American Panda(2)

I wondered how he had pulled that off. How did he get his way when his mother dreamed of Dr. Hanwei Pan saving the world, a surgeon despite his nubbin bladder?

“I bet you Hanwei’s nose is tiny—a peanut,” my mother continued. “He’s now begging for money in exchange for guitar lessons.”

“You mean he’s teaching music? Like many other normal people?”

“Not normal. Last resort. Soon he’ll be just like Ying-Na.”

Poor Ying-Na. The Taiwanese-American cautionary tale of a girl who chose happiness over honoring her parents and was cut off financially and emotionally. Now she was the pìgu of every rumor, all created to support other parents’ warnings. Ying-Na decided to major in English and now lives in a refrigerator box. Ying-Na had an American boyfriend and he stole all her money. Ying-Na had one sip of alcohol and flunked out of college. And for my mother, Ying-Na veered off her parents’ career track and now takes off her clothes for quarters.

“I’m so glad you will be a doc-tor,” my mother continued, her pride overemphasizing each syllable. “Doctors always have a job. Never have to worry. So stable, so secure. And so respectable. That’s why we’re so happy to pay your tuition.”

I ducked my head in fear of her seeing the truth in my eyes—that bacteria-ridden patients made my skin crawl and biology put me to . . . zzzz. But unless I wanted to be Ying-Na 2.0, I didn’t have a choice.

The waiter set down three Wet-Naps, which my mother immediately swept into her purse. Then our drinks: soy milk for my mother and a plum smoothie for my father, who was still out looking for elusive street parking.

As the waiter handed me my papaya smoothie, my mother poked my breast. “These are still so small, like mosquito bites.”

Due to rumors of a papaya-eating aboriginal village in China that churned out big-breasted women, my mother had been forcing mushy pink fruit down my throat since I hit puberty. Spoiler: It didn’t work.

My B-cup breasts were too small for my “no-ugly-women” mother and the rest of my size-eight frame too big. She wished I was a classic Chinese beauty who would “fall over when the wind blows,” but I had missed the “skinny” gene on her side and instead inherited from my dad, whose college nickname was Lu Pàng, or Fat Lu. I preferred not to look like a chopstick with two cantaloupes for breasts, but I was in the minority.

As if on cue, my mother’s inspection traveled to my waist, which she pinched. “You’re getting fat. Have you been exercising?”

It had to be a trap. If I admitted how much time I’d spent sneaking away to dance classes, she’d scold me for (1) not studying enough and (2) “throwing away” good money. I pressed my lips into a hard line, choosing silence. It’s because she loves you, I reminded myself. Right before they disowned my brother, they had stopped criticizing his negative attitude, his laziness, his weight. . . . It had been the last step before cutting him out. Reprimands meant they still cared . . . right?

“You need to be careful, Mei. No man wants a panda—lazy, round, and silly. All yuán gun gun.”

“Pandas are cute.”

“Do you think the concubines won the emperor’s attention by being cute? Be a cat. They know how to sājiāo and get the man’s attention. They’re nián rén without being clingy—the perfect rice. Not too sticky, not too independent.”

“Apt example, Mamá. People declaw cats, essentially cutting off their ‘fingers,’ and our ancestors used to break women’s feet to bind them into three-inch monstrosities. Except that was to keep them from running away.” I just couldn’t help it.

She slapped the air with her open palm. “So disrespectful! How will you ever get a man?” She cleared her throat. “Actually, I have this friend—remember Mrs. Huang? Her son is interested in meeting you. Eugene is Taiwanese, a senior at Harvard, and will be a good husband. He’s applying to medical schools now.” She began pawing at my blunt bangs as if she were Edward Scissorhands. “We’ll have to clean up this mess before you meet him. Really, Mei, why you insist on having these? Just to give me a heart attack?”

I had gotten bangs to hide the off-center mole on my forehead. The one that was so close to smack-dab-in-the-middle that my mother’s Buddhist friends were always commenting on how I had just missed out on it being in the center. Too bad, so unlucky, because that would have made it less embarrassing. After the hundredth friend had touched the mole without permission, leaving it sticky and violated, I had taken matters (and the scissors) into my own hands. And I haven’t looked back, not even when my mother said, Why you want the hairstyle of Japanese schoolchildren?

I batted her hand away, then scooted my chair farther for good measure. “Yeah, Mamá, I can’t wait to meet this guy who needs his mom to get a girlfriend.”

“Wonderful! We’ll set up a date for next week!” Sarcasm didn’t translate.

“I was joking, Mamá.”

She accompanied her signature tongue cluck with her signature phrase. “I’m your muqīn,” she declared, using the formal, distant version of “mother” that implied authority.

This was becoming a pain in my pìgu. I tried to shut it down. “According to you, no boys were allowed in high school. And I’m only seventeen; I should be a high school senior.”