American Panda(71)

As I stood in front of Bertucci’s with my heart in my larynx choking me, I regretted making the first move. Well, actually, I hadn’t. My mother had, last week, by asking me how the “flip-flop wearer” was doing. A fight had ensued. . . . Stop being racist, Mamá. Don’t forget they slaughtered your family, Mei. . . . But eventually, after I had reminded her of her issues with my father, we made headway. She didn’t apologize, but she promised to try harder, then asked to meet Darren. I had been so relieved at her sincere smile and repentant eyes that I had agreed, only realizing after that it would be a crap-storm.

I wrung my hands. Darren gently pulled them apart. “Mei, stop worrying so much.”

“Did you forget everything I told you?” I had tried to prepare him as best as I could, but how do you describe the tiny, formidable hurricane that is Mǎmá Lu?

“You know I’ve met her already, right?”

It took me a moment to remember. That day seemed like a parallel life.

“Well, that was different. You were a stranger then.” And still she had been a stubborn ox. (Sometimes I wished she didn’t take her zodiac sign so literally.) “Now you’re Darren.” I gulped. “Oh God, this was a mistake. You’re going to break up with me after this.”

“Calm down. That won’t happen.” He took both my hands in his and turned me to face him. “I love you, Mei.” My entire body froze. “I started falling for you when I first heard you talk about Horny, and then when we moved on to beavers and nuts and magicians . . .” He placed a hand over his heart.

“I love you too,” I said, no hesitation. “Ever since you told me you wanted to try stinky tofu because it smells so bad.”

He wrapped his hand around the small of my back and pulled me to his lips.

Enjoy this moment. Stop worrying if Mamá is pulling up this instant. Don’t let her ruin this for you.

And then it was just us.

I sank into him. Melted into his kiss. Snaked my hands around his neck and pulled him closer. I breathed in the sandalwood, then ran my hands through his already-disheveled hair.

When we reluctantly pulled apart, I no longer cared how the rest of today went.

Just in time, too. Moments later, the sea-green minivan (with a brand-new bumper dent) pulled across two parking spaces.

We sat in a corner booth, Darren and me on one side, my mother on the other. I could tell she was trying. She had a plastic smile pasted on, and even though it was all teeth, no lips, and creepy as hell, it was better than the vengeful scowl that usually surfaced in Japanese company.

“We should be meeting for Chinese food,” she said. “But you probably were scared out of Chow Chow by the stinky tofu, right, Darren?” Her tone implied I’m always right.

“Stop being mean,” I said at the same time Darren said, “I love Chow Chow. I actually tried the stinky tofu on one of my visits. To be honest, I didn’t like it—the smell was too overpowering—but I love the rest of Chow Chow’s food.”

My mother leaned back, impressed, her chin pressing into her neck. “You tried it? Even Mei won’t try it.”

Darren shrugged. “I figured I wasn’t allowed to say I didn’t like it without giving it a taste.”

“That’s exactly how I feel!” my mother exclaimed. Her fake smile dissolved and was replaced by a slight curve, no teeth showing—her genuine smile.

“Well, I haven’t tried poop and I’m confident saying I don’t like it,” I said.

Darren laughed, and my mother turned to him in surprise. Was that wonderment in her eyes? Confusion?

She shook off whatever had come over her with a head jerk. “Darren, I didn’t know you were interested in our culture. Mei, you should have told me.”

You couldn’t hear anything about him once you knew his ethnicity, I wanted to say but instead managed a tight-lipped smile.

Below the table, Darren placed a comforting hand on my knee. He squeezed once, and I knew he was telling me to hang in there.

The rolls arrived. When I grabbed one, my mother’s hand didn’t twitch—a reminder of how far she’d come—and my shoulders relaxed.

It’s going well, I reminded myself. No racial slurs, no murder accusations, and Darren had somehow impressed the unimpressible.

My mother broke her bread apart and dabbed the tiniest piece in olive oil. “What are your career plans, Darren?”

Maybe I’d spoken too soon. I braced myself.

“I’m interested in biology—”

“Are you going to be a doc-tor?” Her eyes lit up, and I wished I could extinguish them now before Darren had to.

“That’s an option,” he said, buttering a roll calmly as if his reputation didn’t balance on a tightrope. “Right now I’m leaning toward research.”

“Research is for people who can’t get into medical school!” my mother huffed, her eyes darkening.

I jumped in. “He doesn’t mean being an RA to spruce up his med school application. He wants to be a professor. At a university.”

The light returned to her eyes. “A professor. Respectable. Good. And with a biology degree, you will still have the option to be a doctor in case you change your mind later.”

I had assumed she was serious, but her mouth was ticked up. A joke attempt? I forced a laugh even though it wasn’t funny. Points for effort.