American Panda(69)

Nicolette wadded the paper and flicked the tiny ball across the room toward Valerie. “Segregation. The opposite of integration is segregation.”

After a five-second delay, everyone burst out laughing. I couldn’t help a chuckle either. MIT had shut off the right side of my brain except for the sliver I used for dance.

Valerie’s laugh was especially loud. (No surprise there.) “What high school did you go to, Nicolette? You’re gonna be our Course Eleven”—urban planning—“burnout, aren’t you? The rest of us are real MIT students. Of course we were only going to think of math.”

Nicolette beat me to the punch. “Suck my beaver, Valerie.”

Even though Nic didn’t need me to, I added, “I wouldn’t be so quick to throw the first stone if I were you.” Valerie squirmed, just as planned.

“Oh my God, Mei, what do you know?” Nicolette asked.

Instead of answering her (or telling Valerie that I haven’t eaten cheese in months), I waved my hand. “Come on, Nic, we don’t need this.”

In the hallway, Nicolette grabbed my elbow. “Spill it!”

I shook my head as if I could shake the memory away. “It’s not my place to tell.”

“But we’re roomies! C’mon, Hello Kitty, pleeease! I’m so embarrassed, and this would make me feel soooo much better.” She threw a hand over her heart dramatically.

I rolled my eyes at her exaggerated pout. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

“You’re no fun at all.” She pulled her lip back in and crossed her arms over her chest—a stance that would’ve intimidated me in the past but now made me laugh.

“At least you can rest assured I won’t be spilling your secrets to the floor the first time you piss me off.”

Nicolette’s fists shifted to her hips. “I should’ve taken a picture of you with your clown makeup on.”

I swatted her arm and we laughed.

As we made our way back to our room, I asked, “Hey, I’ve been wondering . . . what would you have called your ex-roommate if her name had been Gwendolyn?”

“Chatty Patty,” Nic answered without missing a beat.

I should have known.



I knocked on Xing and Esther’s door, a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a stuffed Doraemon in the other for the new baby.

Angry staccato footsteps approached, and the door was flung open with exasperation. Esther’s mother wasn’t surprised to see me, but I did a double take.

Xing had told me in private that they had kept the pregnancy a secret to keep the Wongs from knowing they had—gasp—slept together (probably many, many times) before marriage. They’d worried that Mrs. Wong would make them elope immediately, preventing Esther from having the wedding she wanted. Because, you know, it was all about the miànzi and not losing face in front of friends.

I greeted Mrs. Wong enthusiastically, offering congratulations. She merely gave me a cold stare before marching off, her flyaway hairs dancing and drawing attention to her lopsided bun.

She was still such a question mark to me. Super chill about some things, as Xing had said, but extreme about others. I’d since labeled her a wild card and tucked her away, unfiled.

I closed the door behind me and hastened up two flights of stairs to the nursery, following my nose as well as Mrs. Wong. It smelled like baby—diaper wipes and talcum powder with a hint of poop.

Xing was too busy cooing to his mini-me to notice my entrance. I put the presents in a corner, then hovered awkwardly before clearing my throat. When he finally noticed me, a megawatt smile took over his face, and he bounced over with his baobèi cradled in his arms.

I waved at the baby even though he was asleep. His short mop of hair stuck straight up, and his chubby, rosy cheeks were so large they took up most of his face. And, ah, lucky him—he had inherited that blessed and cursed Lu nose.

His eyes flapped open suddenly, and I let out a gasp, simultaneously fascinated and terrified by the tiny bundle of responsibility.

Xing extended his arms slightly, though it seemed to pain him to do so, not physically but emotionally. “Do you want to hold him?”

“Oh, no, that’s okay,” I sputtered, shaking my head and waving my hand.

Xing placed Jonathan in my arms anyway, and my elbows bent into awkward angles as I tried to support every part of him. Sweat pooled in my pits, but so far he was still alive.

Then he came to life, squirming with little baby jerks. I tightened every muscle, trying to keep him from popping out of my arms. “Okay. Okay. I think you should take him back now.”

Once Jonathan was safely returned to Xing’s waiting arms, I retreated to the corner, from where I asked, “So Esther’s mom obviously knows. How’d all that play out?”

“We told her after the wedding. Since we were already married, it wasn’t as big of a deal, and once Jonathan came, it wasn’t a thing at all.”

Well, that was simple. Guess that was the “chill” part coming through. My mom, on the other hand, was still going on about how of course Xing and Esther had been having “the sex” since (1) they had been living together (the horror!) and (2) reproductive issues = lower chance of pregnancy = more sex (and yes, she used actual equal signs in conversation).

I ignored my inkling of jealousy (I was so tired of hearing “the sex” come out of my mother’s mouth) and asked, “Where’s Esther? How’s she doing?”