The Wangs vs. the World(90)
The words had just rolled out, unstoppable, and he meant every one of them. Now the clock over the DJ booth was flashing down at him. It was showing negative numbers, giant and red, counting him further and further into debt to these people who had given him their attention, and so he smiled and raised the microphone—because what else was there left to say?—and the emcee came back onstage, clapping, clapping, clapping for him.
三十七
High Point, NC
THE COPS DROVE weird cars here. Or maybe they weren’t weird; maybe they were exactly what North Carolina cops should be driving. Cars for muscleheads, silver gray, with a black racing stripe, the kind of thing that would zoom in front of you as soon as the light turned green, a douche like Johnny Delahari at the wheel. The cops themselves, though, seemed pretty much just like cops in L.A. and Santa Barbara. Tough but not tough, standing around with their walkie-talkies going off and not really doing anything. God, all they’d done since getting there was block off a lane of traffic with their dick cars and set up a ring of those flame sticks. Grace held her breath for a second. Smoke, sharp and sulfurous, crept up her nostrils, itching the inside of her brain and casting shadows on the wreck of their poor car.
Their poor, poor car.
Its nose was bashed in, its windshield was shattered, and all four of its tires had exploded, making it look like it was sinking into the asphalt. It had rotated around completely so that its nose was pointing at oncoming traffic. She could see her collapsed suitcase through the half-open back door.
Grace felt dazed. Maybe they’d all crawled out of that car seconds ago, maybe it had been hours. Maybe they’d been waiting on the side of the highway forever, and they’d never do anything else with their lives. When everything had finally stopped spinning, Grace pulled on the door handle and it swung open, too easy. Surprised, escape the only thing in her mind, she’d fallen right out on the side of the highway, a pile of battered limbs.
The world ended, and then it didn’t.
Now her elbow oozed blood, and she had a scratch on her face that she was pretty sure she’d made with her own torn fingernail. Her father held an ice pack against his blackening eye, and his shirt was ripped along the back. Barbra had it the worst—the paramedics had cleaned and bandaged a long, ugly cut along her shoulder and a constellation of little scratches across her face and chest.
“Tell me the truth,” her father had demanded. “Are we okay? Nothing so bad? Everyone okay?” And they’d finally nodded even though the paramedics had wanted to bring all three of them straight to the hospital. But Grace wouldn’t leave without the picture of her mother, her dad wouldn’t leave without trying to salvage their luggage, the police wouldn’t let them back into the car until they were sure it wasn’t going to blow up, and Barbra wouldn’t go alone, so they were all just still there in the middle of a middle-of-nowhere highway.
On either side of Grace, several feet apart, Barbra and her father leaned against the highway divider, not talking. Grace stretched her bare legs out in front of her. They were still shaking and would probably bruise and look trashy, but she didn’t even care. She pulled them in again, laying her head on her knees.
After the paramedics had checked them out and treated all of their scrapes and wounds, they had gathered in a huddle away from the police, laughing over something. After a while, one of the paramedics walked towards her. As he got closer, he shook out the rough woolen blanket that he was carrying in his hands and draped it over her shoulders without even asking if she wanted it. He massaged across her neck with cold, sneaky fingers as he arranged the blanket, murmuring, “It’s okay, you’re safe, you’re going to be okay,” over and over, quiet and low. Grace wondered vaguely if her father was watching and what he might think.
Even though she knew it was gross, the attention had felt almost reassuring until he’d pulled back, and said, “So, where are you from?”
“L.A.,” she’d answered, knowing what was coming next.
“No, but where are you from from?”
She’d stared, her mind still half caught in the accident itself, not quite believing that it was over.
“Like, are you Japanese or Chinese? Definitely not Vietnamese.”
Maybe, thought Grace, her mind underwater, they needed to know for some reason. Maybe there was a census for accidents. A study on who was the worst driver.
“Konichiwa? Ni hao ma?”
She shook her head.
He crouched down, thrusting his head into her space. “You’re just a little doll, aren’t you? You know, my brother’s married to a Korean lady. They have flatter faces, Koreans. I don’t think you guys are Korean. Maybe your mom though,” he said, head tilting towards Barbra.
“She’s not my mom.”
He smirked. “See, I knew you guys weren’t Korean!” Her dad wasn’t even paying attention. Maybe he didn’t realize what was happening. He was a guy, but that didn’t mean that he knew the way guys could be. “I can always tell. It’s a talent.”
Sometimes in these situations the only way to get out was to play dumber than dumb. She shook her head and shrugged. “We’re from L.A.” And then she dropped her head onto her knees, grateful for the coziness of the blanket despite its source. Five seconds. Ten. He stayed crouching, close enough that she could hear his breath wheeze in through his nostrils. What was wrong with this guy? Was he so desperate to get it on with an Asian girl that he didn’t care that she’d just gotten in the most insane car accident that she’d ever seen? Actually, why wasn’t he celebrating the fact that their survival was basically a miracle?