Trade Me (Cyclone #1)(40)

“Tina, you’re a student. You need to keep your money for your studies. You give us too much.”

Those are just meaningless words. If she wanted me to give less, she would pay attention.

“It’ll be worse if I’m worrying about you,” I say shortly.

“But Tina,” my mother says, “how are you going to take your boyfriend out on a hot date if you spend all your money on us?”

“He’s not my—” I shake my head, biting off the words. “Stop distracting me. Mom, you have to take care of yourself first. Stop giving away everything.”

There’s a noise on the other end, one I can’t decipher without the aid of a picture. “Of course,” my mother says, her tone obstinately polite. “Just as you say. I’ll stop as soon as I forget.”

I feel a lump in my throat. I don’t really remember China. We left when I was six. I remember flashes, sensations. Sometimes, though, a stray smell—a whiff of car exhaust or the scent of roasting duck—will bring back a profusion of poorly understood feelings, things that tap into parts of my brain I don’t understand. I’ll find myself besieged by emotions I can’t quite place: fear, guilt, happiness, and something deeper, something that squeezes my heart like a vise. As if all my childhood memories are still there, waiting for me to rediscover them.

The only thing I really remember is my mother’s hand squeezing mine as we walked onto an airplane with fake papers and fake smiles. I don’t even know if that’s a real memory, either, or something I’ve reconstructed after the fact from being told the story too many times. I don’t remember facts at all. I just remember being afraid, so afraid that they’d find out and take Dad away. Again.

I don’t remember, and even I can’t walk away from my feeling of obligation.

“Mom,” I say instead, my voice shaking, “you and Dad have to be careful.”

Mom sighs. “No more cakes on the blog, huh? I told my boss it’s good for us. It brings in business.”

I try to laugh. I really try. It comes out kind of sickly. “No more cakes on the blog.”

I hit the end button. But it’s not over. I can feel Blake’s eyes on me. I can almost feel his pity and it pisses me off.

I don’t look at him. I curl my toes in my shoes and stare at the far wall.

“She’s not stupid,” I say in a low voice. “She remembers every immigration filing deadline for every friend she ever talks to. She doesn’t remember the utility bill because she doesn’t want to.”

“Tina.” Blake is still too close to me. I don’t want to look at him. I don’t want to look in his eyes. But I do anyway. “I was not going to suggest that a woman who makes cakes celebrating Miranda rights was stupid.”

I let out a shaky laugh.

“How long have you been handling your mother’s bills?”

“Since I can remember. At first it was because I was the only person in the house who wrote and spoke English well enough to understand them. Then I kept doing it because I was the one who did it.” I shrug. “Now… Maria says I’m enabling my mother.”

“Are you?”

“Maybe. But it’s not like she has a drug habit. She’s helping people. Someone should enable her.” I don’t look at him. “It’s stupid, but all I want out of life is to be able to put my parents’ bills on my autopay. I don’t want to worry that she’s skipping an insurance premium. But I’m afraid that if I do, my mom will just find new ways to give away money. At least a drug habit is finite—there’s only so much coke you can do in a day. This? There’s no end to it.”

He doesn’t say anything. He’s so close to me, so close I could lean over an inch and set my head on his shoulder. So close that he could slide his arm around me in comfort. And part of me wants that. I want it so much.

“You have the wrong idea about me,” I tell him. “You told me I’m focused. That I’m responsible. I’m not, really. I don’t know what I’m doing any more than anyone else does. I’m just too terrified to do anything else.”

He doesn’t put his arm around me. He doesn’t touch me. He just looks at me like he wants to.

“Out of curiosity,” he says, “that money I transferred to your account. Have you spent any of it?”

I haven’t wanted to touch any of it. I want to let it build up, a huge sum to ward off any possible danger.

Still, I slowly nod my head.

“On anything extravagant? Anything silly?”

I swallow. “I bought mangoes.”

He smiles a touch sarcastically, and I reach out and give him a little shove. That’s a mistake. It puts my hand in contact with his shoulder. His bare skin is cool to the touch, and I don’t pull away.

“Hey,” I say. “Mangoes are expensive.”

He doesn’t laugh at me, even though I know that to someone like him—to someone who spends fifteen thousand dollars a month, something I can’t even contemplate, mangoes are nothing. Even though I haven’t moved my hand from the point where it rests on his shoulder, and my thumb itches to caress him.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he says. “I’ll pay your parents’ utility bill this month.”