Together, Apart

by Erin A. Craig

  “As long as she is taking the herbs I recommended and fol owing precautions, I don’t see any reason she can’t continue.”

  Great.

  “Of course, Xin nǎinai. I always fol ow your advice to the letter,” Mom assures. “I make sure she never misses a day.”

  This time, I can’t keep the grimace off my face. I can stil taste the nasty ocean seaweed powder I had to down in a glass of water this morning. No matter how much I stirred, it never dissolved like the container promised.

  “Good, good. The herbs are proven to help boost health and vitality. In fact, you might want to pick some more up before you leave. I’m running low on supplies, and with everything on lockdown I don’t know when I’l get more in.”

  I swal ow a groan at how quickly Mom agrees to take al but one pack of the cursed regimen. Judging by the sparkle in her eyes, Auntie Xin is one excel ent short of becoming a movie vil ain.

  “There is some good news, though,” she continues. “As long as Michel e stays focused, she wil do very wel in school.”

  I wince as Mom smacks me on the arm. “You hear that? Don’t spend so much time on your phone. That’s why your grades aren’t good.”

  “Mom, I have straight As in al my classes,” I whine. “How is that not good?”

  “They are not high As. That’s what you need to get the best scholarships,” she immediately replies. “Unless you’ve changed your mind about going away for col ege.”

  I pretend not to hear the hopeful tone in her voice. Mom’s been trying to convince me to pick a col ege close to home, but Pri has her heart set on UT

  Austin, and I’m not spending those four years without my best friend of ten years.

  I shake my head. “No, I stil want to go to UT.”

  “Michel e, there are plenty of great col eges near here. And Daddy and I can save money if you live at home…”

  They could save money by not wasting it on those herbs she just bought, but I keep that to myself. Thankful y, Auntie Xin’s egg timer goes off, preventing Mom from launching into a ful -on campaign.

  “Time’s up for today,” Auntie Xin says, closing her notebook. “Same time next week?”

  Mom sighs. “Actual y, I’m going to have to cancel next week’s session.

  Business has final y picked up, but that means we’re working more hours at the restaurant.”

  “I understand. It has been tough for us al these past few weeks. I wil go ahead and cancel your session.”

  Auntie Xin flips to the appointments section of her notebook and scratches out Mom’s name. As she goes to close it, she suddenly glances at me.

  “Actual y, since it’s your birthday, I wil let you ask one additional question before we finish today.”

  Mom opens her mouth, but Auntie Xin cuts her off by putting a hand up.

  “I want Michel e to ask the question.”

  Both women turn to me, and I feel Mom’s eyes boring holes in the side of my head. The seconds tick by, but nothing comes to mind.

  “Um…”

  “Hurry up, Michel e. Don’t waste Xin nǎinai’s time. She has other clients waiting,” Mom chides.

  Not helpful.

  I rack my brain. What do people usual y ask about? I’ve already heard about my health and school, and I’m sure as hel not expecting any money.

  Perhaps sensing my distress, or maybe in an attempt to get us out the door, Auntie Xin pipes up.

  “What about love?”

  I stare at her. “Love?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know if you’l meet a nice boy this year?”

  A very specific boy comes to mind almost immediately. One I’ve already met. Too bad he doesn’t know I exist. Auntie Xin quirks one eyebrow at me, and I suddenly feel naked beneath her sharp gaze.

  “Michel e doesn’t have time to meet any boys,” Mom interrupts, oblivious. “She’s focusing on school.”

  Auntie Xin is too busy consulting her notes to hear her. Instead, she mutters to herself as she jots down some calculations. After a few minutes, she raises her head.

  “Wel , unfortunately, the path to love wil be quite bumpy…”

  Mom makes a satisfied sound beside me. Auntie Xin clears her throat.

  “But if your companion is a rabbit, horse, or pig, you wil reach your destination together.”

  “Oh no, that won’t work. A rabbit would be too old, and a pig too young,” Mom immediately jumps in to say.

  “Horse it is, then,” Auntie Xin replies, winking at me. “But be careful.

  One born in the winter is cold. He’l break your heart. Choose one born in spring or summer. Now, time to go.”

  Auntie Xin stands, ushering us back out to the front. Before we leave the shop, Mom reminds her of the bags of horrible herbs she promised to buy.

  Once she receives a plastic bag ful of the instruments of my torture, she waves goodbye and we head to the car. After starting the engine, Mom turns to me.

  “School first, Michel e. Boys later.”

  When I don’t immediately answer, her eyes narrow.

  “Okay, okay,” I mumble. “School first.”

  “Good. Now, what do you want for dinner?”

  —

  “Thank you for cal ing Chan’s Chinese Café. May I take your order?”

  “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” the person on the other end says. “I can’t hear you.”

  I pul the phone closer to my mouth, cursing the way my mask muffles my words.

  “Thank you for cal ing Chan’s Chinese Café. What would you like to order?”

  I scribble down the dishes as the customer rattles them off one by one.

  “So that’s one Kung Pao chicken, one pepper steak, and a combination fried rice. Your total is twenty-five dol ars and six cents. It’l be ready in about fifteen to twenty minutes.”

  It’s my birthday today, and so far I’ve spent it sitting through hours of Zoom lectures and then stuck at the restaurant. It’s nearly time to close, but I’m surprised at how many orders are stil coming in. I guess nothing makes you crave Chinese food like being stuck in your house twenty-four hours a day.

  I’ve barely hung up when the phone rings again. This time, the customer doesn’t know what they want, so I put them on speakerphone while they decide. I unlock my cel and open up Twitter, chuckling at the meme thread Pri just sent me. I’m so distracted that I don’t hear the bel above the front door ding, or the footsteps as someone approaches the counter.

  “Um, hi. I’m here to pick up a to-go order?”

  I start, nearly dropping my phone. My eyes briefly meet a pair of deep brown ones peeking out from above a blue mask before I bow my head in apology.

  “Yes, of course. What’s the name for the order?”

  “David.”

  I tap on the computer screen and scrol until I find his name.

  “Okay, you had one order of egg rol s, hot and sour soup, sweet and sour shrimp, and sesame chicken with steamed rice, right?”

  “Yup.”

  “Your total is thirty-two dol ars and sixty-five cents.”

  He slides two twenty-dol ar bil s across the counter. I shake my head politely.

  “I’m sorry, but we’re only taking credit cards at this time.”

  “Oh, sure. Hold on a sec.”

  As he reaches for his wal et, I hear a discombobulated voice floating through the air.

  “Hel o? Hel o!”

  Oh no. The customer on the phone!

  “I’m so sorry for the wait,” I barely avoid shouting into the handset.

  “What would you like to order?”

  Grabbing a pen, I take their order while gesturing toward the credit machine.

  Credit or debit? I mouth to David.

  “Credit.”

  I finish taking the phone order while he pays, sighing with relief after hanging up. When the machine spits out the store receipt, I tear it off and slide it toward him.

  “Please sign this one for me.”

&nbs
p; As David signs on the dotted line, I take a good look at him for the first time. When my brain registers the absurdly long eyelashes, thick brows, and wavy black hair, my heart stops.

  Oh my god.

  It’s him.

  “You’re not David,” I blurt out.

  His eyebrows shoot up. I groan inwardly before explaining.

  “I recognize you. You’re Evan…Evan Kwon.”

  Evan Kwon, the star of Memorial High’s varsity swim team, nicknamed the Asian Michael Phelps because he tried out for the U.S. Olympic swim team (though he didn’t make the cut). Even if he weren’t six feet tal , his easygoing personality and ridiculously good looks would make him stand out in a crowd. He’s also the boy I’ve been crushing on since I spotted him in the parking lot on the first day of freshman year.

  “Um, yeah. That’s me.”

  When several seconds pass without Evan saying anything else, I realize something.

  He has no idea who I am.

  “We…we go to the same school,” I final y say, eyes pinned on his right earlobe. “We had chemistry together.”

  Something I’m reminded we don’t actual y have as he stares at me blankly.

  “I mean, chemistry class. We had chemistry class. Together.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize…”

  This is just getting worse by the minute. Wishing I could summon the earth to swal ow me whole, I print out a copy of his receipt and hold it out.

  He accepts it without a word, and I grab his order and place it on the counter.

  As he reaches for it, he tips his head to the side, his mahogany eyes narrowing slightly.

  “Wait…I think I do know you.”

  I endure another moment of scrutiny before his eyes light up. My traitorous mind fil s in the teasing grin hidden behind his mask, and suddenly it’s hard to breathe.

  “Michel e, right?”

  I nod, not trusting my voice.

  “You’re the one who made those firebal s for your final project, right?

  With the seeds?”

  “Spores,” I correct. “Lycopodium spores. They’re super flammable when you mix them with air.”

  “Oh, yeah. Wel , it was super cool.”

  It would’ve been nicer if he said I was cool, but at least he remembers my name. He inhales as if to say something else, but pauses when his cel phone goes off. He checks the screen before heaving a sigh.

  “That’s my dad. I should go.”

  “Okay, sure. Have a good night,” I stammer. “Enjoy your dinner.”

  “I’m sure we wil . It smel s amazing.”

  Evan picks up his food and walks toward the door. As he goes to push it open, he glances back at me.

  “I’l see you around.”

  I’m stil staring at the door minutes later when Mom sticks her head out of the kitchen and shoots me an irritated look.

  “Michel e! What are you doing out there?”

  “Huh?”

  “The phone, Michel e. Why aren’t you picking it up? It’s been ringing nonstop.”

  “Oh, sorry!”

  She watches me like a hawk as I answer the cal .

  “Thank you for cal ing Chan’s Chinese Café. What would you like to order?”

  —

  The fol owing Saturday, I’m counting down the minutes until we close after a hel ish day of wrong orders, customers refusing to wear masks, and even a smal kitchen fire. That’s not counting the number of times food delivery app drivers mistook me for a middle schooler and asked to speak to my parents.

  The only thing that kept me from quitting was watching the hilarious TikToks Pri kept sending me. She keeps trying to convince me to do one with her, but just the thought of someone at school seeing it gives me hives.

  Even the sight of Evan walking through the door half an hour before nine does little to brighten my mood. Dressed simply in a sky blue T-shirt emblazoned with our school mascot and a pair of shorts, the lower half of his face covered by another blue mask, he stil manages to look like he stepped off a magazine shoot. He fol ows the makeshift path we created by stacking chairs atop tables and comes to a stop in front of me. I tilt my head up to meet his gaze.

  “Hi,” I say, smiling shyly. “Picking up another order?”

  He grins. Or at least, his eyes do, forming twin crescents as he nods.

  “And it’s under Evan this time.”

  I quickly pul up the information on the computer, grateful my hand is steady despite the mad drumming of my heart.

  “Just egg drop soup and broccoli beef with brown rice?”

  “Yup. My parents are at the hospital, so it’s just me tonight.”

  I turn to him, eyes wide. “Oh my god! Are they okay? How are you doing?”

  He doesn’t respond for a ful second. Then he bursts out laughing, waving his hands in front of him.

  “No, no, I’m sorry! I should’ve explained better. My parents work at the hospital. They’re both doctors at St. Mark’s.”

  “Oh! That’s good!” I swal ow a groan. “I mean, it’s not good that they’re working at the hospital. Good that they’re not sick.”

  “I know what you meant,” he assures me. “And I’m glad they’re not sick too. But they started working a lot more this week, so I haven’t seen them in a few days.”

  The light dims slightly in his eyes, and I suddenly feel very lucky to have Mom and Dad in the next room.

  “You must miss them.”

  He shrugs. “I mean, I’m kind of used to it since they’ve always been busy.

  But this is different, you know?”

  There’s a mixture of worry and sadness in his voice. I resist the urge to reach across the counter, and bal my fists at my sides instead.

  “What kind of doctors are they?”

  “My dad is an ER doctor, and my mom’s a pediatrician.”

  “Have they seen a lot of COVID cases?”

  “Yeah, and it’s real y bad. They say the public has no idea how serious things are. Mom came home crying yesterday after one of the kids she took care of didn’t make it.”

  My heart clenches. “Oh, wow. That sounds so tough.”

  Silence fal s between us. Unsure of what to say next, I gesture toward the kitchen.

  “I’l go check and see if your food’s ready.”

  “I’l be here.”

  I push my way through the swinging metal door and step into the kitchen.

  Dad’s standing at the stove, one hand gripped tightly around the handle of the wok he’s working while ladling a smal amount of chicken stock over the meat and vegetables cooking within. Nearby, Mom’s busy transferring the orders that are ready into the black plastic to-go containers she’s placed in a line to speed things up. I pick my way past the center island to peek over her shoulder.

  “What are you looking for, Michel e?” Mom asks without turning.

  “Um, broccoli beef with brown rice.”

  She tosses her head toward Dad. “I think that’s what he’s got in the wok right now.”

  “Do you want me to get the soup ready for the order?” I volunteer.

  I take her grunt as an affirmative and move to the large black pots we keep the soups warm in. I careful y scoop in a portion of the egg drop soup and seal the plastic lid, bringing it to the window that separates the kitchen from the dining room. Evan waves at me from the other side, and a giggle escapes my lips.

  “What are you laughing about?”

  I turn to Mom. “Nothing. I just…thought of a joke.”

  She frowns, but I rush out of the kitchen before she has a chance to ask any questions. I circle around and grab the egg drop soup off the sil , placing it on the counter before adding napkins and a condiment. As I reach for the utensils, I pause.

  “Um…do you want me to include a fork and knife too?”

  His brows furrow, and somehow, I know he’s pouting under that mask.

  Of course, it could also be the countless number of hours I spent pretending I wasn’t s
tudying every inch of his face during class.

  “I know I was a disaster during chem lab, Michel e, but I promise I know how to use chopsticks responsibly.”

  He sounds so offended that I immediately regret my words.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to imply…”

  I freeze as he burst into laughter. “I’m just playing with you. Chopsticks are fine.”

  At a loss for words, I finish adding the rest of the items to his bag just as the bel we use to signal the food is ready goes off behind me. I turn and find Mom eyeing Evan, her expression a cross between curiosity and suspicion. As I reach up to grab the broccoli beef off the counter, she puts a hand over mine.

  “Who’s that?”

  I force myself to hold her gaze. “Just a classmate from school.”

  “Why is he here?”

  I point at the container between us with my chin.

  “He’s picking up a to-go order. That’s his food.”

  She immediately relaxes. “Oh. Wel , make sure you pack it wel .”

  Mom leans to the side and smiles politely at him. “Thank you for ordering. We appreciate your business.”

  “You’re welcome, ma’am,” he answers. “My parents love the food here.

  We grab dinner from here at least once a week. They say it’s the best in the city.”

  The smile on Mom’s face relaxes into a genuine one. “Thank you so much! We take great pride in using only the freshest ingredients.”

  “It definitely shows. Everything I’ve tried here has been delicious.”

  “Wel , you’l have to thank them for me. Better yet, you should al dine in once this is over. I’d love to meet them.”

  “I wil definitely tel them to do that, ma’am.”

  Mom makes a disgruntled sound. “What’s this ma’am business? Cal me Mrs. Chan.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Chan.”

  She turns to me. “Why haven’t you packed that up? I don’t want his food to get cold.”

  She disappears into the kitchen as I tuck the sealed container beneath his soup. When I glance up, she hands me a smal white foam box.

  “Tel him these egg rol s are on the house.”

  I press my lips together to keep from laughing. Only Evan can charm someone as wary as Mom in less than a minute.