American Panda(39)

“Chow Chow used to be one of my favorite places,” I said, “but recently it’s been more stinky tofu than home. It’s been exhausting seeing my parents every weekend.” Especially with all the secrets. Last visit, I had been so stressed answering my mother’s questions I accidentally ate a clove of garlic, mistaking it for a clump of onion. I couldn’t exhale out of my mouth for two days after without gagging at the smell. “I thought I’d be more independent in college.”

“Yeah, I picked up on their protectiveness,” he said with a lighthearted chuckle.

“They’re just so traditional.” I peered at him over my cup. “Do you struggle with that?”

“Sorry, I can’t relate. My family has been in America for three generations. I don’t identify as Japanese. I mean, I am . . . but I’m also American. My parents’ pressure to keep me close to home isn’t related to the culture, at least not that I know of. I think they were just scared that once I left I’d never come back, and since I’m the first to leave the nest, they had an especially tough time.”

“Was that really hard for you?”

He chewed his lip for a second. “Yes, but not any more than expected. It made it easier that I was going away to MIT, which they’re proud of, and because of the financial aid. And they sort of knew all along that they weren’t going to sway me, no matter what. It wasn’t as difficult as it seems for you. At least, from what I’ve heard.”

I leaned forward, my elbows resting on my knees and my cup dangling between my legs. “I have such a . . . complicated . . . relationship with them.” I took a breath, then said words I had never admitted out loud before. Words I’d barely admitted to myself. “I don’t agree with them sometimes . . . a lot of times.”

The Pavlovian guilt started to wash over me. I waited, half-expecting the ancestors to send me a warning sign, maybe in the shape of a blizzard, but the only movement was Darren tilting his head to urge me to continue.

“They think that just because they’re older, they know what’s best for me and my future.” I paused to glance at him, then clarified. “Specifically, my career. But they don’t know me well enough to know what I want.” Hell, I barely know me well enough.

“What do your parents want you to do?”

I hesitated. For a second I was transported back to the courtyard, when he had first asked about my dreams. I still felt the urge to run, but then his warm, caring gaze met mine, and I caved. “They want me to be a doctor.”

His eyes widened. “Uh-oh.”

It was only two sounds, not even a real word, but it sent all the walls up. I waited, my muscles frozen in anxious anticipation.

He faux coughed, fidgeted, then finally said, “You, uh, use your hand sanitizer a lot. And when we were on the Saferide, you touched the handle with as little surface area as possible, which wasn’t all that safe, by the way. And . . .” He (finally) trailed off, probably because my cheeks were flushed—their contrast to the cold air was jarring.

His voice softened. “I mean, hey, I get it—all the studies show how effective hand sanitizer is. I should really carry some with me too. But, uh”—he nudged me—“you seem to have a thing about germs?”

I surprised myself by laughing. “Okay, you made your point.”

The teasing crinkle appeared. “Nothing to be embarrassed about. You’re perpetually clean and you always smell like pomegranate. Seems like there’s only upside.”

“That’s because you haven’t fully seen in here,” I joked, tapping on my temple. I was so used to hiding this part of me that it was instinct to deflect. Though really, all I wanted was to tell him more, just to hear him say over and over in different ways how all of this was okay.

“Yet,” he said. “I haven’t fully seen in there yet.”

I tried to will my heart to stop beating so damn fast. “You know, it’s ironic—I think it’s my mom’s fault I’m this way. She used to bring our own utensils to Chinatown, saying that their silverware was too dirty.”

“Yet somehow she trusted the food they made?”

“Just one prime example of Mǎmá Lu’s airtight logic.”

He chuckled, then said, “Well, if doctor isn’t your dream job, what is?”? The warmth in his voice alleviated the heaviness of what he was asking.

“I would love to open a dance studio. I think.”

He beamed. “I was going to guess something with dance. The way your face lit up when I mentioned piques . . .” He placed a hand over his heart. “It made me want to learn.”

My leg jiggled. “I actually dreamed of opening a studio when I was younger, when I was too naive to know my parents had already planned out my life.”

Darren scooted to the edge of the bench to face me. He placed a hand on my knee, and I froze like the surrounding ice. “I think it’s selfless how much you care about your parents, but I think you deserve better than sacrificing who you are for their sake.”

“It’s not selfless when I do it out of fear. Or guilt.”

He leaned back, sending snow flurries in the air. My leg felt hot where his hand had been. “I don’t think it’s that black-and-white,” he said.

“It’s not a panda?”