American Panda(35)

As I wrote extra slow, I asked, “Does MIThenge happen every day?”

“Twice a year.” His eyes never left my pen on his hand.

“And we bumped into each other right before it? What’s the probability of that?”

“Well, given that there’s always stuff going on at MIT, the probability we’d bump into each other before something is pretty high. But as for bumping into each other before MIThenge, specifically, we would have to take into consideration how often we bump into each other normally, the fact that our class together got out right before it started . . .” He tilted his head to the side, thinking. “The chances are roughly one in a hundred fifty,” he finally answered.

“Really?”

Darren shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. But I impressed you for a second, didn’t I?”

“Would’ve been more impressive if you’d been right.” I playfully poked his biceps with the pen before putting it away. Yes, I looked at his arm as I did it, and yes, I liked what I saw. Was there such a thing as hockey arms, you know, like swimmers’ shoulders?

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” he said, emphasizing the last two words ever so slightly. “Good day, Lady Peanut.” When he tipped his imaginary hat to me in farewell, I saw him in a different light. Unfortunately.

It would’ve been easier to stay mad.





Voicemail from my mother

Mei, call me, your mǔqīn. You’re supposed to be free right now! Where are you? Are you sick? Have you been swinging your arms? Do you need me to come over with the cow’s hoof?





CHAPTER 15


RUTH


I HUNCHED OVER MY DESK, burying my nose in a textbook and pressing my hands between my thighs to hide the guilt sweats. I was so scared my mother would just look at me and know I had seen Xing. And know that I was seeing him again later today, not actually hitting the books with my ever-expanding fake study group like I’d told her.

It was starting to get too tangled. Earlier I’d had a brain fart and referenced Penny’s physicist dad, only to remember that it was fake Billy’s dad that was the physicist. Then I had to fumble and tell her both their fathers were physicists, to which my mother had said, “I thought Penny’s father was a doctor.” I had to summon every ounce of acting ability to convince her she was mistaken.

“What’s this?” My mother snatched up my biology exam from the drawer she’d been snooping in. I’d been so distracted I’d forgotten about the secret hidden at the bottom. She waved it in my face. “A seventy-two, Mei? That’s an F in our book. What happened to the other twenty-eight points?”

My mother would never understand the concept of grading on a curve and that the 72 was really a B+. But still, a B+ wasn’t good enough, even with MIT’s pass/fail grading for first-semester freshmen.

At age six, when I had presented my spelling test to her with a smiley face inked next to the 98, she had asked, “Where did the other two points go?” I used to tell myself this kind of tough love was what got me into MIT, but at that moment I wanted to rip that biology test into a million satisfying pieces.

I had worked my pìgu off for that 72 in a subject I hated as much as the cow’s hoof. So many hours in the library, forcing myself to learn about—yawn—signaling pathways and bland-as-rice enzymes, all for them. All for a tongue cluck and a stern look.

“Do we need to get you a tutor?” my father asked.

“Mei, you should be doing the tutoring, not getting tutored.” My mother threw the test onto my desk. “If you’re not careful, you may not get into medical school.”

That would be a relief, I thought before I could stop myself.



I lied to Xing for the first time. I told him I was dying to get a taste of medical school, and when he had grabbed the bait and ran, talking about how medicine was so exciting and I was going to love the adrenaline of it, the science, the satisfaction of helping people, I hadn’t said a word. So not a blatant lie, but a lie by omission. Yes, another one. Was this my alter ego now? Or worse, just me?

I was determined not to let Xing find out that today was not an exciting glimpse into my future, but rather a test to see if I could make it work. To see if I could handle things better than the last time. If anyone could help me see the fun in medicine (or in anything, really), it was Xing.

“You’re going to have such a blast today, Mei-ball. Gross anatomy was my favorite med school class. You’ll never experience anything like this again, that first sense of wonderment and wanting to know more—how we all tick, how to find the problem, how to fix it. This is the kind of stuff that gets me through the harder parts.”

He had this faraway look in his eyes, and for a moment I thought he might even tousle my hair or something, but then I remembered we were Lus: no unnecessary physical contact. But his talk worked—I could hear my heart beating in my ears.

Or maybe that wasn’t excitement. Maybe it was anxiety.

Xing introduced me to my tour guide for the day—a short East Asian girl dressed in wrinkled, cerulean scrubs and beat-up sneakers. I followed Anna down multiple flights of stairs. Now that I was separated from my optimism—aka Xing—my stomach was in knots, ironically caused by the prospect of seeing other peoples’ stomachs . . . and intestines . . . and livers. The space between me and the innards was growing too small too fast.