American Panda(68)

“Think there’s whipped cream in there?” I asked.

He tore his eyes away from the three-dimensional hot chocolate cup strapped to the dome. The words “thinking of you” were scrawled across in red script. I had considered writing it in Japanese, but Darren wouldn’t have understood and according to Google Translate, it was twice as long. Beside the words was a picture of two nuts—I think they were almonds? Pecans? Whatever. I had printed the first non-X-rated image I’d found online.

He gaped at me with his mouth slightly open. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“It cost me a chunk of leg, too.” I gestured to my right thigh, thick with bandages beneath my sweatpants.

“Are you okay?”

I nodded, then took one of his hands in mine. “I’m sorry about what I said after the wedding. The thought of you having to jump through hoops for me was just . . . I care about you too much. But being apart made me realize it didn’t make sense to throw away what we have because of other people and beliefs I don’t agree with.” I’m ready to fight for you, I thought but couldn’t say aloud. I hoped the hack said it for me.

He took a step closer. “Is this your way of asking me to be your boyfriend?”

“Um, sure.”

He stuck his lower lip out. (I wanted to kiss it so bad.) “Not too emphatic there. That’s it? No speech?”

“All right, fine, but no laughs because it’s too cheesy or whatever.” I closed the gap between us. “I like you, Darren, Lord Pecan, Sir Almond, and I want to date you, and just you. Like normal MIT students. I want to awkwardly hold your hand, share bowls of liquid nitrogen ice cream, and drop metallic sodium in the Charles.”

His face was inches from mine, and when he spoke, I felt his warm breath on my cheek. “I like you too. And I think there’s plenty more hot chocolate in our future.”

His lips fell on mine hungrily, the sudden heat made more intense by its contrast to the cold.

Gone was the lost, lonely girl who had looked at her pale, blond classmates and wished she weren’t so different. Who had recited “just is frog” instead of “justice for all” to a flag for three years because she didn’t know the Pledge of Allegiance and was too scared to ask.

For once, I was at peace.



I swirled across the linoleum floor in a series of turns, leaps, and waltzes, my shadow dancing on the wall with me, brought to life by the myriad of burning candles lining the perimeter. My gash was still tender, but nothing could keep me from Mr. Porter. A Chinese jazz piece sang from my phone—dízi, pípa, and stringed instruments mixing into a lovely, smooth blend. At the crescendo, I flitted across the floor in a chain of tour en l’airs—airborne spins—timed to each flute trill.

I didn’t hear Darren come in, but I sensed his presence when I landed, coming out of my turns into a sweeping pose. His shadow was tall and still, as if he were enraptured by my movement. I pushed away the underlying awkwardness and told myself I wasn’t showing off; I was letting him in.

I reentered the music and lost myself in my favorite across-the-floor combination: tombé-pas de bourrée-glissade-changement. As I glided across the room, my arms and legs brushing and kicking, I finally snuck a peek at him. His face glowed in the candlelight, illuminating the wonderment and understanding in his eyes.

Yes, he spoke dance.

I bourréed to him on my tiptoes, arms outstretched. He took my hands, hesitantly, clearly more used to watching than dancing. I shepherded him to the center of the room, then gently guided his upper body into proper ballroom frame. Without speaking, I showed him a basic step-ball-change. After a few missteps, he caught on, and I led him around the room.

When the music lulled, I dragged him to a stop, spinning into his arms and landing with my lips on his.

No words needed.





Voicemail from my mother

Mei? <pause> I’m sorry. I tried, but Bǎbá won’t be joining us this weekend. <pause> Maybe next time. <pause> Don’t give up.





CHAPTER 28


MAY


6 MONTHS LATER

NICOLETTE PLUCKED A TABOO WORD from the bowl, then delivered her hint with confidence. “It’s the opposite of integration.”

She had dragged me, literally, almost pulling my arm out of its socket, to the common room to “see if there was anyone on our floor worth our time.”

“Differentiation!” I yelled in unison with my teammates, three sophomores whom I’d nodded hello to all year but hadn’t learned their names until thirty minutes ago.

Valerie huffed. “That was too easy.”

Every time she spoke, I wanted to throw my shoe at her. I took some satisfaction in the fact that she hadn’t been able to meet my eye once. I kept her cheesy secret in my back pocket, and it inched toward daylight with every snide comment.

Nic stuck a hand on her hip. “No, not differentiation. The opposite of integration.”

“I spoke too soon,” Valerie said. Another inch.

Everyone including me was dumbfounded. It was a mathematical definition: The opposite of finding the derivative of a function (differentiation) was to integrate it (integration).

Valerie thrust the beeping stopwatch into the air. “Time’s up!”