The Leavers(61)

“Wait—”

“She said to see her in two weeks, the Friday after next. May 15. You need to be up here by that afternoon.”

“I don’t know—how’s Dad? What are you doing for your birthday? Did he make you a treasure hunt?”

“We’re fine. We did the treasure hunt this morning. The first clue came in the mail, he put it in an envelope that looked like a bill! Then he had me walking down the street to find a clue in the Lawtons’ tulips. Now he’s cooking me dinner.”

“Tell him I didn’t mean it, with the essay.”

He heard Peter’s voice yell, “Honey?” and Kay said she had to go.

MAY 1, TWO WEEKS before the big show, Psychic Hearts played a few songs in an outdoor lot under the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, opening for Yasmin. Daniel had invited Michael, and he came up afterwards and shouted, “That was amazing.” Roland, Nate, and Javier looked over; Daniel had never had a friend appear at a show before.

He introduced Michael as his cousin, and Michael held his hand out to be shaken. Roland took it, while Nate and Javier nodded, then resumed talking.

“Your band rocked,” Michael said.

“Thanks for coming,” Daniel said.

Michael looked at Roland. “How do you two know each other?”

Roland raised his eyebrows. “We grew up together? Daniel’s like my oldest friend.”

“We grew up together, too,” Michael said. “We lived together in the Bronx.”

“You lived in the Bronx?”

“For a few years,” Daniel said.

“And your moms—your birth mom—they were sisters?”

“Something like that. Close enough.”

“Did you speak to her?” Michael asked.

“I left her a message, but I haven’t heard back yet.”

“Hold up,” Roland said, “you called your mom?”

“I got her phone number from Leon. Michael’s uncle.”

“It could’ve been the wrong number,” Michael said. “It was an old number.”

“It was her voice mail. I recognized her voice.”

“Then fuck it,” Roland said.

Michael’s mouth hung open. “Excuse me?”

“Sorry, I know it’s your birth mom and all, but if she doesn’t want to talk to you, it’s her loss. I told you, if you called you’d regret it.”

“You told him not to call his own mother?”

Roland brushed his hair back with his palm. “She’s not his mother.”

Daniel said, “She is my mother.”

“She didn’t raise you. I mean, I never knew my dad, and whatever, you know?”

“I never knew my dad either,” Michael said. “But Deming, I mean Daniel, he knew his mom really well.”

“Okay, do what you want then,” Roland said.

Michael’s face flushed. “Of course he will.”

Daniel said, “Well, Kay’s my mom, too.” He wished he could be cool; he wanted to not care. But instead he was like Michael; obvious, transparent. He asked Michael if he wanted to join them at a bar nearby, and when Michael said no, he had an early class tomorrow, Daniel felt relieved.

“It was good to finally see you in action, though,” Michael said. “Seriously, you guys rocked. You were like a harder Maroon 5.” As he walked away, he said, “Nice to meet you, Roland.”

“You, too,” Roland said.

As Michael turned the corner, Nate and Javier began to laugh. “Did he say Maroon 5?” Nate snorted. “Hey, Roland, does that make you Adam Levine?”

“Shut up, Nate,” Daniel said.

AT POTSDAM, HE WAS never satisfied at parties, always thought he should be somewhere cooler, more exciting, with friends who were cooler and more exciting. Now he was surrounded by people who were supposed to be cool, yet that elusive sense of self-satisfaction and contentment—love?—hadn’t materialized.

He went home by himself after the show, leaving Roland at the bar with his friends. Ever since he’d proved he could play, Nate had done a one-eighty with him, never forgetting his name, listening when he spoke. But Daniel didn’t want to hang with people who were pretending to be his friend only when it seemed socially advantageous, who iced out Michael like they’d done to him two months ago. He was Roland’s charity project and the guy in the background in Javi’s photo, but Michael had always been loyal.

Maybe his mother had been busy, or traveling in a place that didn’t have cell phone access, or she’d lost her phone or broke it and was in the process of getting a new one. Maybe his Chinese was so bad she hadn’t been able to recognize it was him, even if he’d said his name and repeated his phone number twice. Maybe his tones had soured from disuse, and the words he believed sounded passable to the fruit and vegetable vendors were actually babble, non-language, guttural ranting. Or she was pretending to not understand him.

He needed to know. He dialed the country code and the numbers. There was a soft click and a ringing that sounded far away. Daniel paced Roland’s living room and waited for her voice mail message to kick up.

He heard another click.

“Hello?” she said. “Deming?”

“Hello?” he said in Fuzhounese.