Outrun the Moon(17)

I grit my teeth. “I doubt it, given it is a school for girls.”

Her ma speaks without moving her thin lips. “Not every tree is meant to bear fruit. Sometimes a girl has too much yeung to be married.” That is her way of saying I am too male, as opposed to the female energy, yam. The woman considers herself an expert on marriage, having secured the silk merchant’s son for Ling-Ling. Unfortunately he died last winter before they were married; though he was forty-two.

The cake grows soggy in my palm.

Ma puts her steadying hands on my shoulders, which have migrated to my ears. “I have found that the sweetest fruit comes from the trees that have been given time to grow.” She lances Ling-Ling’s ma with her all-seeing eyes.

“Come, Ling-Ling.” The woman ushers her daughter away.

Ma takes the cake from me, knowing I will not eat it.

In the back of the crowd, a figure leans against a wall posted with Chinese scrolls, his faded newsboy cap pulled low. Tom could be just another onlooker with his dark Chinese suit and slipper shoes. But unlike the others, his presence fills me with something warm and healing, like the first sip of soup to a starving man.

Jack presses something into my hand: our Indian head penny. “Take this for your adventures.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Don’t spend it on candy.”

A hot lump forms in my throat. “I won’t.”

A roofless blond-colored car pulls up, engine rattling clackety-clack and gas lamps turning the street white. A black man jumps out of the driver’s seat and pulls his goggles to his forehead. “Evening. You must be Mercy. I’m William.”

“Good evening, sir.”

People inch closer to the vehicle, ogling its shiny chrome and velvet seats.

Jack attaches himself to me. “Why do you have to go?”

My chest tightens, and I suddenly wonder if the cost of attending St. Clare’s is too dear after all. Monsieur Du Lac made it clear that Jack and my parents could never visit since it would expose the deception. I will be missing out on a whole springtime of Jack’s life, and nothing can replace that.

But one day, when I can buy him more than the bones of the ox, it will be worth it.

I go because Ba is training you for the laundry, and you haven’t even lost your first tooth. Because Ba works sixteen grueling hours a day, and he needs a rest. And because, baby brother, our ma believes in me.

I bend down so our faces are even. “One day, we shall sail to the South China Sea. Maybe we’ll even get a peek at Ba’s Precipitous Pillars.” Ba was always talking about those sandstone towers he saw as a boy.

“Who will do the laundry then?”

I look him straight in the eye. “Not us. Now, if you start to miss me, place one grain of rice into my bowl. If I’m not back by the time there are enough grains to fill a soup spoon, I’ll let you throw this on our next adventure.” I show him our coin.

Jack rubs his eyes with his fists. The bruises on his knuckles are now the shade of summer squash.

“Oh, Jack.” I squeeze him. “A last game of Two Frogs on a Stick?”

It kills me when he shakes his head. He has never refused to play our game of who can make the other laugh first.

“You ready, Miss? I have another pickup to make.” The driver’s low voice is professional but not unfriendly as he opens the door. He already placed my travel satchel—containing my uniforms, underwear, toiletries, padded Chinese jacket with matching trousers, and of course, Mrs. Lowry’s book—into the trunk.

“Come here, dai-dai.” Ma pulls Jack to her, strapping her arms across his thin chest.

Ma stiffens as I hug them both. We don’t often embrace. “You’re a good girl,” she says thickly, one of the few English phrases she uses with me.

“Say good-bye to Ba for me,” I tell her in Cantonese to let her know I will not forget my roots.

“Remember not to be loud, and to get along with the others,” she adds sharply.

Jack watches me get into the car. I give him a smile that he doesn’t return. Then William toots the horn, and we’re off.

“There’s a robe on the floor for your feet if you get cold.”

“Thank you, sir.” I spread the blanket over my toes.

Though this is my first ride in an automobile, I cannot enjoy it. My heart aches as we leave Chinatown. The image of Jack scrubbing his eyes rips a hole in my soul the size of California.

Twisting in my seat, I search for a last glimpse of Tom.

The sight of Ling-Ling talking to him hits me like a fist to the face. Her gaze is cast demurely, her body angled to show off her slender figure. Ling-Ling’s ma, standing behind her, lifts her cunning eyes to me, and a smugness creeps over her hard features.

I am tempted to tell William to turn around and, while he’s at it, aim for the crone with the lacquered bun. As soon as Ling-Ling’s ma digs her claws into anything, it is hard to escape.

As the expression goes, when there is no tiger in the mountain, the monkey declares himself king. Well, let them try to snare Tom. Didn’t he once tell me Ling-Ling’s breath stank of onions? Then again, that was when we were ten and still racing pill bugs.

I am so consumed by my thoughts that I don’t notice we’ve stopped in front of the St. Francis hotel until the door swings open.

Elodie Du Lac steps out in a cream-colored coat that perfectly matches her silk gown. She stops short when she sees me in her automobile. Our gazes meet, but I am the first to look away, focusing instead on the wood of the steering wheel.