An Asian couple were pouring themselves a glass of wine. The woman, her hair in an elegant chignon, wore a pretty, bright pink flowing blouse over slacks and heels. The man was dressed in a pale green sweater and jeans with an ironed crease.
“Harold and Elizabeth Wong, Indi and Ruby. Ruby is a former student.”
Elizabeth said something in Chinese and I was flabbergasted when Ruby replied. I hadn’t known she spoke Chinese.
This was exactly why I hadn’t wanted to come. Talk about not fitting in.
Then I remembered what Ruby and I had talked about. This was the reflex in action.
You’re not an android, Indi.
There was a lull in the conversation and I realized they were all looking at me.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Chinese,” I said, but Helen just smiled and waved her hand.
“Not a problem. Now that we know, we’ll stick to English. I was just saying, I have aprons for everyone.” She went to a drawer and pulled out several. “I have a thing for funny aprons. Here you go. One for Harold, one for Elizabeth…”
Harold’s had just words, “WTF. Where’s the food?” Elizabeth’s had a drawing of chopsticks with the words, “Not chopsticks. Food pliers.” Ruby’s just had a cute little cartoon of a Chinese takeout box. Mine said, appropriately, “I’m just here for the Chinese food.”
After we all put on our aprons and washed our hands, Helen said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, Ruby, but I thought you said you had experience making dumplings.”
“I do, but it was a long time ago and I wasn’t very good. I was only nine.”
“It’s like riding a bike,” Helen said. “What about you, Indi?”
I shook my head. “I’m a complete beginner,” I confessed.
“Don’t look so worried,” Helen said. “It’s not that hard. By the time we’re done, you’ll be an expert.”
“Indi’s parents own a pizzeria,” Ruby said. “She’ll pick it up in no time. She’s really good with her hands, which is a good thing since she’s going to be a surgeon.”
“My dad wanted me to be a surgeon even though I get queasy at the sight of blood,” Harold said. “A lot of doctors in my family. He said if I wanted to avoid blood, I could be a psychiatrist and I’d say, ‘Dad, I would still have to go through medical school and he would wave that away as if that was just a bothersome detail.”
“So what did you end up doing?” Ruby asked.
“I’m an optometrist, which to my mind was a kind of compromise, but Dad doesn’t consider me a real doctor.”
“Why not?” I asked, a little outraged on his behalf.
“Because optometrists are doctorate doctors, not medical doctors. Big difference in his mind.”
My parents had been nothing but supportive. That’s not to say they didn’t have any expectations. They did, but they didn’t try to fit me into a box that didn’t suit me and for that I was grateful.
“All right,” Helen said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting hungry, so let’s get started. Indi, you’re going to be prepping the dough for rolling. Elizabeth and I will be rolling it. Harold and Ruby, you’re filling.”
Helen removed the plastic lid off one of the bowls. “This is the dough. We keep a damp cloth on it to keep it moist.”
She removed the ball of dough, cut a hunk off of it and returned the rest to the bowl, making sure to cover it again with the damp cloth.
“Did you ever play with Play-Doh when you were little?” Helen asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Then this part will be familiar.”
Using her flattened hand, she rolled the hunk into a foot-long rope and cut the rope into pieces that looked like the peanut butter filled pretzel bites my dad liked to eat. She then demonstrated how to make sure each piece was flattened with flour on it, top and bottom, so it didn’t stick to the board or the rolling pin. The result was a little disc about two inches in diameter.
“I think I can handle that,” I said with confidence.
“Fantastic. After you make them into rounds, Elizabeth and I will take over.”
Elizabeth and Helen each took one of the flattened discs, turning them around and around while moving the rolling pin back and forth. In a few seconds, they were a little thicker than kettle chips. By the time they had a few of them done, Harold was showing Ruby how to drop a spoonful of the filling into the center of the disc and crimp them shut.
“Make sure they’re sealed tightly,” Elizabeth said.
“I remember,” Ruby said. “I got scolded if there were any leaks.”
Still rolling the dough, Helen laughed. “So did I! My mother got so mad when I did that.”
We all got into a rhythm and before long we had an entire sheet tray of dumplings, lined up in neat rows ready for cooking. They were cute and plump, like tiny calzones. But we didn’t bake them and they weren’t in the least tomatoey. After an extended dip in the boiling water, Helen scooped them out and put them in a shallow saucer.
“All right,” she said, “dig in!”
And using their “food pliers,” everyone picked up a dumpling, dipped it in one of the two sauces and started eating.
Except me.
This time it wasn’t using the chopsticks that was holding me back, it was the appearance of the dumplings. They were slimy looking and white—again, the complete opposite of calzones. But I couldn’t very well refuse to eat one.
“So good,” Ruby said as she chewed, a dreamy expression on her face. Out of sight of everyone else, she nudged me with her foot.
I decided to eat one, no matter how slimy it was, and then say I wasn’t feeling well and walk home. Someone else could take over dough prepping. Half the time, Helen and Elizabeth were rolling so quickly, Ruby and Harold fell behind. But I attributed that to the fact that sealing the dumplings was the most important job, so they had to be thorough.
I used Hudson’s stab-and-pinch method to nab the dumpling, dip it in the sauce and lift it to my mouth. As I took a bite, some of the rich broth ran down my chin, but I didn’t care because—oh my God—it was oh, so delicious. The dough wasn’t slimy at all. It had a smooth but chewy texture and a burst of rich pork and shitake mushroom flavor bathed my tongue as I chewed. The sauce was a winning combination of soy, a little sugar, garlic, a little punch of vinegar and nutty sesame oil.
I moaned. “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Even better than dim sum.”
“Good thing you’re wearing an apron,” Ruby said with a smile as I grabbed a napkin to wipe my chin.
We polished off half the sheet pan before we started the assembly line back up. Amazingly, we ran out of dough and filling at about the same time, but by then we had about a hundred dumplings. Most of them had been frozen and bagged and Helen made us take a large Ziploc’s worth home with us, plus a little container of the dipping sauce.
As we walked home, Ruby asked, “So was that so painful?”
“A little bit, at the beginning when you guys were all speaking Chinese. I didn’t even know you were bilingual.”
“I’m actually tri-lingual,” she said. “I speak Hawaiian too.”
I gave her a deadpan look. “Of course, you do. Any other languages? Latin? Dutch? Portuguese?”
“I know a few words of Tagalog a friend taught me.”
I glowered at her.
“Okay, okay,” she said with a laugh. “Sorry. Don’t be mad. It’s not like it’s my fault. My mom taught me Mandarin and my dad insisted I go to Hawaiian school after regular school.”
My jaw dropped. “Really?”
She nodded. “Every day, I went to another school to learn, not just the language, but everything about Hawaiian history and culture that you could want to know. For instance, I know how to roast a whole pig in a pit.”
“A handy skill,” I remarked.
“Right? You never know when you’ll need to feed fifty people.”
We stopped at an intersection and waited for the
light to turn. The fall foliage was spectacular and there was a definite chill in the air that made me turn the collar of my jacket up.
“So, be honest. What did you think?”
“I had a good time. I thought it was going to be torture, but I had fun.”
“You should be proud of yourself. At the end there, you even tackled filling and sealing, and that’s the hardest part.”
“I did, didn’t I?” I said, shaking the bag of frozen dumplings.
“You, Miss Indi Briscoe, are a little more Chinese now than you were a few hours ago. How does it feel?”
I smiled at her. “It feels pretty good, actually.”
19
Hudson
I was just about done tidying up the apartment when AJ came home with a long face.
“I thought you were spending the afternoon with Ruby,” I said.
“I thought so too, but she broke up with me, dude,” he said, dropping his backpack on the floor.
I’d sort of seen this coming but hadn’t said anything. After that double date for dim sum, AJ was even more gaga over Ruby than ever, but it seemed like the feelings weren’t mutual. Like Indi and me, he would have gotten together with her every night if she’d let him, but more and more she gave him excuses. They were plausible excuses, but people make time for what’s important to them and AJ didn’t seem to be high on Ruby’s priority list.
“What happened?”
He went to the fridge for a beer and held up two bottles. “You want one?”
The reason I was tidying up was that Indi and I were going to study together. Even though it didn’t seem right to be drinking a beer before she got here, when a friend got dumped, the Bro Code demanded you have a drink with him in sympathy.
“Sure.”
He popped the tops and we sat on the couch.
“You know what she said to me? She said I had no sex appeal.”
“That’s pretty fucking rude.”
“To be fair, she didn’t use those exact words. She said she didn’t feel any spark, and that’s pretty much the same thing. When I kissed her, she didn’t feel diddly squat.” He took a swig from his beer. “Maybe I should join a monastery.”
I held back a laugh. “Dude. That’s the way it goes sometimes. It’s got to be mutual. You don’t want to be with someone who’s not into you, right?”
He heaved a sigh and took another pull on his beer. “She was my beautiful Hawaiian Buttercup. I would have loved her forever. I will love her forever.”
I doubted that. I’d seen AJ fall in love three times since I’d known him. Had he truly been in love with those girls? Maybe. He certainly believed it. But I knew he’d probably be over this in a week.
“And now I have to see her in photography class for the rest of the semester,” he moaned. “I don’t know if I can stand it.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again. “That really sucks.”
“How are things with you and Indi? There are sparks for you two, right?”
“Yeah, lots of sparks.”
There was a fucking conflagration whenever we made out. My cock got so hot, my pants should have ignited.
AJ clinked his bottle against mine. “I’m happy for you, bro. I truly am.”
There was a knock at the door. “Speak of the devil,” I said.
AJ just sighed and drank more beer.
I opened the door to see Indi standing there bundled up in a sweater, scarf, coat and jeans, a backpack hung on her shoulder. She had a knit cap on her head that for some reason made me want to kiss her. Not that I needed any excuses to kiss her.
“It’s so cold outside!” she exclaimed, stomping her feet. A bright pink blush stained her cheeks.
“I’ll warm you up,” I said, bending my head and pressing my mouth to hers. Her lips were pretty chilled.
She put a hand on the back of my head to extend the kiss a moment longer and when we broke apart, she whispered something I couldn’t quite make out.
When I gave her a confused look, she pulled me out into the hallway. “I said, Ruby broke up with AJ.”
“Yeah,” I replied in a low voice, “he just told me. I was commiserating with him over a beer.”
“I know you’re talking about me,” AJ called from inside.
Indi gave me a sad smile as she came through the door.
“Hey, AJ,” she said. “I’m really sorry you and Ruby aren’t together anymore.”
“The woman broke my heart,” he said bluntly. “I may never recover. But just because I’m single now doesn’t mean I want to stand in the way of you guys’ love, so I’ll be in my room. Do me a favor, will you, Indi?”
“Sure. What?” She unwound the scarf from her neck and put her backpack on the kitchen table.
“Don’t tell me if Ruby gets together with some other dude.”
“Of course I won’t, AJ.”
He nodded. “Thanks.” He got to his bedroom door before turning and saying, “And tell her…tell her I hope she has a life filled with happiness and success and everything she deserves.”
“I will.”
When the door shut behind him, Indi said, “He’s taking it harder than I would have expected. I mean, they only went out twice.”
I went to AJ’s door and put my ear close to it. I could hear his TV.
“Yeah, I know. AJ has a tender heart, but he’ll be okay. You want a beer?”
“Sure. Thanks.” She opened her backpack and pulled out a thick textbook and three highlighters. “So guess what I did yesterday.”
“What?”
“I made authentic Chinese dumplings.”
“Get out. You, the most stubborn non-Chinese person I know?”
“Shut up,” she said, giving me a mock punch on the arm. “Ruby and I ran into one of her old professors and she invited us to make dumplings at her house. I wasn’t going to go at first, because I…I’ve always made it a point to distance myself from China, and until yesterday, I never really understood why. But now I know.”
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” I said, handing her the beer.
“I’ve been rejecting China because, basically it—meaning my birth parents—rejected me first.”
I rolled that around in my brain. “That makes a hell of a lot of sense, actually.”
“I know, right? It was like boom.” She flicked the fingers of both her hands to mimic an explosion.
“Good for you, Indi. That’s really great.”
“From now on I’m going to be trying to combat my instant dislike of anything Chinese. If you play your cards right, I might even make authentic dumplings for you.”
“I would love that,” I said.
After taking a sip of the beer she said, “Hey, this is that same beer you gave me when we went to Tito’s.”
“I bought it on a lark once because it’s made by three guys who used to play for the San Diego Barracudas. They retired from hockey and started a craft brewery there. Now I buy it because it’s good.”
“You know, this is a really interesting coincidence. I wanted to float something by you—a theory I came up with.”
“This sounds interesting.” I sat and leaned my forearms on the table.
“Promise me you won’t get offended. Or mad.”
A little wary now, I said, “I’ll do my best.”
“In my EDT class—”
“EDT?”
“Emotional Development and Temperament. Last week, in my EDT class the professor was talking about something called Imposter Syndrome and I think you have it. Listen to what my book says.”
She got out one of her huge textbooks and opened it to a page she’d marked with a pink Post-it.
“‘Imposter Syndrome, or imposterism,’” she read, “‘is a psychological pattern in which individuals doubt their skills, talents or accomplishments and have a persistent, internalized fear of being exposed as a fraud. It can develop because someone grows up in an environment where self-worth is tied to accomplishments. Or per
haps praise was offered in the form of helpful criticism. People with imposterism often feel they do not live up to the expectations of their friends or loved ones.’ Doesn’t that sound exactly like you and your dad?”
I frowned. “Let me see that.”
There wasn’t much more about imposterism in the book. I even checked the index, but it was disturbingly on the nose.
“Huh. I’m not sure that really describes what’s going on with me. My anxiety attacks happen before the games.”
“And the self-doubt hits you afterward. Don’t even try to deny it. I spent hours in the car the other night witnessing it.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Now here’s where the coincidence comes in. Look at this.” She showed me an article on imposterism on her phone.
“See there? It says it can be helpful to identify someone you admire and find out what their challenges are, what they struggle with. So have you heard of Booth MacDonald? He plays for the Barracudas in San Diego. You know, where they make Hat Trick beer.”
“Isn’t that a weird coincidence. Yeah, I’ve heard of him. He’s a goalie.”
“Right. Well, I found this interview of him where he talked about how he had pregame panic attacks when he was a teen and I thought, maybe through your dad’s connections, you might be able to talk to him about what you’re going through.”
“Interesting theory. I’ll give it some thought,” I said.
“Great. I’ll text you a link to the interview. Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.
“You’re just really intuitive, is all. And thoughtful.”
I liked that she cared enough about me to spend time trying to find a solution to my stress problem.
We turned to our books then and managed to study for quite a while before the sound of Deke at his water bottle broke the silence.
“Deke’s awake!” she exclaimed, dashing over to pick him up.
Indi had long since made friends with him by bringing him bits of parsley or carrot and, as a fair-minded rodent, he’d allowed her to handle him without biting her. It was fun watching her stroke his head with her finger. For his part, Deke stared blankly into the distance as she cuddled him and cooed about how cute he was.
Darkroom: A Moo U Hockey Romance Page 13
