American Panda(6)

I paused at the door and waved, a nervous grin on my face.

She wiped her hand on her tank top—what was on there?—and stuck it out to me. “Nicolette.”

“I’m Mei.” My hand remained by my side. There was an awkward pause as she dropped her arm and returned to moving her desk. I didn’t want to address the germ-conscious elephant in the room, so I didn’t say anything.

With a smirk, she said, “You’re already better than my last roommate, Chatty Patty.” I wondered what Nicolette would have called her if her name had been Gwendolyn. “She wanted to be BFFs”—Nicolette rolled her eyes—“and none of that will be happening, got it?” She dumped shiny new polka-dot sheets, which were as cute as she was, onto the bed. I cringed at my garage-sale floral bedspread that screamed, I once belonged to an old lady.

“Thanks to her, I’m stuck with you and you’re stuck with me now, k? Sorry to change your single into a double.” She emptied her suitcase on the bed but made no move to put anything away. “Oh, and just a heads-up—I’m gone most nights, so don’t ever wait up for me.”

I shrugged, not sure what else to do.

She nodded. “This is gonna work out great.”

Maybe we were matched up because even the computer knew I’d be too scared to talk to her, just like she wanted. My age alone suggested I was a maladjusted, socially awkward introvert.

Or maybe the computer just sucked.

I felt foolish. I had never been able to show anyone what was really beneath my skin—why had I believed the roommate-pairing algorithm could find the one person to unlock my secrets? Oh for two now.

“See ya, Mei.” Nicolette brushed out of the room, and I had a feeling those would be the last words between us for a long time.



Laughter streamed down the hallway and in through my open door, filling my ears and taunting me. I practiced a friendly smile in the mirror (it was fake and a little creepy), straightened my clothes (still wrinkled and smelled like stale drawer), then slunk down the hall with as much confidence as a Bachelor contestant.

Don’t mention your age, I reminded myself. There was a strange (and often detrimental) human need for the familiar, and that extended to age. In high school, after multiple negative reactions to my being younger—which included some form of slapping an “immature” label on me like a huge I on my forehead—I started avoiding the topic, even awkwardly so, making the situation worse than if I had just answered them. Why won’t you tell me your age? they would ask, worried I was a weirdo, and then, when I didn’t respond, they’d ignore me for the rest of the time because, you know, I was a weirdo.

Maybe college was different, but why risk it? MIT did have their fair share of young phenoms, but I didn’t want to be lumped in with them. I just wanted to be Mei, whoever that was.

The laughter embraced me as I walked into the common room, and my hope soared and straightened my spine. My plastic smile turned genuine as I looked from one pair of bright eyes to another.

Seven students of various ages, races, and genders were spread among the four tattered sofas, separate but together. Almost everyone was wearing apparel featuring TIM the MIT Beaver, and for once I fit in.

“Hi! I’m Mei,” I yelled—well, I thought I yelled. The actual scratchy sound that came out was lost among the chatter. I waved—large, dorky, and in a huge awkward circle in front of me. Not wanting to see their reaction, I lowered my eyes and folded myself into the corner of the closest armchair, the one with the multicolored stains splashed across the pilly fabric. I tried not to think about the parade of people who’d probably had sex there through the years.

The cute girl in the I MY BEAVER T-shirt leaned over and filled me in. “We’re having a debate: C-3PO versus BB-8.”

“What’s a BB-8?” I asked without thinking.

They all stared at me as if I had just asked, What’s pi?

I thought about adding just kidding, but I didn’t have a chance. One girl started laughing immediately. Her neighbor swatted her elbow and hissed, “C’mon, Valerie,” but she just laughed louder.

Suddenly I was six years old again, wearing traditional Chinese garb complete with knotted closures, trying to hold my shaky chin in the air as I was laughed out of the school picture line. Forever the outcast, even at this school of nerdy outcasts.

One boy turned to me. “Don’t pay any attention to her.”

Beaver Lover leaned in again. “BB-8,” she repeated, as if that was all I needed. When she saw my blank stare, her wide eyes mirrored mine. “Star Wars? Have you never seen Star Wars? How is that . . . ? But you’re at MIT. . . .” She shook her head as if she finally heard what she was saying. “Sorry. I mean, that’s totally fine. I was just a little surprised.”

I forced my gaze to meet the rest of theirs as I explained, “I don’t watch many movies.” Only a few, snuck in during the rare moments my parents were out of the house. I went for the most scandalous ones I could find on TV. American Pie. Grease. Tiny acts of rebellion, done mostly to try to prevent incidents like these.

The Caucasian boy across from me nodded along. “Were you sheltered because of your Asian upbringing?”

I squirmed, not liking where this was going. He was completely right, and it seemed he was trying to understand, but something felt off. I shrugged.