by Cara Chow
“She is. What do you want to talk about?”
“Um … schoolwork.” Technically, that’s not a lie.
“Oh, so hardworking. Theresa! Hurry up! It’s Fei Ting!”
Theresa takes the phone. “Hello?”
“Theresa, I’m stuck on my speech—”
“Hold on.” There is a pause. It sounds like Theresa is moving to another part of the house. “Mom, stop following me. I need some privacy!” Theresa says in English.
“Privacy? What you need privacy for?” Nellie says back in English. “Keep secret from me?”
Theresa groans. Then I hear the door shut. “Sorry,” she says to me.
I give silent thanks for Theresa’s discretion. “I don’t know if I can go through with this. I feel like Popo’s watching me.” I’m whispering, as if keeping this conversation out of Popo’s earshot.
“Didn’t your popo pass away?” Theresa is whispering too, as if Popo might hear her as well.
“Yes. That’s what makes it worse. I feel her eyes in the photo watching me.” As I listen to myself whisper, I hate how nuts I sound. A Chinese person would berate me for my sins and urge me to heed my guilt. Everyone else would laugh me off as superstitious. Only Theresa can stand in the middle and see both sides. “I almost want to cover her face with a towel so she can’t see me,” I say.
“No! That feels … sacrilegious.” Theresa pauses for a moment. “I’ve got an idea. What’s the sweetest treat you’ve got in the house?”
“Well …” I open the pink bakery box on our kitchen table. “There’s dan tat and bolo bao.” “Dan tat” means “custard tart,” and “bolo bao,” which translates as “pineapple bun,” is just a plain bun with a crusty sugar topping that looks like the outside of a pineapple.
“Which is your favorite?”
“The dan tat.”
“Offer that to the shrine.”
“But that’s the last one.” I cringe at my own selfishness.
“Even better,” says Theresa. “It’s showing your sacrifice. As you offer it to her, explain that you did your best to straighten things out. Promise that you’ll make amends. You will write your speech to praise your mother as an unsung hero. So you’re turning a bad thing into a good thing.”
I pick up a dan tat with one hand and the base of the rotary phone with the other as I hold the receiver between my ear and my shoulder. I walk to the shrine, reluctantly place the last custard tart in front of Popo, and make my promise. “It’s done,” I say to Theresa.
Suddenly, my mother walks in. She is carrying our takeout dinner in one hand and her purse and keys in the other. I immediately turn my back towards her and walk away from the shrine.
“Well, thanks for the help with the calculus homework,” I say.
Theresa gasps. “Did your mom just come home?”
I hear Mom’s footsteps behind me as she approaches the dining table. “Yes.”
“Do you think she suspects anything?”
“No.”
“We better get off the phone now.”
“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I hang up the phone, a little too quickly. I deliberately slow down, to make myself look casual.
“Who was that on the phone?” Mom asks.
“Oh, it’s Theresa.”
Mom raises an eyebrow. “I thought you despised her.”
“That’s not true.” Well, at least not anymore.
“I’m glad that you’ve finally swallowed your pride and allowed her to help you with your weaknesses.”
I begin setting the table with our ivory chopsticks, porcelain bowls, and small dishes. Our chopsticks have our Chinese names on them, engraved and painted in red. Our dishes and bowls have hand-painted dragons. They are red with gold trim. In contrast to our beat-up furniture, our dining ware is probably pretty valuable, like our jewelry at the bank. Did that, too, come from our former life?
Even before I untie the plastic bag and open the Styrofoam container, I recognize the scent of cha siu (barbecued pork), chow fun (flat rice noodles), gai lan (Chinese broccoli), and steamed rice. But overriding those tantalizing aromas is the smell of fu gwa, bitter melon. As I open the containers, which say HAVE A NICE DAY! the steam covers my face, fogging up my glasses.
“Four dollars,” my mother says triumphantly. She prides herself on her ability to get a good deal.
As we sit down to eat, I notice how tired Mom looks. She is hunched over her food, in too much pain to hold herself up. She’s been awake since three thirty this morning, to work the five o’clock shift, and didn’t leave work until five in the afternoon.
“Maybe you should lie down awhile before you eat,” I say.
Mom waves me off. “This food costs money. We have to eat it while it’s still hot.” Then she smiles and pats me on the hand. “Gwai nui. You always look out for your mother.”
The barbecued pork is red and shiny. The ends are slightly burned. That is the sweetest and crispiest part. Mom picks out the end pieces for me and the middle slices for herself. The gai lan glistens with oil and oyster sauce. Mom picks out the tender baby stalks for me while reserving the older, more fibrous stalks for herself. Mom’s chopsticks look like the beak of a mother bird pecking at a food source to regurgitate for her young. As she gathers the chow fun, she gives me the only two shrimps in the whole container and the brownest rice noodles, the ones with the most soy sauce. Then she gives herself the whiter, blander noodles and hardly any of the meat.
“Mom, it’s okay. Save some of the good ones for yourself,” I say.
“It’s okay, Fei Ting. Mommy always saves the best for you. Just study hard. When you become a doctor, you will make lots of money and you can buy Mommy the best food.”
But what if I don’t get into Berkeley because I’m not taking calculus? What if I don’t get into medical school? Then Mom could be eating the middle parts of cha siu and the toughest stalks of gai lan and living in this cramped apartment for the rest of her life.
As if reading my mind, Mom says, “If you were talking to Theresa about calculus, how come your textbook isn’t on your desk?”
I look over at my desk. There is nothing on it except my pen and my blank speech. “I forgot my calculus book in my locker,” I say. “I was calling Theresa to get the questions.” Can Mom hear the lying in my voice? Can she hear my heart pounding?
Mom’s chopsticks move on to the bitter melon with sliced beef. The shiny dark green crescents have eyelet patterns on the outside. The alkaline smell fills my mouth with a taste similar to that of an unripe persimmon. The cook has added sugar to this dish, but no sweetness can dull the bitter taste that lingers on the tongue, tainting everything else you eat. Because it’s Mom’s favorite, she collects a giant heap and deposits it on my plate. It lands with a small thump, like a pile of manure.
“Mom, why don’t you keep the bitter melon for yourself?” I say. “After all, it’s your favorite.”
“You’re rejecting the best dish. Stop fussing. Just eat.”
“It’s really bitter.”
“If you eat bitterness all the time, you will get used to it. Then you will like it.”
“But I don’t want to. I don’t like fu gwa.”
Mom’s face becomes dark and stormy. I’ve figured out too late that I’ve said the wrong thing.
“I’ve been up since three thirty this morning, and I worked twelve hours—twelve hours—to earn the money that bought this food,” Mom says. “You think I like to go to work? I work for you.” Her eyes are red, tears welling in them, as her voice escalates to a shriek. “You don’t realize how lucky you are to have education and food anytime you want. When you bathe, you use so much shampoo and soap, twice as much as I do. When you eat chicken, you leave little traces of chicken and cartilage on the bone. And now you’re wasting a whole container of good food. I could support another child with all that you waste.”
And now I am wasting her money for my education.
“This weekend I’m w
orking too. So now I’m working seven days a week. You know why?”
I assume that her question is rhetorical, so I don’t answer.
“You know why?” She is interpreting my silence as disrespect.
“To pay for my tuition,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.
“That’s not all. I also have to pay for Princeton Review, because your SAT scores are so bad. Theresa got 1350. How could you only get 1050? Auntie Nellie said that Theresa took Princeton Review. She guaranteed that it will help you. Seven hundred dollars just to help you. Because you can’t help yourself.”
Reluctantly, I lift a clump of bitter melon with my chopsticks and force it into my mouth. I chew it just enough so I can swallow it. The chewing unleashes more bitterness, which bleeds and lodges itself into every taste bud. I continue until the pile of bitter melon on my plate is gone.
But my efforts are not enough to placate her. Mom flings her chopsticks onto her plate. “Now look what you’ve done,” she says. “You’ve upset me so much that my stomach hurts even more, and now I can’t eat.” Mom takes her lunch container and starts piling the rest of the bitter melon into it. “Because you don’t like it, I guess I will have to finish it.”
Now I am left with tender stalks and barbecued pork ends for the rest of my dinner. But I’ve lost my hunger for them. Mom puts on her apron and rubber gloves.
“I can wash the dishes,” I say.
“Go study and do your homework,” Mom snaps, keeping her back to me. She turns on the hot water and begins scrubbing the dishes in angry, jerky movements.
I quietly open Mom’s container and scoop the remainder of my dinner into it. Then I turn around to make sure she isn’t watching. Her back looks twisted and hunched over, as if chewed up and spat out by the hardness of life. I wonder what her life would have been like had I never been born. Maybe she could have moved back to Hong Kong, where her family and friends are. Maybe she could have pursued a college education, so she wouldn’t have had to slave away at her current job. Maybe she could have found another husband, a nice man, a rich man who could have given her all the nice things she deserves. But she gave up all those opportunities. For me.
Shortly after the dishes are done, Mom retires to the bedroom, and I am left alone in the living area. I open my Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations, my source of inspiration when I write essays, and look up quotes from Confucius. Twenty minutes later, I’ve come up with the following list of quotes.
In serving your father and mother, remonstrate with them gently. On seeing that they do not heed your suggestions, remain respectful and do not act contrary. Although concerned, voice no resentment.
A person who for three years refrains from reforming the ways of his late father can be called a filial son.
When your father and mother are alive, do not journey far, and when you do travel, be sure to have a specific destination.
Children must know the age of their father and mother. On the one hand, it is a source of joy, on the other, of trepidation.
Then I read my last quote, a Chinese proverb.
Vicious as a tigress can be, she never eats her own cubs.
Tigers and cubs … My mind drifts back to the zoo and what my mom said about the difference between animals and humans.
I begin my speech. As I write, I imagine delivering it in the school auditorium. Ms. Taylor is sitting in the front row, her stained-glass blue eyes glistening with pride. Hidden from my view in the back row are my mother and, next to her, the spirit of Popo. They are angry with me for defying their orders.
As I finish my speech, the whole audience stands up and applauds loudly. Their applause beats against my eardrums and vibrates the floor under my feet, like heavy raindrops in a downpour. As my mother sees the sea of hands clapping for me, she has tears in her eyes. She regrets being so hard on me. She sees that she was wrong to have hidden my talent from the rest of the world. She realizes that she has been wrong about me all along, that I am beautiful, smart, hardworking, and loyal, the best kind of daughter. She vows to her mother that she will never take me for granted again. She will never again need to compare me to someone else, because she knows now how lucky she is.
Even as this image fades from my mind’s eye, the sound of clapping remains, fueling the enthusiasm in my heart, and I continue writing.
Chapter Three
The closest Princeton Review class is held at St. Augustine’s College Prep in the Sunset District, so I have to take the bus from the Richmond District through Golden Gate Park to get there. St. Augustine’s is the most prestigious—and most expensive—of the Catholic schools in San Francisco. In contrast, St. Elizabeth’s is the least expensive. Traditionally, Catholic high schools have been either all girls or all boys. This year, however, as Catholic schools struggle to keep their enrollment up, some of the boys’ schools are going coed. St. Augustine’s is one of them, and many freshman girls have flocked there. Their parents want the St. Augustine name to help them to get into the Ivy League schools. The girls want to be the precious female minority in a large pool of cute, preppy boys.
Because it’s the first day, because I’ve never been on the St. Augustine campus, and because I’m bad with directions, it takes me a while to find the right classroom. This reminds me of my confusion on the first day of speech class. What if I think I’m in a Princeton Review class and it turns out to be acting, painting, or underwater basket weaving? On the positive side, it could be calculus. Then I could kill two birds with one stone.
I pass by several classrooms and some flyers for the St. Augustine fall dance before I finally find the correct room. I check the number on the door with my confirmation sheet several times just to make sure. I feel like I’m the last one here. Most of the seats are already taken up by the St. Augustine students. The majority of them are boys in crisp white shirts, navy pants, and matching ties and V-neck sweaters. The girls are wearing the same, except that they have on navy pleated skirts instead of pants. I am suddenly aware that I haven’t shared a classroom with boys since the eighth grade. The very thought floods me with self-consciousness.
The instructor asks me to sign in. He is an older man with white hair and wears a polo shirt and checkered golf pants. He shakes my hand warmly and introduces himself as Mr. Engelman. Then he gives me my workbook materials for the class.
There are two empty seats at the back of the classroom. One is to the left and the other is two rows to the right. The seat on the right-hand side is next to a blond boy. He is tall and lean, with long limbs. He has a long face with rosy cheeks. The sunlight from the window catches on his straight, fine hair, making it glow like golden silk threads. He looks at me and smiles. His eyes are the color of arctic glaciers.
Quickly, I look away, my face hot and my heart pounding. I sagely choose the empty seat on the left. But another latecomer takes that seat before I can get to it. I reroute my path towards the seat next to the blond boy. I avoid looking at him the whole time.
As Mr. Engelman begins class, a group of three boys next to the blond boy starts acting up. The boy behind me, the ringleader, has big green eyes and curly brown hair. The boy behind the blond boy has curly dirty-blond hair. The boy behind the ringleader has shocking orange hair and a rash of freckles on his face. The three play a kicking game, seeing who can kick whom the most without getting caught by the teacher. They time this so that it happens only when Mr. Engelman is writing on the board. Every time the boy directly behind me kicks or gets kicked, my desk is jolted. I’m not going to absorb any information with all this going on. I turn and give them a dirty look, holding my index finger up to my lips. For a while, they are quiet. Relieved, I resume my note taking. A minute later, however, a crumpled ball of paper hits me on the back of the head. This is followed by quiet sniggers. I try to ignore them, but a minute later, another paper ball hits me and lands next to me on the floor.
To my surprise, the blond boy reaches down, picks the paper ball off the floor, and hurls it back at t
he troublemakers. It hits the ringleader in the face.
Unfortunately, that is the moment when Mr. Engelman turns towards the class.
“Collins,” he says, staring daggers at the blond boy. He points to the door. The blond boy sighs and gathers his things. As he passes me, I give him an apologetic look. He answers that with a rueful smile. We lock gazes as he walks towards the open doorway, until he runs into the doorframe, missing the doorway by an inch. The blond boy grimaces, holding his face in his hands as he exits the room. The troublemakers behind me snigger.
Meanwhile, Mr. Engelman has resumed his instruction. He turns his back to us again to write something on the board. I continue staring at the doorway until another ball hits me in the back of the head.
During the bus ride home, I can’t stop thinking about the boy named Collins. I mentally replay the way he smiled at me, the way he defended me against those dumb kids, and the way he slammed into the doorframe. I decide that I should reciprocate the sacrifice he made for me. That evening, I copy my notes for him in my neatest writing. My hand is so careful that it almost trembles.
My mind wanders. How will he react when I give him his notes? Will he smile again? Will he talk to me? I remember the flyers in the hallway for the St. Augustine fall dance. I imagine him asking me, Are you going to the dance?
Suddenly, the door jerks open. Mom has just come home from work.
I nearly jump out of my seat, as if I were caught burgling. Mom does her usual routine, tossing her purse onto the couch and the takeout into the microwave with a heaviness that matches her mood. Meanwhile, I try to act normal, even though my heart is pounding. Fortunately, she can’t read my thoughts. Right after thinking this, I look down at my notes and realize that while copying the vocabulary list, I wrote “dance” instead of “abstinence,” the word following “abstemious.” Frantic, I cross it out before Mom can detect it with her eagle eyes. What would Collins think, seeing “dance” in the middle of his vocabulary list? I cross it out several more times, until it is nothing more than an opaque black rectangle on the page. Instead of obliterating my mistake, however, scratching it out seems to highlight it more, like giant arrows screaming Mistake, mistake! Stupid! I toss the whole page and start over.
