American Panda(9)

With one last squeal, she was out the door.

Oblivious to the balloon of glee in my chest, Donna, the studio owner, apologized for attracting only one student. I shook my head, and even though the words did my feelings no justice, I thanked her for this opportunity.

When she asked if I was interested in teaching a regular class, I answered “absolutely” without thinking, continuing to nod as she launched into possible class times and dance styles. And my head just kept going and going until I was committed to teaching adult hip-hop and children’s Chinese dance on Sundays, to start in a few weeks.

Donna left, offering me the studio space to prepare choreography for my upcoming classes, but I was too overwhelmed to do anything but sprawl on the floor, faceup, like I was about to make a snow angel. All I could think was how Rose would love the ribbons and fans I had at home. I chuckled, picturing all the creative ways she would use the props.

Owning a dance studio had been my fantasy when I was young, naive, and full of dreams. Ever since I was one of Miss Daisy’s pre-prima ballerinas. My imagination took off—a dance school offering styles from all cultures, demand so high there was a waiting list, money in my bank account, my parents beaming proudly nearby.

The image of them brought me back to reality. I sat up, the excitement draining out my pointed toes. Even if my business was wildly successful and featured Chinese dance, they still wouldn’t be proud.

Suddenly I realized the weight of my earlier blunder—if my mom found out I was teaching dance instead of devoting every second to studying, I might as well move into Ying-Na’s refrigerator box now. I had to back out. What had I been thinking? My insides felt cold, not because of the impending embarrassment at reneging (which yes, sucked), but more because I wouldn’t get to teach dance. No more Rose. No more pre-prima-ballerina dreams.

As I stared at the cracks on the wall, I tried to imagine a Harvard Medical School acceptance letter. Instead of feeling excited like I should have been, dread washed over me. How could someone like me be happy in that life? But I had to make it work.

My two options were clear. And they both ended in misery.



I eventually managed to drag myself off the floor.

Five missed calls.

When I heard the voicemails, I almost dropped my water bottle.

Then I ran the entire way back to Burton Conner.

Flashing lights, an MIT campus police officer, and a tiny Asian woman crying out front.

Oh. My. God.

My jog turned into a sprint despite my fatigued muscles from my workout.

I could hear my mother telling the officer between sobs that I was so young, only seventeen, and he should have kept a better eye on me. She was so distraught that only half her words were audible.

Despite wanting to crawl into a hole, I yelled, “Mǎmá! I’m here! Everything’s okay!”

My mother ran up to me and I started to wrap my arms around her, but she shook me instead. “Where’ve you been? You gave me a heart attack! I paid sixty dollars to take a cab here!” She didn’t drive in the city, too scared of Boston’s traffic, one-way streets, and aggressive drivers.

The officer’s eyes darted back and forth between my mom and me. “Miss, your mother here said you’ve been unaccounted for. For the past forty-eight hours.”

Before I could respond—not that I knew how—my mother bowed and said, “Thank you, Officer. You found her. So smart, so skilled. I’ll be sure to call and tell your boss what a great job you’re doing.” She bowed every few steps as we scrambled into Burton Conner.

Once we were inside, my mother swatted my arm. “Don’t scare me like that again!”

“I’m sorry!” I paused for a moment before saying, “Maybe now, in retrospect, you can see that you overreacted a tad?”

“Mei, I worry about you because I’m your muqīn. It’s been . . . hard.” Her voice trailed off, but I could see in her face that she had been worrying about me since I left home. In fact, now that I was looking more carefully, she had a few new lines around her eyes and mouth. She couldn’t be happy about that.

The exasperation that had been swimming through my system evaporated. I dug through my bag and handed her a printed copy of my schedule. “I’m sorry it’s been hard. Thanks for worrying about me, but next time try to wait a little longer before freaking out and calling the police, okay? I’m careful and you don’t have to worry so much. It’s not good for you.” I wished I could say more—tell her I loved her and worried about her too, that I thought her high blood pressure was a result of her constant panicking and that I wished I could take it away—but the words merely bubbled in my throat before dying.

She studied the piece of paper like it was a cheat sheet for an upcoming exam. “Where were you just now?” Her eyes raked over my spandex pants and gym bag.

Cue the guilt sweat. “I was at my PE class,” I lied, a little too smoothly for my own comfort. “We have to take physical education as part of our curriculum.” At least that part was true, but there were no dance classes. I had signed up for yoga, and MIT’s version was basically napping with strangers.

She pointed to my schedule. “That’s not on here.”

“Well, I’ll put it on there for you, but you can’t know where I am every second. . . . I mean, I have other things that come up too, without warning. Like my study group.” The lies came out easily, and the shame rained down. Would the heavens open so my ancestors could smite me?