American Panda(30)

I think I had stopped asking myself what I wanted after the pre-prima-ballerina dream turned nightmare. Dreams could hurt you if they didn’t come true, but if they never existed in the first place . . .

“That doesn’t matter either.”

His eyebrows angled up in surprise. “How can you say that? Of course it matters. It should be the only thing that matters.”

I shook my head. “You don’t get it. You must not know the kind of pressure I’m under, the type of guilt I feel.”

He folded his arms over his chest—tired, not confrontational. “I have a lot of pressure from my parents too. I don’t come from very much, and there’s a lot riding on me and my ability to provide for them in the future.”

Strike two, I couldn’t help thinking. My mother once broke up with a boyfriend because he was the eldest of six and would have to provide for the rest of his family, meaning it wouldn’t leave much for her and her not-yet-born kids.

“And,” Darren continued, “my parents didn’t want me to go to MIT. They wanted me to stay near home, go to a local school, and not abandon them.” He made air quotes. “But I got a free ride here, and when I visited, I knew I had found my home. I didn’t let them get in the way of what I knew was best for me, and I don’t regret it at all.”

“I’m sorry,” I said sincerely. “I didn’t mean to imply anything about your situation, and I’m sorry about the pressure you have and what you had to go through to get here. . . .” I trailed off, unable to say what I was thinking, that it was different for him. Because what did I know? Just like how he didn’t know anything about my circumstances. “Look, what I feel—the sense of duty—it’s debilitating, makes me feel so ashamed that I don’t even care what I want.”

“It’s okay not to agree with them,” he said gently, as if I were an animal he was trying not to spook.

“Not to them. They believe having different opinions makes me a bad person. In Taiwan during my parents’ childhood, filial piety was as much a part of life as breathing—ingrained from birth, expected from everyone. Confucius’s Twenty-Four Filial Exemplars—one of the first lessons in school—spoke of warming an icy lake with your naked body to catch fish for your mother, tasting your father’s feces to diagnose his medical condition, and feeding yourself to the mosquitoes to spare your parents’ blood.”

Too far! Too weird! the alarm rang in my head. I snapped my mouth shut.

Darren’s eyes had first widened during the Filial Exemplars and seemed to still be going.

After a beat, he said, “That’s absurd.”

His words cut into me, each syllable a pinprick. He didn’t understand. But maybe it was better if he never did. Because no matter what, this would end in flames, and it was cleaner to extinguish it now, small and contained, than later, when, say, a certain tongue clucker could be involved.

Even though I tried, I couldn’t keep my voice even as I said, “Not as absurd as going after a girl who can’t be with you. Can’t you take a hint?” I hated myself. And I hated myself more when pain flashed across his face. It’s for the best, I told myself even though I couldn’t tell anymore whether it was me or Mǎmá Lu talking.

The pain morphed into sadness, such a contrast to his usual brightness. “Maybe I saw something in you that isn’t there. I didn’t realize you were so brainwashed that you couldn’t think for yourself.”

I turned and ran. And I didn’t stop, not even when he yelled after me.



No one understood me or how hard this was. How I felt like I had to split myself in two, neither of them truly Mei, just to make everyone else happy. The one person who I had thought would get it was too busy impressing sororities, and the one person I had wanted to get it had said, That’s absurd. The words made me cringe, made me want to disappear. Made me crave the one person who would understand.

I took out my phone and dialed. I didn’t have much hope—he had stopped taking my calls years ago—but I had to try.

“Mei?” Xing sounded like he had just seen a ghost.

“Hey, Xing Xing,” I said, calling him by his childhood nickname.

“Is everything okay? Are you okay?”

My eyes filled with tears. “I miss you.” I took a breath before I could say the words—the traitorous, condemning words. “Congratulations on your engagement.”

“Thanks. That means a lot.”

I took another breath. “Can we see each other soon?”

A pregnant pause. Then a protective timbre surfaced in his voice. “I don’t want you to get in trouble with them. If they find out, they might cut you off. No tuition, no roof over your head . . .”

This was the brother I remembered—the one who always tried to keep me safe. Who would play Chubby Bunny with me to make me forget the bullies at school, then call the principal to send them to detention.

I mustered my waning courage. “They won’t know.”

Xing was quiet for a moment. “Of course. Let’s meet for dim sum in Chinatown at noon tomorrow.”

I wiped my tears away roughly.





Voicemail from my mother

Mei! Yilong sent me the article and maybe you should try swinging your arms three thousand times a day. It’s supposed to help circulation.