American Panda(26)

And then it hit me.

Why hadn’t I thought more about Xing’s situation when it happened? In the years to follow? I only knew the curses my parents threw. Only their side. I hadn’t questioned their actions because there wasn’t a choice to be made—I simply had to choose them since I lived under their roof.

I never thought my parents could be wrong about anything, but the seed of doubt that had been planted this weekend was sprouting.

I opened my mouth to ask Jenn more, but because we were pulling up to our destination, she said, “My last name’s Green,” implying I should look her up. “Don’t hesitate to reach out if you ever need anything!”

“I’m happy you found Sarah. I wish you two the best, and I really hope your parents come around.”

Jenn pulled me into a hug, and, uncharacteristically, I embraced her back.

Helen was waiting for me, perky as ever in a green and white Dartmouth tee that had been cropped into a cute tank with scissors (and not very sharp ones from the look of it). She waved frantically, and I wondered how she managed to look so cute doing something that would’ve made me look desperate.

She wrapped me in a hug the second my foot touched asphalt. Two hugs in two minutes—that was a record for me.

“Lunch first?” she asked in her singsongy voice, and after nodding, I let her loop her arm through mine. Helen’s touchy-feely-ness had been so off-putting to me at first—ten-year-old me had been so startled the first time she hugged me that I had accidentally smeared ice cream in her hair—but over time I had grown to expect it (and maybe even crave it, though I would never tell her that). She had been the most normal part of my high school experience, and there was something so calming about being back with her.

Helen introduced me to 90 percent of the people who walked by, each with a name and a description—Charlie, the best Christopher Walken impersonator you’ll ever meet; Jake, the best beer pong player. . . . Basically, everyone was the best at something useless. I wondered what I would be, but she just introduced me as Mei, my friend from high school.

She seemed to be the queen of campus. Another Queen Helen. The difference between us couldn’t be more pronounced, like molten lava cake and red bean dessert soup. And it only became starker as we made our way, arm in arm, into the Dirt Cowboy Café, which I originally read (with a zap of panic) as Dirty Cowboy Café. But there weren’t any men in cowboy hats and assless chaps dancing on the bar. Just rows of coffee beans on one side and a display of pastries on the other.

I was initially frazzled by the plethora of options written on the wall, but then I remembered how far I had come to get here today. With confidence, I ordered a turkey sandwich (safe) and a parsley-carrot juice (yee-haw!).

I sat beside Helen, whose head was swiveling to and fro, clearly searching for someone.

“I just heard that the guy I’m crushing on checked in here,” she whispered so softly I barely heard. It took me a moment to fill in the blanks, half the words having disappeared into her pale-pink lipstick.

“Checked in on Facebook?”

“Shhhh!” She waved her hands at me, drawing way more attention than my four words had. “Duh, on Facebook.” With one more scan of the perimeter, she settled into her chair. “He’s not here yet. So, how’s MIT?”

“Good,” I said instinctively, in the same way you answer I’m fine regardless of how you’re actually feeling. “I mean, I like it,” I said sincerely. “I fit in there better than I did in high school.” I ignored Helen’s snort, which she didn’t try to cover up. “But there’s still a bit of a disconnect.”

“Do you think it’s because you’re younger?”

I shrugged. “I mean, no one knows I’m younger. It hasn’t come up.”

“Yeah, but you are. You’re supposed to still be in high school, worrying about parents and grades and the mean popular kids.”

“Um, I still do that.”

She laughed. “You should’ve come here with me, Mei. I could’ve helped you shed your stiff exterior.” Then she said what I was thinking but wouldn’t have voiced aloud. “But I guess that wasn’t really an option with your parents.”

I stiffened.

Helen looked at me warily. “Ease up, soldier. I know better than to say anything negative at this point.”

I laughed, short and forced. Ms. I-Hold-Nothing-Back used to rail on my parents, calling them dictators, tiger parents, qíguài. And each time, despite the fact that I had been complaining just moments before, I’d defend them, inciting a fight. Eventually, we learned to steer clear, but it didn’t make me any less tense when we circled it.

“You know, I didn’t even have to apply to MIT. Remember?”

Of course I remembered. I felt like she was just rubbing it in at this point.

Before even visiting, Helen had told her parents she didn’t want to go to MIT because she didn’t want that kind of college experience, whatever that meant. You know what her parents said? Sure, Wei Wei, whatever you want. Her parents called her Wei Wei. Taught her Mandarin. Yet she didn’t have to go to Chinese school because she didn’t like it, and she didn’t have to strive for MIT/Harvard and accept Dartmouth as a shameful consolation. Her parents had thrown a party when she was accepted early decision, while mine hid Xing’s Dartmouth attendance away in shame.