHAPTER 12
MEI-BALL
AT THE DIM SUM RESTAURANT, I saw Xing first and needed a moment before I could alert him to my presence.
He was so familiar (always on his phone, not paying attention to his surroundings), yet I didn’t know this person in front of me with lines on his face and wearing a button-down instead of a hoodie. Part of me wanted to reach out and touch him, to make sure he was really there. My parents had scrubbed him from our lives so thoroughly I used to pull out his Dartmouth sweatshirt just to make sure he hadn’t been a product of my imagination. That ratty sweatshirt was all I had left of him since my parents had thrown his stuff on the lawn, then changed the locks. I hated my shiny new brass key, which had replaced the worn silver one. I refused to carry it with me and was locked out of the house more than once, but somehow it felt better to sit and wait on the porch than to carry physical proof of my brother’s nonexistence.
“Xing?” I finally said.
When he saw me, his face completely brightened, the way it used to when we made blanket forts. But then the hesitation crept in. We approached each other slowly, not sure what to do. A handshake was completely weird, but so was a hug since we never did that even before our four years apart. We ended up with an awkward turtle dance, where he stuck his arms out reluctantly, I sort of bobbed and weaved a bit, there were plenty of jagged starts and stops, and finally we managed a one-second hug where he patted me on the back and I didn’t fully enclose my arms around him.
