American Panda(18)

I faux gasped, and we shared one of those conspiratorial looks that happens when you find that rare person who shares your sense of humor.

I punched him on the arm lightly (because I’m awkward) and left promptly (because I’m a coward). It was even harder for me to do than return to my chlamydia-infested room.





Voicemail from my aunt Yilong

Mei Mei! Nǎinai and I are coming to visit, and I have a surprise for you! Get us some egg tarts from Chinatown, okay? Twenty or twenty-five of them. For Nǎinai. Not me, of course. I’m on a diet. Tee-hee-hee-hee . . .





CHAPTER 8


ARCHDUKE FERDINAND


EVEN THOUGH EXAMS WERE COMING up and my parents believed schoolwork was of utmost importance, Nǎinai (my father’s mother) was the exception. So when she and my aunt Yilong descended upon Massachusetts for a surprise visit, I was expected to drop everything—which is how I found myself at home dragged down by my textbooks and all my secrets. My family couldn’t know about the Porter Room, or how I’d fallen asleep in several biology lectures, or that I had freaked out over pee and flaky cheese.

And . . . I hadn’t backed out of teaching dance. In fact, I had already taught two Sundays’ worth of classes, and I’d never felt so alive, so in the exact place I was supposed to be, wondering why I had missed out for so long. Which only made it worse.

I needed the dance classes more than I needed their approval and what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them, right? I could do this—keep it from them, keep everyone happy. There were good secrets and bad, and this was a good one, right? Those existed?

“Mei Mei!” Aunt Yilong called in her high-pitched voice, squeaking on the last syllable and clutching me to her chest. I coughed out her sickly sweet perfume and rubbed my tongue against my palate to get rid of the acrid taste.

She pushed me back for a closer inspection. “Look at you! I can’t believe you’re in college already! And at seventeen—bùdéliao!” I smiled, my lips lifting with my spirits.

But then she kept going. “Hmm, maybe some more exercise though? Getting chubby.”

I clenched my teeth, unable to thank her with the obedient, Yes, Aunt Yilong, xièxie.

Instead, I turned my attention to Nǎinai, who was seated at the dining room table with her trademark walker beside her.

“Mei Mei, eat your vitamins,” she said.

I bowed slightly. “Yes, Nǎinai, xièxie.”

Aunt Yilong pushed a grocery bag toward me, excitement raising her voice even higher. “I brought you a present.”

“Xièxie, you shouldn’t have.” I reached into the bag and pulled out a dark red sweaterdress large enough for Yilong and plain as could be—rounded neckline, long sleeves, and a single seam at the waist. At my aunt’s urging, I pulled it on over my clothes. The hem pooled on the floor and the chest area was at my waist.

To end this, I said, “Bù hao yìsi.” The phrase is used as a formal version of “thank you,” but literally translated means “I’m embarrassed.” I chuckled at my own joke, then felt completely alone.

Aunt Yilong stowed the now-empty plastic bag so it could make the trip back to her hoarder’s den. When we visit her home, we have to eat meals in fifteen-minute shifts because of the lack of space on the dining room table. I used to wonder how Nǎinai put up with the mess, but then I saw her Taiwan apartment, filled to the brim with trash and every insect imaginable.

“Let’s go to Chow Chow. I’m so hungry I could die.” Yilong gestured to me. “And what a perfect opportunity to wear your new dress.”

I began protesting, but my father shut me down with a glare. Dèng yi yan, more powerful than words.

When we reached the restaurant, I decided to own it, just like in junior high when my wardrobe consisted of flowered leggings and neon hoodies. I held the dress up with two dainty fingers, a princess waltzing into a ball, not a stinky-tofu-scented hole-in-the-wall. Just like seventh grade, it didn’t work. A few patrons pointed and giggled. Others stared. One older woman openly cackled, taking full advantage of her revered elderly status. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father duck his head in embarrassment. Satisfaction coursed through me even though I was the pìgu of the joke. That’ll teach him to think before his next dèng yi yan.

Before we had even sat down, Mrs. Pan rushed over, flashing Hanwei’s picture in my mother’s face. Except this time, she was armed with an entire album. “See how precious he is? Look at him here, age six, playing the guitar for an entire audience. They all cheered so loud.”

I remembered that sad performance my mother had dragged me to. The ten of us in the audience had clapped only because we could tell how much pressure poor Hanwei was under.

I thought my red dress might have been enough to turn Mrs. Pan away, but then I remembered she wanted me for her son because of MIT and my money nose, not my fashion sense.

She flipped through the pictures frantically, as if she knew her time was limited. “And look, so handsome at his college graduation. He finished with honors.”

My mother pushed the album away. “I’m sorry, but Mei is spoken for. Mrs. Huang and I have been talking.”

Mrs. Pan huffed. “The Huang boy? I heard he joined a fraternity and is on the fast track to becoming a drunk deadbeat. Is that what you want for Mei? Hanwei has never had a sip of alcohol in his life.”