American Panda(3)

“But you’re not. College is the best time to find a husband. American girls peak in junior high, high school with looks, but you will peak now. You hated that you got your period so much later than the other girls”—I covered my face to hide from any patrons who might have overheard—“but like I told you then, it’s a good thing. All my older friends with mean-o-pause—they look okay one day, then wrinkly the next. Like those suānméi your bǎbá loves.” She shuddered, probably from picturing faces on my dad’s prunes like I was. Then she straightened her spine. “I still have my period,” she said in a tone that others would reserve for I just got a promotion. “And you’ll have yours many, many years after your peers sag. It’s genetics.”

Well, we rough-roaded it, but we managed to turn off course, away from preapproved Ivy League husbands. I just wish it didn’t have to involve my period. Or hers.

“Wait, what was I saying?” Guess I spoke too soon. “Oh right. Mei, take advantage of your youth while you can. And I chose Eugene precisely because you’re still so young. He is a good boy. Won’t try anything. Other boys will try to trick you into having the sex, and you’re too young to know how to handle that. As your muqīn, I’m going to tell you the truth. It doesn’t feel good for women. It’s only to make babies, which you are not ready for quite yet. But soon. With Eugene.”

Since I was about to toss my fortune cookies, I played my trump card. “Maybe we’ll see what Bǎbá has to say about this when he gets here.”

Her mouth snapped shut, knowing my father, who still saw me as a five-year-old, would fly into a chopstick-throwing rage at the thought of me dating. She excused herself to the bathroom, most likely to touch up her makeup. Clarification: to powder and reapply mascara; her eyeliner and lipstick were tattooed on.

My ears perked up at the sound of English amid the sea of Mandarin. Across the restaurant, a group of students was leaving their table.

A familiar face. Well, a familiar outline of hair—he was still too far away to be more than a blurry shape. Because of my nearsightedness and my mother’s tenet that “no woman is attractive in glasses,” I recognized people by silhouette and motion. At orientation, his head had bobbed above the sea of freshmen, and I had been attracted to his spiky anime hair. It had taken me half an hour to work up the courage to smile at him, but he’d been too busy laughing with the perky blonde beside him to notice shy, not-blond me. My heart had lurched, and then I had traveled back in time to first grade. Wooden desk. Chalkboard overhead. And six-year-old me looking from one classmate to another, wishing I didn’t look so different.

Oh God, I was totally staring. Probably because I could see him clearer now that he was only a few yards away, and, well, I’m just happy I didn’t drool. His face was all sharp angles and smooth skin, and he was that kind of lean muscular build—you know, nerd hot. Exactly my kind of poison.

His eyes caught mine, then shifted down to my MIT shirt. While I was deer-in-headlights frozen at having been caught gawking, he said something to his friends (never had I wanted superhearing so bad), then weaved between chairs to my corner (!!!). I popped a hip-level wave, then regretted it immediately.

He slid into the seat across from me, his knees bumping the table. “You look familiar. Did we meet at orientation?”

“No, but I’m Mei.” I stuck a sweaty palm out.

He took it and didn’t say ew. “Darren. Nice to meet you. Are you a fan of Chow Chow? I’ve never had Taiwanese food before.”

“Did you like it?”

When his head bobbed up and down emphatically, I smiled, excited to have one more person in on the secret. There weren’t enough Taiwanese restaurants on this side of the world, and braised pork rice and oyster pancakes were much too delicious to be so scarce.

“It was amazing”—the right side of his lip quirked up—“although that stinky tofu smell does take some getting used to. Sorry if you’re a fan.”

I shook my head. “Never tried it. I’ve already gotten enough of a taste through my nose. You know, smelling is a large part of tasting, so in a way, we’ve all ‘tasted’ dog poop and garbage.” What a charmer. Maybe Hanwei was my soul mate after all.

But Darren wasn’t ruffled by my unladylike words. “Well, stinky tofu isn’t that far off, but I’m way more likely to try that than poop. In fact, I’m kind of curious about it—like, I want to try it because it smells so bad but it’s still food. Funny how that works, you know?” He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve never been tempted? Not even one bite?”

“Ehhh, I’m good. I learned early not to trust my parents’ food preferences. Because of them, child-me thought stinky tofu was normal and Chili’s was the culinary master that invented fettuccine Alfredo.” I’d never admitted this to anyone before—it was too embarrassing—but instead of pity or judgment, there was . . . something else . . . on his face. Empathy? Dare I say, interest?

“You must’ve been a cute little kid,” he said. I expected him to be embarrassed by his words, but he was leaning back in his chair, a small smile on his lips, completely comfortable.

I wished I could be that self-assured, but since I was just me—not comfortable and completely awkward—I continued rambling. “Not according to my mother. I always talked with my mouth full, spoke when I shouldn’t, and said rude things.” I wondered if stinky tofu would taste better than my foot tasted right about now.