Rick’s eyes shift. He won’t tell me. Not the whole truth. He pockets his phone. “I didn’t see them coming. Then it was too late. She wouldn’t listen.”
“But why me then?”
He shakes his head. “Just watch out for her, okay? I’m glad you’re her roommate.” He drains his glass, chews on ice. “My prior offer still stands. You want to date someone on Loveboat, I’ll check him out for you.” I open my mouth to accuse him of changing the subject, but he continues, “Sophie wouldn’t listen to me, but I’d do the same for my little sister.”
Little sister.
I’ve leaned into him, my shoulder pressing into his upper arm. Little sister. A step above friends, but a metaphorical finger to my shoulder, pushing me back an inch. I open a gap between us. He and Sophie are the same: generously embracing me, her roommate, as family.
I hold out my hand. “I promise to check with you, Gēgē.” Big brother.
“For family,” he drawls, “no charge.”
We shake on it, sealing our new relationship.
16
A typhoon rages to the north of Taipei, sending showers down around the city. Thursday evening, on my way back to the dorms, a gust of rain-spattered wind blows me through the lobby doors of Chien Tan. It tugs at the bag of paper lanterns I picked up for Sophie’s weekend, which starts tomorrow afternoon. She’s been oddly close-lipped about her status with Xavier, but plans are still full speed ahead.
The lobby is full of kids playing Go and mah-jong. Mei-Hwa’s face glows as she plays a toe-tapping Taiwanese Aboriginal pop song on David’s laptop, swaying in her seat, on a mission to converting as many students as possible to her collection.
“Ālǐ Shān De Gū Niáng.” She chatters in Mandarin, slim hands gesturing.
“It’s not bad.” David says. “Not bad.”
As I shake water from my hair, a wisp of a courier in an orange reflective vest wheels his bicycle in beside me, hitching a brown-paper package higher under his arm.
“Xiǎojiě, wǒ zhǎo Woo Kwāng Míng.”
“I’ll take it to him.” I accept the box, which is heavier than it looks. Cute bunny stickers hop along the top and bottom, and in between, Rick’s name and address are scripted in copperplate English and Chinese, along with its sender’s.
Jenna Chu.
The box slips. I catch it by its strings before it hits the floor and explodes. Wrapping it in my arms, I hurry toward the dining hall.
He’ll be thrilled. Of course he will be. How nice to hear from his girlfriend, even at a summer program across the ocean.
At a table by the windows, Rick, along with Marc, Spencer, and Sophie—no Xavier—are digging into the daily feast. Steam rises from a tower of round bamboo baskets full of xiǎolóng bāo, a universal favorite. If Sophie is upset, she doesn’t show it: she has everyone snorting into their teacups with an elaborate story of revenge she took on a guy unlucky enough to have jilted her. I discreetly tuck the bag of paper lanterns under her seat.
“Rick, this came for you.” I drop the box into his lap like a five-hundred–pound weight, then take the seat two down, by Spencer, and pour myself a cup of red oolong tea.
Rick’s eyes flicker from the package to me. “Oh—cool.” He seems pleased, though not as pleased as I expected—and I really need to stop overanalyzing him.
I spoon steamed bass onto my plate, keeping my nosy eyes to myself as he tears the brown paper. Maybe I’m just always obsessed with the guy who isn’t available, so I don’t ever put myself on the line. Maybe that’s all that’s happening with Rick, and why I keep revisiting that moment I took his arm at the bar.
“Sweet,” Spencer says, and I glance up.
Rick unties lavender ribbons from a white box to reveal trays of chocolates shaped like squirrels, birds, acorns—homemade, by the looks of them. Silver confetti spill onto his lap as he lifts them out of the loveliest care package I’ve ever seen. I envision Jenna with her soft, black hair in a twist, pouring melted chocolate into molds, sprinkling confetti. She’s even included dry ice to keep it from melting—no wonder the express delivery.
“Wow, wish someone would send me one of those,” Spencer says.
“She must have spent hours on these,” Sophie says.
“Not hours,” Rick says. “She’s really efficient. She likes making things like this.” He’s so protective. He offers the chocolates around. I take an acorn, which turns out to have a perfect raspberry dot in its center.
“It’s yum.” I stab my chopsticks into my pork chop, trying to tear off a piece. I’m happy for Rick that he’s so well loved. I glare at my chop—why is it so tough tonight?
Sophie decapitates a bird with her teeth. “How much food can she send you before she has to pay export tax?” So this isn’t the first care package.
“Shut. Up. Soph.” Rick scowls. “She misses me. That’s all.”
He tucks a thick letter into his backpack, passes the last tray of chocolates to a table of grateful counselors, then reaches for the steamed fish.
The sun is high in the sky the next day when the wrench of our stubborn door opening wakes me. Sophie enters, draped in Xavier’s black shirt. I sit up in bed. Last night, she’d left Club Elektro arm in arm with him. Her hair is tousled, lips swollen. Kneeling between our beds, she unfurls a red silk rug. A web of intricate vines and white flowers unfold across the plush silk.
“Wow, he got you that?” I rub my eyes, as stunned by her state as the extravagant present.
“He left it outside the door for me.” She removes a gold safety pin that I imagine held a steamy love note.
“It’s gorgeous. He has such good taste.” Is it his way of making up for their fight? It’s a really nice gift, the nicest one yet, even more so because she didn’t ask him to buy it.
“It must’ve cost a fortune.” She brushes the pile so it lies even. “I mean, he could buy the entire market, but still.”
“So you guys patched things up? How?”
“My feminine charms.” She wiggles her arms and hips in a little dance, smiling mysteriously, then flops back on her bed. “Oh my God, Ever—I seriously would bear him a dozen babies.” Sitting up, she waves the menu for tonight’s dinner. “And everything’s going to the next level tonight. Silver or gold settings?”
“Silver.” I reach for one of the silk goody bags we’re stuffing, and pour a handful of hard candies inside. My job is to play supportive friend as she impresses Xavier with her family, then occupy them to give her space to slip him away for a seductive Saturday night on her aunt’s private rooftop garden. I’m determined to help make her weekend perfect.
“Fish or steak? Or both?”
“Both? Surf and turf?” I tie a satin bow, add the goody bag to the growing mountain on Sophie’s desk, and reach for another bag. She really is a combination of Pearl-like cute and Megan-manic energy, although there’s no one like Sophie Ha. “Don’t think it’ll matter.”
“Ever, what would I do without you?” She hands me a stack of cute stationary. “I found these yesterday. Take some,” she urges, more of her daily generosity. “You know, if Xavier was coming by himself, it would be too much pressure. You know how Asian families get about meeting the significant other. Especially my uncle. He really admires the Yeh family.”
“My parents would definitely freak out if I brought a guy to meet the family.”
“So that’s why this is just friends from the program coming over. I mean, of course they know he’s my boyfriend. But with you and Rick there, it’s balanced. Perfectly.”
I flip through the stack as Sophie moves to her mirror, a cyclone of nervous energy. She’s barely eaten in days. And the silver, the elaborate menus, the goody bags—does she really know what she wants out of this weekend?
“Hey, what’s this?” Sophie swoops down at the door, then waves a square of origami paper at me. “Ever! Secret admirer strikes again.”
“What? No way.” I slide off my bed. A new sketch. Blotches of col
or—blues, rust, and greens—that, when held at arm’s length, form . . . me. Balancing on the brick ledge in the courtyard yesterday, my arms out, one leg tipped out, my turquoise dress swaying to one side with a breeze. “It’s brilliant.” And by whom? Rick, Marc, and a bunch of guys had been playing a scrimmage game of football with an audience—anyone could have sketched this.
“Wish someone would draw me like that! Fourth one, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” I turn it over, looking for some clue, some hint to the artist. “I should feel creeped out, shouldn’t I?”
“This guy isn’t a creeper. He’s romantic. Maybe it’s Marc—he totally likes you.”
“Marc’s not into me that way.” And he feels like a brother, way more than Rick. “Besides, I think he likes boys. It might be someone I haven’t met yet.”
Or Rick . . . what if he’s pretending to help me find the guy, but it is him. My parents—I can imagine how happy that would make them—a fresh surge of anger floods through me. No way would I ever give them that satisfaction.
“Well, whoever he is”—Sophie yanks on our door, which has swollen even more with recent storms—“he can’t”—yank—“keep this talent under wraps forever!”
Grabbing my towel and toothbrush, I follow Sophie toward the bathroom, past Grace Pu and Matteo Deng passed out like a pair of cats on the lounge couch. Matteo, as it turns out, does have a temper, holding red-faced screaming matches with Grace up and down the hallway that usually ended with something broken—a bulletin board, a lamp, his toe—but they’ve made up again, clearly.
Inside the bathroom, Laura glances up from the sink, where she’s hunched over in her floral nightgown. Her bedsheets are bunched in her arms as she scrubs at a period stain. As we enter, her face flushes beet red.
“Those suck,” I say. At the same time, Sophie says, “David should wash those.”
Laura’s face deepens to an alarming eggplant purple. Her eyes slide from mine to Sophie’s. “Oh, no, I wouldn’t make him do this.”
Oh.
Not period stains.
My own face flushes as Sophie’s eyes meet mine in the mirror. I really am a baby.
“Just be careful.” Sophie runs her toothbrush under the faucet. “A girl went home pregnant a few years ago—”
“Ai-Mei? Nǐ zài nàlǐ ma?” Someone knocks on the door, calling my name.
“Shit, it’s Mei-Hwa.” Laura snatches her dripping sheets to her chest and backs into a stall, trailing water everywhere. No one since Xavier and Mindy has been busted for violating the no-boys-and-girls-in-the-same-room rule, but no one wants to become the next object lesson either.
“Um, just a minute!” I grab a paper towel and dry the floor, then step in front of Laura’s stall as Sophie opens the door. Mei-Hwa pokes her head in, running a nervous hand down her waist-long braid. She bites her lip, looking as though she wished she were anywhere but here, and peers at me.
“Nǐ shēngbìngle ma? Are you sick?”
“No, I’m good.” I shut off the third faucet, then curse myself for drawing attention to it.
“You missed classes all week.” She’s using English—I’m in trouble. “We switched electives Monday and you haven’t been to a single Calligraphy class.” Mei-Hwa fidgets with the green ribbon on her braid. My heart sinks. Sophie’s missed classes, too. Not as many as me, but still, no one’s tracked her down. “Gao Laoshi is getting ready to call your parents.”
“Oh!” The Dragon strikes again. “No need.” I push past her into the hallway, leading her away from Laura. “I was just heading to Calligraphy.”
I grab a sesame bun from the dining hall, then head outside into the back courtyard, where a stone carp the size of a baby beluga spouts water into a basin. The afternoon sun beats down on my hair, but the air is muggy with the promise of rain. As I round a corner toward the gym, the swing of a long stick nearly takes off my head. I duck as the wind of it tugs at my hair, stumbling back against the wall.
“What the—!”
“Oh, sorry, Ever.” Rick hauls me by my arm to my feet, flashing a lopsided grin. A tiger-striped bo staff is in his hand. He yells and ducks himself as another staff comes swinging. He swings back at a guy I don’t recognize, shoulders surging under his blue shirt. Dropping into a fighter’s crouch, he charges his partner. All through the side yard, the cracks of rattan bo staffs punctuate the air as pairs of fighters battle it out while Li-Han calls instructions.
I’ve walked into the stick-fighting elective. I watch, envious, mesmerized by the action.
Spin, turn, jab.
Attack, counterattack.
Rick blocks another blow.
“You’re up early,” he says. Asshole—it’s just past one.
“Too early.” I give him the finger, low, earning a startled exclamation from his partner. Then I duck around them and head into the gym, Rick’s chuckle ghosting behind.
Calligraphy occupies four tables across the gym, by the bleachers. On my way there, I pass the ribbon-dancing elective: Debra and other girls undulate silk ribbons attached to sticks, drawing yellow, red, and orange spirals and curlicues in the air. Their graceful instructor demonstrates a basic dance and I find myself improving on it: If they moved in two counter revolutions. If they widened the arcs of the ribbons . . .
Some of the girls have great form and rhythm. I should be dancing with them, but Madame Szeto, Swan Lake—I’m finding my own way.
The calligraphy tables are divided into individual stations: stacks of large sheets of rice paper, black inkstones, bamboo jars of long-handled brushes. I take a seat. A few easels by the bleachers display samples of calligraphy. To my surprise, they’re nothing like the soul-sucking character charts of Chinese school. They’re works of art.
“Ever Wong.” The familiar low voice draws my name into a song. Xavier pulls out the chair beside me. With a jerk of his head, he flicks his wavy black hair from his eyes. His arm brushes mine and my face heats. He’s sitting too close.
“Your dad must have picked your electives, too.” I scooch a few inches away. I need to be friendly, but distant. We haven’t been together without Sophie since they got together.
“Something like that.” His dark eyes sweep mine with a challenge, looking at me like he did that first day. Mayday. Mayday. I glance around for support, but I don’t know the kids in this class well.
“So,” he says. “We’re headed to Rick and Sophie’s aunt’s this afternoon.”
“Yeah,” I say, “should be nice.” Then I turn my back and flip through my book of fancy characters.
There’s a knack to holding a máo bǐ—a calligraphy brush with a soft head of rabbit, goat, or wolf hair. Lefties are encouraged to switch to right or the stroke ends don’t come out right, but our teacher is a lefty herself, and lets me slide. We practice slow versus fast strokes. I get a mini-lesson on grinding ink, which I do to the rhythm of the ribbon-dancing songs. I wish my Chinese school teacher back home had let us use brushes and inkstones instead of copying characters by the hundreds. Maybe I would have lasted longer.
In the courtyard, the stick-fighting elective is going strong—the thwacks of bo staffs audible through the glass doors. My fingers itch to spin a staff—but I’m stuck with paintbrushes. Still, lulled by the ribbon-dancing music, I find myself sinking into the character work, focused on getting the strokes right.
“Xiang-Ping, this is very nice, but the assignment is to copy the poem.” The teacher’s voice is strained. They’ve had this conversation before.
Xavier’s page holds just a single character: a square with a dash in the middle. The character for sun. He’s mocked it, too: childish rays blast from it.
He shrugs, making no move to pick up his brush. His demerit list is easily the longest, thanks to his refusal to turn in a single assignment, in Mandarin or Chinese Medicine. “Aren’t we all bored to death being treated like babies?” Sophie defended him, when the subject came up one night.
Now, our Calligraphy te
acher laughs helplessly, and turns to another student.
Before I can look away, Xavier gives me a lazy smile that reminds me of his kiss on my knuckles.
Then he dips his máo bǐ into his inkwell and begins to paint on a fresh sheet of rice paper. By the roundness of his strokes, I can tell he’s not drawing characters.
“You’ll get in trouble again,” I whisper. Not that he cares.
Sure enough, he shrugs. I find myself inching closer, but he hides it with his arm.
“What are you painting?” I finally ask.
His teasing grin crinkles his eyes. “Show you in a minute.”
He makes me wait another five. But at last, he hands the paper to me.
I feel a lightning bolt of shock. Familiar blocks of color form this gymnasium setting. The máo bǐ hang like a row of cattails on their drying racks. Ribbon dancers swirl in the margins.
And in the center of it all is painted, in a style I’d recognize anywhere . . . a girl.
Me.
17
“You’re the artist.”
Prickles run down my back. Xavier was drawing me before he and Sophie even got together. I wouldn’t be human if I denied that a part of me is incredibly flattered. One of the most sought-after guys on Loveboat has rendered my portrait five times.
This guy wants you, Sophie had said.
He smiles. “Did you think it was Whole Foods?”
“Of course not,” I say. Too quickly. His eyes flicker. I knew it couldn’t be. But why this rush of disappointment? I don’t want the Boy Wonder my parents would swoon over. And if Rick had been the artist, dating Jenna, sending me this unspeakable message while pretending to help me figure it out, my respect for him would have diminished.
“Why?” I ask Xavier.
“Why what?”
“Why are you drawing me?”
“Am I any good?”
Just like that, he’s forced me to study it: My miniature hand hovers a máo bǐ over my rice paper. The first stroke of a character waits for a companion. Inky hair waterfalls along my face and my profile is turned—not toward the paper, but the bo fighters outside the glass doors.
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