by Anna Yen
“What?” Tony asked again.
I looked at Grant, who had his chin tucked into his chest. He was trying not to laugh.
“Wha ken ye Americans nit undahstand me sure dey cin.”
“What?!”
“Dat yer a la big fecus boat da tax wallow on tirty-tree.”
“Excuse me?”
“Datyeralabigfecusboatdataxwallowontirty-tree!”
Tony’s blank face showed that he didn’t understand Aidan whatsoever. Still, he nodded his head and said, “Oh. Okay, thanks. That’s great.” Poor guy. This was great entertainment, but even more, it was a world-class lesson in how to use a voice or accent to distract and defeat an opponent. Suddenly I was thankful for Penny Jenkins.
In January, after many late-night IPO prospectus–drafting sessions, endless amounts of state-of-this-or-that forms to fill out, and lessons on how to create various legal documents from scratch, we finished the Chaussure dot com IPO. It had been four months since I’d started, and in the company of over two hundred lawyers, legal secretaries, and paralegals, I had found independence, confidence, and a sense of peace that was new to me. The learning curve had been more extreme than I’d imagined. Before long, I was clocking eighty-hour weeks doing the same work that first-, second-, and even third-year attorneys were doing. It was an insane boom time in the financial markets; everyone seemed to be making money and operating with a just get it done mentality. Investors were especially hungry for technology IPOs and network security was a particularly hot topic, so companies flew out of the gates one after the other, making secretaries millionaires. Sterling, Rich was in the middle of it all; we had become so busy that the firm was known in the Valley as “the meat grinder.” I didn’t give a second thought to our firm’s reputation. I, like everyone else at Sterling, Rich, was burning the candle at both ends, and was managing to keep up, despite my diabetes! That is, until the morning I came home after pulling an all-nighter and greeted Mom at our front door by throwing up on her slippers. I was exhausted.
My workload and sleep deprivation brought out an impatient, bossy, and to-the-point manner that made me feel like I was becoming my mother and would have surely gotten me fired from most places. Thankfully, though, it didn’t seem to bother Grant, and he continued to demonstrate his trust in and respect for me. He also pointed out that those same qualities in a man would have been rewarded, and fueled my ego further by leading me to believe I was an equal to the JDs from Harvard, Stanford, and Chicago who worked next to me. I’m finally fitting in.
When it came time for my six-month review, both Grant and my peers gave me glowing reports. The only comment that made me pause was Grant’s response to the question, “Is this person on track to be promoted?”
Sophia is certainly capable of handling the responsibilities of a senior paralegal, Grant wrote, but I don’t believe that’s her goal. She’s a one-person show.
What’s that supposed to mean?
I asked Kate that evening as we sat at the Dutch Goose celebrating the completion of a particularly long and arduous financing for one of her clients.
“He probably means you like being an individual contributor and that you don’t need much help,” she said, showing no indication that she’d had only three hours of sleep the night before.
“Well, that’s definitely true,” I responded, raising my glass and clinking it against hers. “Maybe it was a polite way of saying that I wouldn’t be good at mentoring junior paralegals because he knows I don’t have the patience for it, and that’s what I’d have to do if I was promoted to senior paralegal.”
“Well, whatever he meant, it was a compliment I’m sure.”
“What about you? Do you want to be a senior paralegal?” I asked my best friend. “You’d be great at it. You are very patient. Just look how you handle me!”
“True dat!” Kate declared. Then, with a more serious expression, she said, “I’m fine with being a senior paralegal if it happens, but I really want to be a lawyer.”
The determination in Kate’s eyes told me she definitely would be someday. “You’re not going to be just a lawyer. You’ll go all the way to making partner!” I cheered. After all, that was the top of the food chain.
I wondered what the future held in store for me. What would I be proud to say I did when I looked back on my life fifty years from now? For so long I’d wanted the life my mom had. But now I wondered whether that would be enough.
Chapter 4
Just weeks before my twenty-fourth birthday, I found myself standing next to Daniel Weinstein at the funeral reception in Los Angeles for Kate’s grandfather. Daniel was Kate’s distant cousin and I found his confidence and dual-degreed air wildly attractive. Although I knew it was completely inappropriate and indecorous to flirt with someone at a funeral, I couldn’t help but touch his arm gently and simper when he asked, “Can I get you anything?”
I should have asked for a vodka soda, but to fit in with everyone else, I asked for a glass of wine.
“Yes, a chardonnay would be great.”
Who knows whether it was the alcohol or chemistry, but Daniel and I spent the next three-quarters of an hour talking about our careers, our love of traveling, and the unbelievable coincidence that he lived down the hill from my parents. We would have kept going had Kate not flashed me her “bat signal”—two fingers placed flat against her collarbone. I excused myself from Daniel and crossed the room to rescue my best friend; when I approached, Kate whispered in my ear that she was tired of speaking to “these strangers.” I thought that might be the end of Daniel Weinstein, but I later found him standing next to me once again, sharing funny old stories about him and Kate playing together as kids.
I wondered why my friend had never mentioned Daniel before, but none of that mattered at the moment. I liked this guy and could tell he felt the same. When the reception room began to empty, his parents approached.
“Mom, Dad, this is Sophia Young.”
“Are you Japanese, Sophia? You look Japanese,” said Daniel’s mother.
“Actually, I’m Chinese. My parents were born in China and then immigrated to Taiwan.”
“Oh! The Jews love the Chinese! They’re the Jews of the Pacific!” she said.
Daniel’s father agreed. “That’s right. That’s what Nona always said.”
I had no idea who Nona was, but I assumed he was referring to a grandmother or mother.
“I have a Chinese friend named Sophia who lives close to us in Pueblo, Colorado. Her name is Sophia Chu. Do you know her?” asked Daniel’s mom.
I pretended to give Mrs. Weinstein’s question some serious thought while Daniel rolled his eyes. “Hmm, nope, I don’t think I know a Sophia Chu,” I responded.
Daniel put his hand on the small of my back and guided me away while turning to tell his parents, “I’m giving Sophia a lift to her hotel, so I’ll see you later.”
Oooooh, I like the take-charge type. Maybe he could take care of me someday.
A Do Not Disturb sign that I’d stolen from my Los Angeles hotel hung on my closed office door, but someone was knocking anyway.
“What?” I barked, turning my attention from my computer.
“Want to get lunch?” Grant asked through the door.
Uh-oh. He never asks me to lunch.
“Sure.”
I stood up and opened my door. Grant rarely came into my office, and his booming voice sounded even louder in my small space. “I’m just grabbing something at the place around the corner,” he said.
Before we were two steps out of my office, Sterling, Rich’s mail courier approached, carrying a large bouquet of red roses. “These are for you,” the courier said.
“Wow. Do tell,” Grant teased as I handed him the vase so I could read the card. My dad often sent me roses “just because,” but I couldn’t help but hope:
Please let them be from Daniel. Please.
Happy Birthday, Sophia
—Daniel
I flashed all my te
eth at Grant and glowed with glee. “They’re from a guy I just started seeing,” I said.
“Oh boy! I can’t wait to hear about him,” Grant said mockingly. “Come on, I’m starving.”
“Okay, but you’re buying. It’s my birthday, you know!”
“July tenth, huh? Well, we can’t just go around the corner, then. Come on, I’ll drive.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“One of my favorites,” he said.
Fifteen minutes later, we pulled into the parking lot of the best Chinese restaurant in town, Chef Chu’s. When we walked inside the crowded foyer, Grant steered me toward the private room on the left, where I saw Kate; my parents; Audrey with her baby, Ava; my brother-in-law, Hank; the rest of Grant’s lawyers; and some of the other paralegals I’d become close with. “Happy birthday, Sophia,” my boss of nearly a year said.
I threw my arms around him and impersonated Sally Field: “You like me. You really, really like me!” Grant blushed and then nodded toward my beaming parents. I wished Daniel were there to see it, but only Kate knew about him—aside from what I’d mentioned to Grant. I wasn’t ready for my parents and Audrey to scrutinize Daniel as they had the others, always causing family fights. Today was about me—and that’s the way I wanted it.
With my parents frequently out of town setting up Dad’s new Asia office, it had been easy to practically move into the run-down house Daniel shared with four roommates just weeks after we’d met. It was the only way for us to see each other, if rolling around between the sheets could be called seeing, because Daniel was working hard as an intern for an environmental consulting firm, and I was continuing to burn the midnight oil at Sterling, Rich. Weekends when I wasn’t working were what we cherished the most—we socialized with each other’s friends, went to the movies, and fell into the comfortable life of a couple, which assured me he was the one.
By summer’s end, it felt as though Daniel and I were married; I was head over heels in love and tempted to admit my feelings for him, but that wasn’t the narrative I wanted. I wanted a declaration, a promise. To be pursued like the women in the fairy tales I’d grown up with. And why not by Daniel? He was attractive in a mad-scientist kind of way, was highly intelligent, and had good earning potential, and the sex was out of this world. What else did I need?
But as fall began and my parents’ return was only a few days away, the reality of my situation came to light. Everything was about to change. Summer vacation was over and the ruthless dictators were coming home. My sleepovers at Daniel’s would end, except for the times I resorted to using high school tactics like saying I was staying the night at Kate’s or making up some other lie.
“You’re an adult, Sophia. Why do we have to sneak around?” Daniel would ask, or rather, complain.
I tried to imagine telling my parents that I was crashing at my boyfriend’s house, tried to imagine them driving past his house down the hill from theirs, seeing my car parked in front and acting as if they were fine with it. But before I could really even get started, I began to laugh. “Daniel, seriously. They would absolutely shit a brick if they ever found out I was sleeping with you. God, it would kill them. I would never hear the end of it and, well, you just have to know my parents. They have this superhuman power—torture nagging or something. Telling them is just not worth it.”
I prefer to lie and sneak around.
Daniel thought this was ridiculous but said he’d play along if I promised to at least tell my parents about us. It was a good compromise, in my opinion, so I agreed.
“I met him at a funeral,” I said to Mom a few days after she and Dad returned. I’d thought telling her over the phone while I was at work was the best way to do it, so if the call didn’t go well, I could pretend I had some sort of meeting.
“You met him where?”
“A funeral.”
“Who died?”
“Kate’s grandfather. You know, Papa. So I flew down to L.A. for his funeral.”
“Oh no! You didn’t tell us Papa passed. Give her family our best. And please stop saying you met someone at a funeral. It makes you sound so tacky and desperate,” she said. “What does he do?”
“He’s in graduate school. At Dad’s alma mater, Stanford.”
That should make her happy.
“A student? Tsk, tsk. I can see how this is going to turn out. You’re going to end up supporting him while he starts his career and he’ll enjoy living off you, which probably means Daddy, too, until he makes a little money. When there’s actually some real money in his bank account, just when you’re stuck at home raising his children, he’s going to leave you. It’s a divorce just waiting to happen.”
Nope, not happy. Mom had already sized him up: bad marriage material.
“Jesus, Mom! No one—”
“I tell you!” she interrupted. “It happened to Auntie Anita. Exact same situation. Now what about that nice boy I set you up with? Auntie Helen’s son, the accountant?”
“Come on, Mom, you’ve seen him. He has a middle part in his hair. A butt cut!”
“That’s easy. Just take him to your hairdresser.”
“And he only wears loud Hawaiian shirts with tight corduroy pants!”
“We can take him to Nordstrom.”
“His teeth! They are awful!”
“We’ll slap some braces on him, then. What else is wrong?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. Mom had an answer for everything, or at least she thought she did.
“Mom, I have to go. I have work to do.”
“It’s nine o’clock! Aren’t you coming home soon? Do you really have work to do or are you going out with . . .”
“The funeral guy.” Snigger.
“WHAT did I just tell you?”
“Wei?” Mom shouted into her mobile phone. “Wei?” The sound of cars honking loudly suggested Mom was keeping the “bad Chinese driver” stereotype alive.
“Yes, Mother. I can hear you,” I replied quietly in English, picking up my pace past the secretaries’ desks so I could reach Kate’s office faster. She was in the middle of Sterling, Rich’s three wings, and I was almost there.
Mom shot off at least five more weis without taking so much as half a breath; I knew she’d repeat herself less than three more times before she hung up, and I really needed to talk to her. Three, two . . . I shut Kate’s office door behind me, then let loose. “MOM! I CAN HEAR YOU!”
“Oh,” Mom replied innocently. “I couldn’t hear you. Where are you?” I looked at Kate seated at her desk and waved.
“I’m in Kate’s office. She says hello.” Kate nodded.
Mom tee-hee-heed shyly before saying hi in English. Then, back in Mandarin, she said, “Invite her and her boyfriend to Thanksgiving dinner.”
I turned my eyes to Kate and relayed the message; Kate stood up and took the phone, knowing my mom both loved and was embarrassed by the attention. “Hi, Mrs. Young. Thank you very much for the invitation, but I’m going to my boyfriend’s house for Thanksgiving. I’m coming to Sunday dinner this weekend, though, so I’ll see you soon,” she said before handing me back the phone.
“Mom, I thought maybe I’d invite Daniel to Thanksgiving dinner. What do you think?”
Mom was quiet for a moment, then said, “Mei-Mei. We were gone all summer. It’d be nice for Thanksgiving to be our family time. How about we invite your friend over for dinner another time? Maybe after you two have been friends for a little longer. It’s only been what? Three months or so?”
Five months, Mother. Five.
What she meant was that she didn’t want to upset my father. And when it came to me, boys always upset him. Dad thought of me as his little girl, too naïve and too kindhearted. “They’re going to take advantage of you,” he’d say, concerned I would kowtow or hand over my paychecks to any no-good guy as long as he was handsome. I thought for a moment and decided Mom was right. This isn’t a good idea. I could see Dad making a scene, which might cause Daniel to run f
or the hills. There were less complicated girls to date than me—nondiabetic, all-American, tall ones, with parents who spoke perfect English—and I wasn’t ready to lose him.
“I’m tired of holding my head up,” I said after work at seven thirty that Tuesday evening as Kate, Mark, and I headed toward our own pre-Thanksgiving dinner.
“I’ll drive,” said Mark, knowing Kate and I wanted to catch up on the latest law firm gossip. “Where are we meeting Daniel?”
“He took Caltrain up, so he’ll meet us at the restaurant and catch a ride home with us,” I answered before turning my attention to Kate.
“It’s so stereotypical,” my best friend said. “Rich law partner leaves his wife and kids because he’s fallen for his bombshell secretary.”
“My mom always says to make sure your husband’s secretary is much older than you,” I said.
“She’s right!”
“Well, my secretary is a man, so we don’t have to worry there,” Mark offered.
“So evidently the secretary walked away with half his net worth! Like four or five million dollars,” Kate said.
“But they were only married for what—nine months?” I protested.
The remaining hour-long drive probably wasn’t too fun for Mark because most of it revolved around stupid man this and stupid man that. When we arrived at the restaurant, he nearly ran up to the entrance, where Daniel was waiting for us. “Hey, man. So good to see you,” he said.
San Francisco’s newest and trendiest restaurant was a neon-lit warehouse that charged patrons an arm and a leg to sit at a communal table and dine on a prix fixe menu consisting of raw vegetable sticks stacked in Jenga-like formations. Grant had overheard a young client raving about it, so he (or rather his secretary) bought me a gift certificate and insisted I give it a try. The reservation wasn’t easy to get; the online booking tool essentially told me there were “no tables available during a two-hour window for the rest of your life.” But thanks to a new Silicon Valley company that sold secondary market reservations, we managed to secure our seats.
