American Panda(23)

My head whipped toward her. She was perfectly fine, standing there in one piece, holding a candy wrapper. “Jesus, Mǎmá. So I ate a candy bar. Calm down. That scream should be reserved for ‘I’m dying.’?”

“How could you? This is Ying-Na level stuff!” My mother stomped up to me and shoved the wrapper in my face. “Mei, you should know this already: Sex is a crime before marriage. Ying-Na did the sex, and it ruined her life.”

When my eyes focused enough to make out that my mother was actually holding a condom wrapper, it was my turn to scream. I backed away from the giant bacterium. “That’s not mine!”

She took another step. The wrapper was inches from my nose now. “That’s what you would say if it was yours!”

“Maybe so, but it’s definitely not mine—it’s my roommate’s!” I fought the urge to hyperventilate—could chlamydia be breathed in through my mouth?

To my relief, she threw the wrapper to Nicolette’s side of the room. She looked from the lacy underwear strewn across the chair to the bottles of makeup on the desk. “We’ll need to see if we can get you a new roommate,” she grumbled. “Don’t confront her though. Amberly Ahn confronted her roommate. Then her homework was changed in her sleep! Can you believe that? She had a semester full of Bs—the horror!”

I suspected Amberly merely used her roommate as an excuse for her grades (and I tucked that idea away for future use), but I wasn’t going to get in the way of my mother working her magic to get me a new, possibly chlamydia-free roommate.

My mother went back to cleaning, but before she could touch any of my stuff, I snatched the hand sanitizer off my desk and squeezed a gigantic glob across her knuckles. She narrowed her eyes at me, and I knew she was saying, I hope this doesn’t interfere with your future. My struggle with germs was an unspoken tension, and I often had to hide it from my parents to avoid fighting. I was used to sneaking sanitizer on beneath the table, in my pocket, behind my back.

To change the subject and avoid the land mine, I said, “I saw on Facebook that Jade moved in with her boyfriend.”

My strategy worked. “Aiyah! Really? How could her mother let that happen?”

I ignored the implication that I would never be able to move in with a future boyfriend, which I already knew anyway.

“Bú xiàng huà! I bet you they’re having the sex,” my mother said, nodding her head. “No one can live together and not have the sex.” She returned to cleaning up. “Good for you, Mei, avoiding these temptations. I taught you well.” I patted myself on the back for earning free brownie points. My abstinence wasn’t exactly by choice, but I might as well collect the perk associated with it. “Like I said before, this is why it’s important to have the right boy. One who won’t pressure you. Eugene.”

I cringed into my p-set.

“Eugene will never take you if you’re dirty, sullied by another person,” she continued, oblivious to my nausea. “Don’t let your roommate infect you with her bad behavior. Peer pressure happens when the other person is jealous. So if she tries to make you feel bad, remember it’s because you’re better than her.”

She stopped folding clothes, and my radar pinged. I wasn’t sure what serious (and possibly embarrassing) conversation was coming, but I knew enough to get out of there. Unfortunately, I wasn’t fast enough.

“Mei, we need to talk about what happened last night at Chow Chow.”

I held my breath. I actually wanted to talk about Xing. More than anything. Not because I was confused (which I was), but because I hadn’t heard my mother talk about him in years. And after yesterday, if we didn’t even mention him now, it would mean he was really gone. The bar was so low—even if she brought Xing and Esther up just to curse at them, I’d have some hope. Because then they would at least exist, be important enough to still get under her skin.

She sighed. “It was nice of you to stand up for me, but you need to learn that’s not how it goes.”

I exhaled quickly like I had been punched. I wasn’t surprised that she hadn’t brought him up, but I wasn’t okay with it either.

She didn’t even notice my reaction and continued. “In the future, your mother-in-law, Mrs. Huang, will be number one in the family. And right now, in our family, Nǎinai is number one. You can’t disrespect her or talk back. I’m scared you’re too headstrong, and it will be a problem when you get married.”

Only if I marry a Chinese person with traditional, unrelenting parents . . . like you and Babá.

“But that’s why I think Eugene will be a good match,” my mother went on. “I think his parents will be better. I’m trying to set you up with a good boy with a good upbringing from a family I know. I’m trying to save you the heartache I suffer. . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she left her sentence vague, no details.

“Mǎmá, if you don’t want me to go through what you went through, wouldn’t it be better if I married someone not Chinese? Or at least someone with parents less overbearing than Mrs. Huang?”

My mother paused for a moment, but only one. “Marrying another Chinese person who understands your upbringing and values—that’s what creates a solid foundation for a strong marriage. Remember Kimberly Chen? Her mother didn’t object when Kimberly married that Spanish boy. Now they’re divorced.”