American Panda(44)

I dove in, taking a bite so huge it left crumbs on my upper lip. The snowflake softness didn’t melt on contact like in Taiwan, but the milky sweetness enveloping my tongue tasted the same.

“Holy crap, it’s amazing.” The words rushed out of my still-full mouth, too urgent to wait. I tried to be extra dainty with my napkin dab to make up for it.

Within five minutes, only a few errant ice chips remained—both in the bowl and around our mouths. I hadn’t even cared that we were sharing, our spit mixing. In fact, I kind of liked it.

I picked up the bowl and shook it, the ice chips rattling around. “Kiemasu.”

“You learn fast.” His smile was so broad a tiny dimple appeared on his right cheek.

I wanted to touch it. Kiss it. Memorize it.

I tried to turn away but couldn’t. He was looking at me as if he truly saw me, past the outside and into my inner měi. I wanted to ask him to draw me a map so I could find it myself.

“Darren,” I started but then trailed off, not knowing where I wanted to go. He tilted his head to one side, questioning, waiting patiently. Just like he had been waiting for me all along. “I can’t just be friends with you,” I finally said.

He stared at me for a moment like he wasn’t sure if he had heard me correctly. Or maybe he was trying to decide whether or not to be the bad guy, the one to make me defy my parents. But I was already way past that. He was just one more spoonful of dumpling meat, one more biānpào. He could also be the last straw, a voice said in my head, but I shushed it.

Finally, after the longest thirty seconds ever, he raised a mischievous eyebrow. “That can be arranged.”

“Does it bother you that my parents don’t approve?”

“I only care what you think.”

I grinned (a little goofily) at him, the only one who saw me. Liked me because of the same qualities that normally made me an outcast.

For the first time, I was thankful for those traits. Happy to be me. If only for a moment.



I was freaking out. Full-on about-to-pee-myself freaking out. Each one of my breaths was labor-intensive—a forced, shuddery inhale followed by a choppy exhale. I had to pull it together. My mother was going to know, figure it out.

But in my head I couldn’t stop replaying the walk home with Darren. We hadn’t kissed—which had left me both relieved and disappointed for so many reasons—but we had held hands the entire way. And he had hugged me before we parted. And told me he’d see me soon.

I was sure my face was part dreamy, part guilty. Guilt. Ga-ill-t. I’d thought, felt, and internalized that word so much it no longer held meaning for me.

My parents had surprise stopped by a mere twenty minutes after I returned to my room. I’d barely had enough time to put all my dance gear away.

And now I was standing in the chilly Burton Conner entryway, grabbing the bags of green tea they had brought, since by my mother’s count, I had run out this morning (scarily, 100 percent correct), and she was worried I would need it tomorrow.

“Should I come up?” my mother asked. “Maybe I can pick up more laundry?”

Had I fully hidden my ribbons? What if the tail end was sticking out of my drawer? What if my mother opened the closet door and saw the costume I’d snuck from home? I stamped my feet to hide my shaky leg, hoping I just appeared cold.

“Thank you so, so much, Mǎmá, but I don’t want to give you any more work.”

“I’m going to do your laundry anyway—might as well do it now.” The car door clicked open, the soundtrack to the devolving of my lies.

“No, please. I’m sorry—I was in the middle of a problem set and it’s just still on my mind. I want to go write everything down before I forget, but I don’t want to be rude because I so appreciate you coming all the way here.”

The door closed again. “It was nothing, Mei. Of course we came. We’re your parents.”

“I love you.” I barely got the words out I was so choked up.

They nodded at me and drove away without saying it back. I wasn’t surprised, but I had never needed to hear those words more.

I retreated to my hideaway for the saddest, slowest dance session Mr. Porter had ever seen.





Incoming text from Darren

Konichiwa

Me

Ni hao



Someone told me today that at MIT the odds are good but the goods are odd. Do you think that refers to guys or girls?



after an hour of hemming and hawing

There’s only one odd good I’m interested in . . .

immediately

I’d say your odds are good there.





CHAPTER 19


CLASH OF CULTURES


AN ENVELOPE JUTTED OUT OF my dusty mailbox—a red flag. I never got mail.

My Chinese and English names were scrawled in calligraphy on the front, revealing what was inside without my opening it.

I slipped my finger beneath the flap and tore it open quickly before I could convince myself otherwise. The paper sliced through my flesh, and a drop of blood soaked into the ebony cotton. It’s a cautionary sign from the ancestors, Nǎinai warned in my head. Previously, I would have laughed, but in this moment, her words sent a tremor through me.

The wedding invitation was red and gold (the Chinese celebratory colors) with half the text in English, half in Mandarin. I ran my fingertips over the embossed characters. My parents’ names were glaringly absent.