Burn Into Me

by Leeson, Jillian

  The neon sign for a 24/7 diner looming on my left couldn’t have come at a better time—a hot drink is exactly what I need right now. I get off the highway and park my bike out front. When I step in, the warmth of the diner envelops me like a blanket, and I breathe a sigh of relief. The jukebox is playing an old Chuck Berry song, and the wonderful aroma of greasy food fills my nostrils.

  I settle into one of the red booths and order a coffee. The cup feels comforting between my hands, and a sense of calm pervades my body with every sip of the hot liquid.

  But when I hear a commotion outside, I know my moment of peace will soon be over. I’m right—a group of eight or so street racers enters the diner, laughing and dissing each other, but the handful of other late diners don’t even look up. While the music on the jukebox changes to Eminem’s “Lose Yourself”, I take a big gulp of my coffee, planning my getaway. I hope to get back on the road without attracting their attention. But while I eye my escape route, I catch one of the racers gazing at me, and I recognize him immediately—Mikey Miller. Sunglasses on, he strides towards me with an exaggerated swagger.

  “Hey, you. You Elle’s boyfriend, right? That RR—that your ride outside?”

  “Yeah. Mikey Miller?”

  “The one and only. So, what you doing here? Looking to race?”

  I wince inwardly. This is exactly what I was afraid of when he approached me. I promised Elle I wouldn’t take part in any more street races, and I don’t intend to break that promise, even though we’re no longer together.

  I shake my head. “No, I was just having coffee. Minding my own business.”

  “When you park your bike in front of this diner, it becomes my business. It means you’re up for a race.”

  “I guess I hadn’t read the sign.”

  “Trying to be a wise-ass?”

  “Wise enough to stay out of trouble.”

  “Ha. You mean that shorty of yours, huh?”

  I knit my brow. “What do you mean?”

  “You so whipped by her that you follow her commands like a fucking dog? What kind of man are you?”

  A sudden hot rage rises inside of me. I knew it was a bad idea when I made that promise to Elle. He’s right—what man am I if I blindly follow what a woman tells me to do? I think of what happened when I blindly followed my mother—I got dumped like a piece of trash. And now the same has happened with Elle.

  I growl, “No one tells me what to do.”

  Mikey points his gloved finger at me. “Prove it. Show me what you’re made of. You and me, we race the quarter mile.”

  “I don’t have any cash on me.”

  “That’s not a problem. I’ll collect later. I know you’re good for it.”

  “I, uh…”

  He leans over, his head so close that I see the burst vessels in the whites of his eyes. “You scared I whip your ass? You chicken? Or you afraid that that shorty of yours won’t give you no pussy no more?”

  I grip the edge of the seat, determined to keep my cool. “I’m not scared. I’d just like to finish my coffee first.”

  “Okay, let’s talk stakes. I’d say thirty Gs.”

  What the hell? Is he out of his mind? But I can’t exactly beat him down—it would make me look like a dumb-ass.

  I nod.

  “So we’re on. Sweet.” Mikey slaps his hand on the table, causing my coffee cup to rattle on its saucer, and he spins around to sit down at another booth. Curling my finger into the handle of the cup, I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

  What the hell have I done? I’ve agreed to race against one of the most dangerous, unscrupulous players on the street racing circuit. I must have some kind of death wish. But for now, the prospect of the thrill outweighs the risk. I need to experience that heady feeling again; to feel the adrenaline coursing through my blood. And a small, dark part of me relishes in defying Elle. I’m not letting her control me. She doesn’t care about me, so why should I care about her?

  Taking a last sip of coffee, I stand up and head to the door, tossing a twenty-dollar bill on the counter.

  “Let’s do it,” I say to Mikey without looking at him.

  The icy night air hits me when I walk out the door, and the moon that was shining so brightly before is covered with a thick cloud blanket. I can just make out my RR, now surrounded by an assortment of modified sport bikes with their chromed wheels, extended swing arms, and custom-painted tanks. I put on my helmet, ignoring the insults and wisecracks by Mikey and his gang, who are right behind me. I know they’re just trying to rile me up, to get inside my head before the race. But the racket of revving engines soon drowns out their voices as we set off onto the two-lane highway.

  Only when we reach a quiet, dark stretch of highway without streetlights we start slowing down. Some of Mikey’s gang ride up ahead to block oncoming traffic and mark the finish line, and a couple stay behind to make a road block. When we come to a stop, Mikey starts burning his tires, and I get ready to do the same. My feet solidly on the ground, I pull in the front brake and the clutch all the way. As I rev the engine to around 10,000rpm while releasing the clutch, the spinning of my back tire spins produces thick clouds of smoke behind and around me. I creep towards the start line, folding my body tightly around the tank.

  I am ready for this race.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Elle

  Shit. She wasn’t supposed to come home so soon.

  My mother stands in the doorway, a grim look on her wrinkled face. “Lily, I need talk to you.”

  My heart sinks, and the excitement I felt just a few seconds ago, has completely dissipated.

  “No. I don’t have time. I have to go.” I shove at the door trying to push past her, but she holds up her hands and I shrink back, horrified by the thought of her touching me.

  She says, “This important, can’t wait. You go sit down, I make tea.”

  I let out a long sigh. I can’t imagine what the hell would be so important to talk to me about. I know this is going to end up in a horrid argument, like it always does. Only this time it seems she won’t take no for an answer.

  I stomp back in and plunk myself down at the round table, as far away from the kitchen as possible.

  A few minutes later, my mother emerges from the kitchen with a pot of tea and small teacups.

  She starts talking to me in Chinese and I answer in English, as I always do. Unlike my sisters, I refuse to speak Chinese despite the threats and taunts I have endured throughout my teenage years. I was the most stubborn, stupid, good-for-nothing daughter. To hear her say these words must have hurt initially, but I’ve become so used to it, I’ve become an expert in blocking them out.

  “How’s school going?” she asks.

  “Cut the crap, mom. What do you want?”

  “You’re always so rude. You have to learn to respect your mother.”

  “I’ll respect you when you’re worth my respect. That’s not gonna happen when you put me down all the time.”

  “I don’t put you down. I always tell you the truth.”

  “Okay, come out with it. I need to go.”

  She pours me a cup of Dragonwell tea, knowing full well I prefer jasmine.

  Her eyes are trained on the cup when she starts speaking slowly, cautiously. “Yesterday I received a call from my sister in China. She told me she had a message from your uncle. My brother, Uncle Han.”

  I swallow. A feeling of dread creeps up, chilling every single vertebra of my spine.

  “So what? What does that have to do with me?”

  “She said he wanted to confess to things he has done in his past.”

  Scraping my chair back on the tiles, I stand up. “You know what? I don’t want to listen to this. I’m going.”

  Still not meeting my eyes, my mother grabs my wrist when I stride towards the hallway. “Stay. I have to tell you what he said.”

  I shove her hand off. “I don’t want to know!”

  “Lily, listen to me. He’s
told her things. Disturbing things.”

  “Stop. Talking.” Covering my ears with my hands, I make another attempt to escape from the house, but my mother yanks my hands away by the wrists.

  “Li-Ly. Tell me it’s not true. Why? Why would he make up a horrible story like that?”

  I swivel around, my eyes spitting bolts of fire.

  “I cannot believe this. You think he’s making up a story. Are you out of your freaking mind?”

  “Uncle Han said, when he came to visit us here, he did something to you. Something terrible. And then he felt guilty about it.”

  “He should. Because he is guilty.”

  My mother furrows her brow. “My brother has a family, a wife and a son. I know he couldn’t have done anything like this. ”

  “Clearly you don’t really know him.”

  “I grew up with him; of course I know him. But something must have happened, otherwise he wouldn’t have said anything. You must have done something to provoke him. I remember you always wanted to get attention.”

  A red-hot fury enters my body, threatening to explode my veins.

  “Are you fucking kidding me? You haven’t changed a bit in all these years. What kind of mother are you? You still believe that pig instead of your own daughter, even though he’s confessed to what he’s done?”

  “I don’t know what to believe anymore,” my mother whispers, her eyes fixed on the floor.

  Clearing her throat, Rose appears from the kitchen and puts her hands on my shoulders.

  “Elle, why don’t you tell us what happened?”

  Tears welling in my eyes, I shake my head. “I can’t. I just can’t. I don’t want to think about it anymore.”

  “Listen, it’s really important you tell us. I can’t tell you why yet, but it will all make sense later on. Please, Elle. I promise it’ll be worth it.”

  Looking into her pleading eyes, I take a deep breath.

  Today is Chinese New Year’s eve—the day of our big annual family dinner. As happens every year, mom has been obsessed with getting the house spotless for the big day. And this year her expectations of us have been especially high as we have an important guest arriving from China: mom’s brother, our uncle. In the past month or so, the three of us have been dusting, washing, and scrubbing every minute of our spare time while mom has been baking and cooking, and decorating the house with red banners displaying Chinese characters.

  I ask my mom what they mean, and she tells me they stand for luck, prosperity, and fortune. I’m not surprised—Chinese people are obsessed with luck. My mom is in a particularly good mood today.

  “We’ll be lucky in the new year”, she says, handing me a warm, freshly-baked almond cookie. “Uncle Han is going to help us.”

  And she is all smiles again when she comes home after picking our uncle up from the airport. For weeks, she has drilled us on how to welcome our special guest so when the door opens, we call out in Chinese, “A warm welcome to our home, Uncle Han!”

  Our uncle turns out to be a bald, thick set man dressed in a crumpled shiny blue suit. His slits for eyes hide behind thick, gold-rimmed glasses. Rose ushers him to the couch, in front of which we’ve laid down some delicacies: almond cookies, pineapple cakes, and sticky New Year’s cake.

  After I bring out a cup of tea from the kitchen and put it down in front of him, I lift the plate of almond cookies and offer it to him. He smiles at me and strokes my cheek with his short fat fingers, clammy with sweat.

  “No, thank you. I’m allergic. But I’d like to try a pineapple cake.”

  While I hand him the plate, he turns to my mom.

  “Meifang, your daughters very pretty,” he says in English with a strong Chinese accent, making sound the ‘r’s like ‘l’s.

  Winking at me, he looks friendly enough, but his staring eyes make me a feel a bit uncomfortable. I attribute it to the thick glasses distorting his eyes. When I take a step back, he takes a slurpy sip of his tea before stuffing himself with a pineapple cake.

  My mom points at the three of us. “Come on, help with the table, lazy girls.”

  Her raised voice makes us scurry to the kitchen and get all the food ready while mom is talking to our uncle. We hear her use her nauseatingly friendly voice with him, the voice she only uses outside the house. I know why—Uncle Han is a wealthy businessman, and my mom hopes he will help us out financially. Since my dad died a year ago, we have been struggling to make ends meet. After paying off his gambling debts, we had nothing left, and mom, who had never worked a day in her life, was forced to take on cleaning jobs to support the family.

  Mom really wants to impress Uncle Han. Our New Year’s dinner is always special, but tonight it is sumptuous. Apart from the usual plates of dumplings, steamed fish, and hairy seaweed, she has prepared oysters, shrimps, clams, crab, and lobster, dropping the choicest pieces in my uncle’s bowl.

  After dinner, we move to the living room, where we stand in a row to receive presents from our uncle: blond fake Barbie dolls. How old does he think we are? Does he honestly believe a fourteen-year old like me would still play with Barbie?

  But to please mom, we thank him and accept them with a smile, although I can’t help rolling my eyes, which produces a scowl from mom.

  “Now, aren’t you girls forgetting something?” she asks, raising her eyebrows. “What day is it today?”

  “Happy new year, uncle!”

  Grinning broadly, Uncle Han reaches into his pockets, causing the three of us to smile from ear to ear. This is the moment we’ve been waiting for. The moment that makes the hardship of the past weeks worth our while.

  When our uncle pulls out three red packets and hands them out to us, we cry out, “Thank you, Uncle!” before retreating to the kitchen and ripping them open.

  Two twenty-dollar bills each!

  To us, it’s a small fortune; we’ve never received so much in our red packets before. And we all decide Uncle Han isn’t so bad after all.

  He stays for another week, and he’s been really nice to me. Every time he goes out, he buys me a little gift or snack. I don’t even mind when he strokes my hair or puts his arm around me once in a while. It reminds me a bit of my dad on his good days, when he wasn’t drunk. My mom has never been affectionate, but after my dad’s death, she has been especially distant, always finding fault with me.

  On the day before Uncle Han leaves, everyone goes out shopping, but I decide to stay at home and read a book in my room, enjoying the peace and quiet. I am halfway through my book when I hear the door open downstairs.

  I furrow my brow. I am surprised they are back so soon; normally they’d take a much longer time. I continue reading and look up only when my door cracks open.

  “Uncle? Have you finished shopping already?”

  His squat frame fills my doorframe, and I can’t help but stare at his lopsided glasses and the pearls of sweat on his forehead. He says in Chinese, “I wasn’t feeling well, that’s why I thought I’d come home early. I have a terrible headache.”

  I nod and return to my book, hoping he’ll leave so I can continue to read.

  “Lily, could you help me rub some Tiger Balm ointment on my head?” He holds up a jar of the familiar cure-all lotion.

  “Eh, okay.”

  I can’t really refuse so I nod, putting my book down. Grinning, Uncle Han steps into my room. But then he does something unexpected: he spins around and locks the door behind him, putting the key in his pocket.

  “Wh-what are you doing, uncle?”

  “It’s okay,” he says, “you don’t need to worry.”

  When he sits on the edge of the bed, I scoot to the wall, as far away as possible as I can.

  My heart almost thumps out of my chest. Why did he lock the door? What can I do? Scream? Will anyone hear me? But I know no one would come to my rescue—our neighbors have never even mentioned all the screaming that has been going on in our house. I also consider making a dash for the door, but I know he’ll catch me in no ti
me.

  I have no choice.

  “Lily, don’t be afraid. Just help an old man with a headache.”

  My uncle takes off his glasses before he screws open the jar of ointment and hands it to me, pointing at his temples. My hand is shaking when I lean over to put the ointment on his bald head.

  “Come a bit closer, Lily. And put it on the other side as well.”

  He takes my other hand, dips it into the jar and brings it to his other temple. I am now facing him, standing between his knees. It feels strange and scary doing this, but he closes his eyes and doesn’t move.

  “Ah yes, Lily. That feels so much better.”

  After a few minutes I relax a little. Maybe he really isn’t feeling well. I dip my fingers in the ointment again and rub a bit more vigorously. My uncle lets out a small moan.

  “Ah, that feels so good.”

  I almost smile but then a chill comes over me—his hands have moved to my waist. I stop rubbing and drop my hands to push him away, but they hold me tight.

  “Uncle, what are you doing?”

  “Shhh. Lily, just make me feel good.” As he puts my hands back on his temples, I’m shaking. Conscious of the pressure of his hands on my waist, I freeze when his thumbs start moving, and my blouse gets dislodged from the waistband of my skirt. Before I know it, his clammy fingers are on my bare skin. I flinch, but I can’t move. His thick hands are like steel around me and slowly inch upwards.

  “No, uncle, please.” I push my hands down on his, but he shakes his head, yanking my hands away. I leave them hanging at my sides, too scared to protest. Tears are welling in my eyes. I’m so scared.

  “Open your blouse.”

  Frozen to the spot, I stare at my uncle. His eyes fixed on my blouse, he repeats his command and leads my cold shaking hand to the top button. When I manage to undo it after a few tries, a sly smile appears on his face while he guides my fingers from button to button, until they are all undone. His smile gets broader when my blouse falls open, revealing my white cotton bra. I instinctively fold my arms across my chest, but the stern look on my uncle’s face and the forceful squeeze of his hands on my waist make me drop them to the sides.