The Wangs vs. the World(97)
“Oh my god, why are you singing church songs to me?”
“It’s gospel, Gracie! Plus, Bruce Springsteen covered it.”
“Even worse!”
Saina flopped over and burrowed under the covers, resting her head next to her sister’s. “These really are nice sheets. I guess they were worth it.”
“Wait, are you worried about money, too?”
Should she tell her? Better not to. “Not yet. But no matter what, a few hundred dollars for some cotton that you put on your bed is ridiculous.”
“I guess.” Grace snuggled in. “Saina?”
“Hmm?”
“I like your new boyfriend.”
She laughed. “Thank you. He was good with Dad, right?”
“And Babs. So . . . do you like him?”
“You mean do I like him like him?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Yeah, of course.”
“So . . . does that mean you guys have had sex?”
“Grace! Why are you asking me that?”
“Just tell me! Have you? Actually, you don’t have to say it. I know you have. Did he stay over last night?”
“No. You saw him leave. Remember, we said good night to him together?”
“Yeah, but I thought you might have snuck him in after we all went to sleep.”
“Like summer camp? No, I’m too grown-up to do that now.”
“You’re not a grown-up, you’re a puppy!”
“Oh god, I forgot. You’re right.”
Saina yipped and whined obligingly, taking the sleeve of Grace’s T-shirt between her teeth and growling.
“No! No! Stop! You’re not a puppy! You’re a pterodactyl!”
“Don’t those not exist anymore?”
“Um, yeah. They’re extinct.”
“No, I mean wasn’t there some sort of grand dinosaur renaming? I don’t think the brontosaurus is an official dinosaur anymore either.”
“That’s impossible, because you’re a pterodactyl and you’re right here next to me.”
“Oh yeah! Phew! It’s so sad when species are permanently wiped out!” Fanning out her arms and smacking Grace in the face, Saina let out her best prehistoric shriek.
“Ow! No wonder we killed all of you!”
“You mean you’re a meteor?”
“Bam! Hellfire! Damnation! Destruction! Earth is over!”
“Do you want some pancakes?”
“Yes! Acts of God love pancakes.” Abruptly, Grace’s tone shifted. “Hey, Saina? Are you sad that Mom never met any of your boyfriends?”
“Well, I’m definitely not sad that she never met Grayson.”
“Yeah, but maybe if she had, she would have known that he wasn’t a good guy and you never would have ended up getting engaged to him.”
Saina sat up and noticed the old photograph tacked onto the wall eye level with the pillow. It was their mother on the tarmac in Las Vegas, stepping into the helicopter that would ferry her to her death. Strange that their father would have had this roll of film developed, a set of reminders of the last trip he took with his wife and of his own outrageous fortune. “Why do you think that?”
“Well, she was our mom! She would have known you so well, better, even, than any of us know you, and she would have met him and known instinctively that he wasn’t right. And she would have given you good advice.”
“Mom wasn’t really the advice-giving type.”
Grace flipped over. “I hate it when you say stuff like that! I don’t believe you.”
Frustrated, Saina said, “Grace, you didn’t ever know her.” As soon as she did, she hated herself for it. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I know you wish so much that you did know her. I’m sorry you never got to, Gracie.” She nuzzled in close to her sister, who didn’t respond, didn’t move. “I’m going to go make you pancakes, okay?”
Saina started the pancake batter, cracking eggs into a big glass bowl already half full of sweet, grassy-smelling milk. It was satisfying to watch each one splash down and then surface, a saturated yellow in a field of creamy white. After half a dozen, plus a dash of vanilla, she beat them until the whole mixture was the color of fresh butter then stirred in careful handfuls of the dry ingredients.
As Saina mixed, Grace came downstairs and stood, watching her. Finally, she said, “Remember that time when we made Mickey Mouse pancakes?”
“You still remember that? How old were you? Like, seven?”
“It was the summer before you left for college. And then you started a fire, and we had to put it out with baking soda.”
“And then Ama came in and yelled at us and you cried and said that you didn’t want to eat baking soda.”
“I didn’t cry!”
“You did. It’s okay, you were only seven.”
“I was just a baby.”
“Want me to make you Mickey Mouse pancakes now, baby?”
Grace picked up a tiny, deeply red strawberry and ate it. Paused. And then said, “Will you?”
Saina poured the batter in a squeeze bottle and then held her hand over the cast-iron pan, waiting for the heat to rise before spearing a pat of butter on a knife and running it over the dark surface of the pan. She let it sizzle for a moment then drizzled in the outline of a face. It was all wrong for Mickey, though. Too round at the bottom and not long enough. But . . . Saina added a lopsided pair of glasses on the face, some tufts of hair and two ears, giving it time to brown before flipping it over, then sliding it onto a plate and putting in front of Grace, who was slicing the strawberries now.