American Panda(27)

I realized that I had come here partly because I wanted to know why our experiences had been so different. Her parents were from Taiwan, just like mine. They had immigrated here for graduate school, just like mine. Yet Helen had boyfriends, spoke her mind, and her only house rule growing up was Don’t let the dog poop on the bed. I bet Helen never suffered from Lu guilt—you know, that special brand of disgrace, responsibility, and shame bred by an environment where most things you did weren’t good enough and unconditional obedience was expected.

Other childhood acquaintances popped into my head like whack-a-moles. Kimberly Chen, who married a non-Chinese guy and then got divorced . . . Jade, who moved in with her boyfriend without a ring on her finger . . . even Hanwei, whose mother hadn’t cut him off when he’d decided to pursue music.

Suddenly I saw the spectrum they represented. It had been right before my eyes, but I hadn’t seen—or more accurately, had refused to see. Before, I had blamed my culture, but that wasn’t the problem. It was so much more complicated than that. It was a clashing of personalities and interpretations of cultures. How would my parents and I ever find a solution to this impossible mix of opposing ideals and desires? No right answers. Only a long list of wrong ones.

“Helllooooo.” Helen waved a hand in front of my face. “Did you fall asleep over there because of the all-nighters you’ve pulled doing homework?”

“When people ask you what you are, what do you say?”

She quirked a brow. “Are you okay?”

I nodded, then waved my hand to draw the answer out.

“Chinese, I guess. Why?”

“Do you feel Chinese?”

Her eyes narrowed in confusion. “Of course. I speak the language, my parents are from Taiwan, and I mean, c’mon, look at me! Supercute Asian girl!”

She felt Chinese but didn’t feel constrained by it like I did. Maybe I was the problem. Maybe I could learn from Helen. But we were so different I couldn’t isolate her views of the culture from the effervescent bubble that made up the rest of her. And mixing red bean soup with lava cake was disgusting.

I barely tasted my turkey sandwich as Helen chatted to me about her crush, Nate, and his blond curls and tanned skin. I grew so accustomed to her voice that it blended with the background din and I didn’t notice when her mouth clamped shut. She whacked my arm—not very subtly—and I finally caught on when I saw curly blond hair out of the corner of my eye.

Maybe Helen and I weren’t so different after all. Even Queen Helen turned awkward in front of her crush.

“Go talk to him!” I said, nudging her foot with mine under the table.

She shook her head frantically, packed up her sandwich and mine, then dragged me out with a viselike grip.

“Why didn’t you talk to him?” I asked.

“Are you kidding me? He’s a junior! And didn’t you see him? He’s gorgeous! So out of my league. I might have a shot when I get into Tri Delt though. I think I’ve got that in the bag now.”

Lava cake and red beans.

The next few hours felt like a blur. I met student after student, all perfectly pleasant, but soon they jumbled into person-soup and I couldn’t remember one name from the next. Maybe it was because our conversations were short, meaningless, and rehearsed, or maybe it was because I couldn’t focus with everything going on in my head.

On the return bus, I slumped in my seat and stared at the nondescript trees flying by. Somehow, even though I was seeing clearer than before, I felt more trapped.





Voicemail from my mother

I heard from Mrs. Tian who heard from Mrs. Lin that Ying-Na tried to make it in LA as an actress but couldn’t. They even stopped paying her to take off her clothes. You’re studying hard, right? Make me and Bǎbá proud. This is your mǔqīn.





CHAPTER 11


IN STEREO


AS I STROLLED PAST THE Johnson Ice Rink, my name rippled in the distance. I glanced around. Maybe a stranger had said the word “may,” not my name, but then I made out a familiar jagged outline of hair.

I strolled, trying to suppress my eagerness, which resulted in an embarrassing quick-slow-quick-slow trot—like I had the trots. Darren and three of his friends had skates slung over their shoulders. He introduced me to a lean Latino male, Billy; a cute brunette named Penny; and a short Indian freshman, Amav, who was also Penny’s boyfriend. I recognized Billy and Amav from Chow Chow.

I smiled ear to ear as I shook hands with each of them. New friends. Who seemed genuinely happy to meet me.

“Free skate is going on for another hour. Want to join us?” Darren asked.

My pulse quickened. I hadn’t been able to Rollerblade in junior high PE—what horrors awaited me on ice? And I knew from my online stalking that Darren was on the MIT hockey team.

No, I definitely couldn’t join them. “Sorry. I have to—”

Darren’s face drooped, his eyebrows angling down and his smile dropping into a frown. His disappointment was so endearing that imaginary Mǎmá Lu disappeared along with my fear of embarrassment.

“Well,” I amended, “I guess I can get to my p-set later.”

When he pumped his fist in the air, I blushed. Penny shot me an encouraging smile, which I returned.

I requested size eight skates from the sweaty dude behind the counter, reminding myself I was hanging out with all of them, not just Darren. Totally chill.