by Gloria Chao
He took a step closer. “Is this your way of asking me to be your boyfriend?”
“Um, sure.”
He stuck his lower lip out. (I wanted to kiss it so bad.) “Not too emphatic there. That’s it? No speech?”
“All right, fine, but no laughs because it’s too cheesy or whatever.” I closed the gap between us. “I like you, Darren, Lord Pecan, Sir Almond, and I want to date you, and just you. Like normal MIT students. I want to awkwardly hold your hand, share bowls of liquid nitrogen ice cream, and drop metallic sodium in the Charles.”
His face was inches from mine, and when he spoke, I felt his warm breath on my cheek. “I like you too. And I think there’s plenty more hot chocolate in our future.”
His lips fell on mine hungrily, the sudden heat made more intense by its contrast to the cold.
Gone was the lost, lonely girl who had looked at her pale, blond classmates and wished she weren’t so different. Who had recited “just is frog” instead of “justice for all” to a flag for three years because she didn’t know the Pledge of Allegiance and was too scared to ask.
For once, I was at peace.
I swirled across the linoleum floor in a series of turns, leaps, and waltzes, my shadow dancing on the wall with me, brought to life by the myriad of burning candles lining the perimeter. My gash was still tender, but nothing could keep me from Mr. Porter. A Chinese jazz piece sang from my phone—dízi, pípa, and stringed instruments mixing into a lovely, smooth blend. At the crescendo, I flitted across the floor in a chain of tour en l’airs—airborne spins—timed to each flute trill.
I didn’t hear Darren come in, but I sensed his presence when I landed, coming out of my turns into a sweeping pose. His shadow was tall and still, as if he were enraptured by my movement. I pushed away the underlying awkwardness and told myself I wasn’t showing off; I was letting him in.
I reentered the music and lost myself in my favorite across-the-floor combination: tombé-pas de bourrée-glissade-changement. As I glided across the room, my arms and legs brushing and kicking, I finally snuck a peek at him. His face glowed in the candlelight, illuminating the wonderment and understanding in his eyes.
Yes, he spoke dance.
I bourréed to him on my tiptoes, arms outstretched. He took my hands, hesitantly, clearly more used to watching than dancing. I shepherded him to the center of the room, then gently guided his upper body into proper ballroom frame. Without speaking, I showed him a basic step-ball-change. After a few missteps, he caught on, and I led him around the room.
When the music lulled, I dragged him to a stop, spinning into his arms and landing with my lips on his.
No words needed.
Voicemail from my mother
Mei?
CHAPTER 28
MAY
6 MONTHS LATER
NICOLETTE PLUCKED A TABOO WORD from the bowl, then delivered her hint with confidence. “It’s the opposite of integration.”
She had dragged me, literally, almost pulling my arm out of its socket, to the common room to “see if there was anyone on our floor worth our time.”
“Differentiation!” I yelled in unison with my teammates, three sophomores whom I’d nodded hello to all year but hadn’t learned their names until thirty minutes ago.
Valerie huffed. “That was too easy.”
Every time she spoke, I wanted to throw my shoe at her. I took some satisfaction in the fact that she hadn’t been able to meet my eye once. I kept her cheesy secret in my back pocket, and it inched toward daylight with every snide comment.
Nic stuck a hand on her hip. “No, not differentiation. The opposite of integration.”
“I spoke too soon,” Valerie said. Another inch.
Everyone including me was dumbfounded. It was a mathematical definition: The opposite of finding the derivative of a function (differentiation) was to integrate it (integration).
Valerie thrust the beeping stopwatch into the air. “Time’s up!”
Nicolette wadded the paper and flicked the tiny ball across the room toward Valerie. “Segregation. The opposite of integration is segregation.”
After a five-second delay, everyone burst out laughing. I couldn’t help a chuckle either. MIT had shut off the right side of my brain except for the sliver I used for dance.
Valerie’s laugh was especially loud. (No surprise there.) “What high school did you go to, Nicolette? You’re gonna be our Course Eleven”—urban planning—“burnout, aren’t you? The rest of us are real MIT students. Of course we were only going to think of math.”
Nicolette beat me to the punch. “Suck my beaver, Valerie.”
Even though Nic didn’t need me to, I added, “I wouldn’t be so quick to throw the first stone if I were you.” Valerie squirmed, just as planned.
“Oh my God, Mei, what do you know?” Nicolette asked.
Instead of answering her (or telling Valerie that I haven’t eaten cheese in months), I waved my hand. “Come on, Nic, we don’t need this.”
In the hallway, Nicolette grabbed my elbow. “Spill it!”
I shook my head as if I could shake the memory away. “It’s not my place to tell.”
“But we’re roomies! C’mon, Hello Kitty, pleeease! I’m so embarrassed, and this would make me feel soooo much better.” She threw a hand over her heart dramatically.
I rolled my eyes at her exaggerated pout. “You’re not fooling anyone.”
“You’re no fun at all.” She pulled her lip back in and crossed her arms over her chest—a stance that would’ve intimidated me in the past but now made me laugh.
“At least you can rest assured I won’t be spilling your secrets to the floor the first time you piss me off.”
Nicolette’s fists shifted to her hips. “I should’ve taken a picture of you with your clown makeup on.”
I swatted her arm and we laughed.
As we made our way back to our room, I asked, “Hey, I’ve been wondering . . . what would you have called your ex-roommate if her name had been Gwendolyn?”
“Chatty Patty,” Nic answered without missing a beat.
I should have known.
I knocked on Xing and Esther’s door, a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a stuffed Doraemon in the other for the new baby.
Angry staccato footsteps approached, and the door was flung open with exasperation. Esther’s mother wasn’t surprised to see me, but I did a double take.
Xing had told me in private that they had kept the pregnancy a secret to keep the Wongs from knowing they had—gasp—slept together (probably many, many times) before marriage. They’d worried that Mrs. Wong would make them elope immediately, preventing Esther from having the wedding she wanted. Because, you know, it was all about the miànzi and not losing face in front of friends.
I greeted Mrs. Wong enthusiastically, offering congratulations. She merely gave me a cold stare before marching off, her flyaway hairs dancing and drawing attention to her lopsided bun.
She was still such a question mark to me. Super chill about some things, as Xing had said, but extreme about others. I’d since labeled her a wild card and tucked her away, unfiled.
I closed the door behind me and hastened up two flights of stairs to the nursery, following my nose as well as Mrs. Wong. It smelled like baby—diaper wipes and talcum powder with a hint of poop.
Xing was too busy cooing to his mini-me to notice my entrance. I put the presents in a corner, then hovered awkwardly before clearing my throat. When he finally noticed me, a megawatt smile took over his face, and he bounced over with his baobèi cradled in his arms.
I waved at the baby even though he was asleep. His short mop of hair stuck straight up, and his chubby, rosy cheeks were so large they took up most of his face. And, ah, lucky him—he had inherited that blessed and cursed Lu nose.
His eyes flapped open suddenly, and I let out a gasp, simultaneously fascinate
d and terrified by the tiny bundle of responsibility.
Xing extended his arms slightly, though it seemed to pain him to do so, not physically but emotionally. “Do you want to hold him?”
“Oh, no, that’s okay,” I sputtered, shaking my head and waving my hand.
Xing placed Jonathan in my arms anyway, and my elbows bent into awkward angles as I tried to support every part of him. Sweat pooled in my pits, but so far he was still alive.
Then he came to life, squirming with little baby jerks. I tightened every muscle, trying to keep him from popping out of my arms. “Okay. Okay. I think you should take him back now.”
Once Jonathan was safely returned to Xing’s waiting arms, I retreated to the corner, from where I asked, “So Esther’s mom obviously knows. How’d all that play out?”
“We told her after the wedding. Since we were already married, it wasn’t as big of a deal, and once Jonathan came, it wasn’t a thing at all.”
Well, that was simple. Guess that was the “chill” part coming through. My mom, on the other hand, was still going on about how of course Xing and Esther had been having “the sex” since (1) they had been living together (the horror!) and (2) reproductive issues = lower chance of pregnancy = more sex (and yes, she used actual equal signs in conversation).
I ignored my inkling of jealousy (I was so tired of hearing “the sex” come out of my mother’s mouth) and asked, “Where’s Esther? How’s she doing?”
Xing sighed. “Oh, she’s fine. She’s, uh, doing the zuò yuèzi thing.”
I widened my eyes until they felt dry from the air. “The sitting month? She hasn’t showered since giving birth?”
Ugh, their bedroom must smell disgusting. I had thought the ancient Chinese postpartum tradition had died away, but I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised given that my own mother carried a cow’s hoof comb in her purse.
If Esther was doing the sitting month, then Mrs. Wong’s stern look at the door was explained (though not justified) since visitors were not allowed.
Xing answered the question in my head without my asking. “Yuèzi was her mom’s idea, but she agreed to it because she thought she’d be pampered for a month. Turns out, it sucks pretty bad, and her mother is so strict it’s ridiculous. Esther didn’t know she’d be bedridden.”
As if on cue, raised voices trickled down the hallway. Xing winced, and exhaustion lined his face, overshadowing the joy.
“Come on,” he mumbled, and we bounced to the master bedroom.
Esther was sitting in bed, unwrapping a long, dirty cloth from her abdomen while her mother tried to simultaneously rewind it. If I hadn’t known better, it would have looked like attempted murder.
Esther threw the cloth aside—a third of it still constricting her—and screeched, “Mǎmá! Stop it! No one in America does these things and they’re all fine!”
Even though it was sixty degrees outside, Mrs. Wong raised the down comforter and covered her daughter up to the chin. She spoke in Chinese with a Kaohsiung accent.
“American and Chinese bodies are different. Put the bandage back on—it’s the only way to flatten your belly. Do you want to be flabby the rest of your life? And do you want to lose your teeth in the future? The baby sucks your calcium out while in the womb. Didn’t you learn that in dental school? Your yin and yang are unbalanced. If you don’t restore it, you’ll have joint problems and frequent illnesses in the future.”
“That’s not scientifically correct! And I’m disgusting! I’m going to take a shower.” Esther threw the blanket aside, then ripped wool socks off her feet and threw them across the room.
Mrs. Wong batted the air with her hand. “You’ll be taking a shower over my dead body. If you came to Taichung like I asked, then you would be in a confinement center. We would have splurged for you. Two hundred dollars a day for one month is worth a lifetime of health, is it not? Do you want arthritis?”
When Esther rose out of bed, Mrs. Wong pulled out the big guns. “You owe me this. You got pregnant on a random day and you refused the C-section. You deprived my grandson of good fortune. Such a terrible mother before he was even born. He could have been famous, rich, but no! You refused!”
So Mrs. Wong believed in Chinese fortune-telling, better known as suànmìng—which, literally translated, means to “calculate fate.” A common practice was to use the parents’ birthdays, the current year, and other arbitrary details to calculate the ideal day and time to give birth so that the child would have good luck. Obviously, to follow this practice, a C-section was needed.
Xing finally jumped in, telling his mother-in-law, “We don’t believe in any of that stuff. You’re here because we invited you. Don’t make me kick you out.”
Mrs. Wong turned to Xing. “So you don’t love my daughter? You’re depriving her of good health so what, you can run off with another woman when she dies young?”
Despite my intrusion into the private affair, I was frozen in place. Wild card.
Esther faced her mother, her expression calmer, probably because she was no longer lying in a pool of sweat. “This month is all about rest, right? I can’t rest when I’m hot and dirty. And arguing like this is raising my blood pressure through the roof. So with that in mind, let’s negotiate some new rules, okay?”
With a sigh of relief, Xing tiptoed out of the room. I followed.
“That’s my wife, smartest person around.”
Or . . . master manipulator? Maybe I could learn a few tricks.
Back in the nursery, with Jonathan swaddled in his crib, the tension ebbed, leaving just the poopy scent in the air.
“You did it,” I said. “You’re happy. Congratulations on everything.”
“You’re almost there. Business classes—”
“Actually, I just declared my major yesterday as business.” I had grand jetéd through my marketing and optimization classes this past spring, and I had especially loved that the latter involved math. Now, not only did I have a bunch of career options in front of me, but the degree could help if I decided to open a dance studio in the future.
Xing nodded his approval, then amended his previous statement. “Business major, teaching dance, loving boyfriend . . .” He peered at me. “Are you ready for your dinner with Mom and Darren?”
I nodded. “Ready to release the beast. I can take whatever comes.”
Xing laughed. “I wasn’t worried about you. Or Mom. I was worried about Darren.”
“Worry about Esther. Isn’t Mom coming over to meet Jonathan next week?”
Xing nodded, his face twisting with anxiety (and probably mirroring mine). “Touché.”
I had held off on talking to my mom about Darren for months. She had changed, but this was asking a dog to stop eating shit.
As I stood in front of Bertucci’s with my heart in my larynx choking me, I regretted making the first move. Well, actually, I hadn’t. My mother had, last week, by asking me how the “flip-flop wearer” was doing. A fight had ensued. . . . Stop being racist, Mamá. Don’t forget they slaughtered your family, Mei. . . . But eventually, after I had reminded her of her issues with my father, we made headway. She didn’t apologize, but she promised to try harder, then asked to meet Darren. I had been so relieved at her sincere smile and repentant eyes that I had agreed, only realizing after that it would be a crap-storm.
I wrung my hands. Darren gently pulled them apart. “Mei, stop worrying so much.”
“Did you forget everything I told you?” I had tried to prepare him as best as I could, but how do you describe the tiny, formidable hurricane that is Mǎmá Lu?
“You know I’ve met her already, right?”
It took me a moment to remember. That day seemed like a parallel life.
“Well, that was different. You were a stranger then.” And still she had been a stubborn ox. (Sometimes I wished she didn’t take her zodiac sign so literally.) “Now you’re Darren.” I gulped. “Oh God, this was a mistake. You’re going to break up with me after this.”<
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“Calm down. That won’t happen.” He took both my hands in his and turned me to face him. “I love you, Mei.” My entire body froze. “I started falling for you when I first heard you talk about Horny, and then when we moved on to beavers and nuts and magicians . . .” He placed a hand over his heart.
“I love you too,” I said, no hesitation. “Ever since you told me you wanted to try stinky tofu because it smells so bad.”
He wrapped his hand around the small of my back and pulled me to his lips.
Enjoy this moment. Stop worrying if Mamá is pulling up this instant. Don’t let her ruin this for you.
And then it was just us.
I sank into him. Melted into his kiss. Snaked my hands around his neck and pulled him closer. I breathed in the sandalwood, then ran my hands through his already-disheveled hair.
When we reluctantly pulled apart, I no longer cared how the rest of today went.
Just in time, too. Moments later, the sea-green minivan (with a brand-new bumper dent) pulled across two parking spaces.
We sat in a corner booth, Darren and me on one side, my mother on the other. I could tell she was trying. She had a plastic smile pasted on, and even though it was all teeth, no lips, and creepy as hell, it was better than the vengeful scowl that usually surfaced in Japanese company.
“We should be meeting for Chinese food,” she said. “But you probably were scared out of Chow Chow by the stinky tofu, right, Darren?” Her tone implied I’m always right.
“Stop being mean,” I said at the same time Darren said, “I love Chow Chow. I actually tried the stinky tofu on one of my visits. To be honest, I didn’t like it—the smell was too overpowering—but I love the rest of Chow Chow’s food.”
My mother leaned back, impressed, her chin pressing into her neck. “You tried it? Even Mei won’t try it.”
Darren shrugged. “I figured I wasn’t allowed to say I didn’t like it without giving it a taste.”
“That’s exactly how I feel!” my mother exclaimed. Her fake smile dissolved and was replaced by a slight curve, no teeth showing—her genuine smile.
