by Katie Zhao
The smells of Chinatown—fried foods, fish, Chinese medicine—grew stronger as we walked down Canal. I trailed Alexander down the sidewalk. My suspicions were confirmed: we were going the opposite direction of the Lucky Jade Kitchen. Alexander rounded the corner onto the Bowery, deeper into Chinatown.
My mind raced faster than my feet as I tailed Alexander. I’d spent enough time hiding my own secrets that I could spot when someone else was hiding skeletons in their closet.
Here were the facts I knew about Alexander Lin:
He was a scholarship student, like me.
He worked at the Lucky Jade Kitchen.
He shared an apartment on the Lower East Side with two college students.
He never liked going into details about his parents, but I knew they were traveling abroad somewhere.
His brother, Eric Lin, had been a star scholarship pupil at Sinclair Prep before he was caught cheating and thrown out of the school, all prospects of college gone.
He was hiding something. Probably.
We veered away from the bustling Bowery toward a run-down section of Chinatown. There were empty, abandoned shops, their storefronts decorated with half-lit neon signs and scrolling messages that flashed Chinese characters, promising cheap massages and haircuts. A couple of smashed cans and pieces of paper rattled across the sidewalk. We passed by grocery stores spilling wares onto the sidewalk, souvenir shops, and a mahjong parlor. Still Alexander didn’t stop—not until he reached the end of the road, where Chinatown led out into the rest of the city.
If Alexander turned his head a little bit, he’d see me. I ducked behind a clothing rack full of qí páo, traditional high-necked, form-fitting Chinese dresses. From here, I watched Alexander at a safe distance.
A few moments later, the answer rolled up in the form of an Asian guy a little shorter but about the same build as Alexander. Couldn’t have been older than maybe twenty. I squinted. He had shoulder-length black hair, and wore a black tank top with ripped blue jeans. Krystal would have called the sight of him a fashion disaster.
The young man struck me as familiar, but I couldn’t quite place where I’d seen him before.
Alexander gestured with his hands, and the other guy folded his arms across his chest. It looked like they were arguing. From this distance, I could hear that they were speaking in Mandarin, but their speech was a little too fast for me to follow.
Alexander reached into his pocket and dug out his wallet. He flipped it open and pulled out a wad of cash, which he stuffed into the guy’s hands.
The stranger flipped through the bills. Apparently satisfied, he bopped Alexander over the head with the wad of cash, then shoved it into his pocket and left.
Alexander stood there for a moment longer, watching the guy as he departed. I wished I knew what kind of expression his face was making. As if he’d read my mind, he turned around. Heart thumping, I ducked back behind the qí páo, nearly toppling over the rack.
Had Alexander seen me? I held my breath for what felt like far too long, listening to the sound of his footsteps as they approached the rack, and then growing fainter as he moved farther down the alleyway.
I straightened my trembling knees and stood, struggling to process the exchange I’d witnessed.
Was Alexander in money trouble? Had he been paying off that guy for some kind of job? Or—maybe he’d done something he needed to cover up, something awful.
I didn’t notice until it was too late that the footsteps had come back—then the rack of clothing parted, and a face appeared between the dresses. “Gah!”
Alexander crouched. There was no trace of his usual smile, his usual laid-back manner. “Nancy, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Dress . . . shopping . . . ?” I tried weakly. Okay, so it wasn’t one of my better on-the-spot lies.
“You were following me. Did you see?”
I didn’t play dumb this time. Ducking out of the dress rack, I straightened and looked Alexander square in the eyes. I tilted my head up defiantly. So he’d caught me tailing him. So what? I’d caught him in the act of doing . . . well, I didn’t know what, exactly, but something not great.
“What are you involved in, Alexander? That guy—did you pay him off for some job, or was that hush money, or—?”
“Have you been watching too many crime dramas?” Alexander groaned. “I promise it’s nothing like that. And lower your voice, would you?” He cast a nervous look around the alley, but nobody was stopping to eavesdrop on a pair of teenagers. He sighed. “I guess I’ll have to explain everything to you. Come back to my apartment with me.”
Luckily, Alexander lived a few streets away. A turn onto Chrystie Street and we were there, gazing up at a four-story brick apartment building.
When I stepped into the cramped, three-bedroom apartment Alexander shared with two roommates, I wasn’t sure what to expect. It was a simple place. The walls were bare except for a few Fortnite gaming posters. It was mostly tidy, but there were small messes here and there: an empty water bottle on the floor, a half-eaten PowerBar on the kitchen counter, an open bag of chips on the coffee table.
“My roommates are in class, so they won’t be back for a while. Make yourself comfortable,” Alexander said, gesturing toward the black couch in the middle of the living room. I sat slowly, still taking in the apartment around me. “What’s so interesting about this place?”
“I . . .” It felt like a home, I realized. Alexander’s apartment, bare and simple though it was, was filled with signs that people actually lived here, interacted here. This place was more welcoming to me than Jamie’s, Krystal’s, and Akil’s fancy homes had ever been. My wandering eye caught something. “Wait. Is that photo . . . ? Is that the phone selfie we took that one time at Krystal’s, before your birthday dinner? During freshman year?” I pointed up at the one framed photo that sat on top of the bookshelf sitting across from me.
“Oh, yeah. It’s a great photo.”
“I remember that day.” The day Krystal had given me a makeover. The day I’d skipped out on going to the movies to hang out with Peter instead. And when I left Peter’s place, the train had been delayed, so I got to Alexander’s birthday dinner at Sushi Maido half an hour late.
In the photo, I wasn’t even smiling—just staring straight-faced into the camera. It was probably the worst picture of everyone else, with Krystal mid-blink, Jamie frowning, and Alexander giving a straight smile. Meanwhile, the light hit my cheekbones at the perfect angle.
I looked sultry, like a model. Like a girl who belonged among the elite at Sinclair Prep.
“You look good in that photo,” Alexander said.
A warm blush rose to my cheeks. “Thanks.” I wondered if he’d framed that particular picture because I looked good in it. But that was egotistical thinking. Wasn’t it?
Alexander nodded, looking a bit flustered. A moment passed as we averted our eyes from each other. Then, Alexander said, “Okay, so, back there—what you saw—” He dropped his head into his hands, sighing. “You remember my older brother, Eric?”
“Of course I do. I—wait.”
The young Asian guy. His hair had grown out a lot since I’d last seen him, but now there was no mistaking who he was.
“Back there . . . that was Eric?”
Alexander nodded. “Eric is . . . he . . . he’s not well.” His voice cracked. His shoulders slumped, as though he’d been carrying the weight of the world on top of them and could no longer do so. “After he got caught cheating and was kicked out of Sinclair, he went . . . well, things are kind of bad. He’s out on his own, in trouble for some petty theft. I figured it’s better for me to . . . to hide him. Keep a close watch on him, give him what he needs to live. Eric’s always insisted that he didn’t cheat on that AP World exam, and I believe him. But, you know—some powerful people—that stupid Golden Trio”—Alexander’s eyes flashed as he spat out the name, and it was then, only then, that I put together the pieces, truly understood why he
seemed to dislike Peter—“they accused him of cheating, and there was proof against him. I told Eric we should clear his name anyway, but he begged me not to do anything. He was scared of what the Golden Trio might do to retaliate against us. People like them—they’re not like us. They don’t face the same consequences we do.
“After that . . . I mean, everything was over for Eric. His scholarship, his high school diploma, his dreams of the Ivy League. Everything . . . gone. People like us—we don’t—we don’t get second chances, you know?” Alexander’s chest heaved, and he balled his hands into fists as he blinked back tears.
“I know we don’t,” I said quietly. The world never let me forget that. One misstep and it was over, all over. “Alexander . . . I’m so sorry.”
“Eric says he never cheated, and I trust him.”
“Of course he didn’t.” Alexander’s hand was lying there on the coffee table between us. Instinctively, I reached over and held it.
A single tear trickled down Alexander’s cheek. “I’m not ashamed of him. I’m not. My . . . my only brother. He’s the only one I’ve got.”
I swallowed. Questions swirled around in my head, but now wasn’t the time to badger Alexander with them. I squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back.
“You’ll keep this a secret, right?” Alexander whispered. He raised his head, locking gazes with me.
“Of course. Your secret’s safe with me.”
If there was one thing I could do well, it was keeping secrets.
CONFESSION THIRTEEN
Thoughts and prayers with Jamie’s family and friends —Anon
*****
The funeral for Jamie was held on Saturday.
I woke up to Mama knocking on my door. “Get up, Le-Le. Jamie’s funeral starts in one hour.”
The outfit I’d chosen for the funeral was a simple lace dress. White, the color of death for Chinese funerals. I stared at my face, at the faint, little brown spots that dotted my upper cheeks, which stood out prominently against my pale skin. Freckles—from standing in the sun too long, Mama claimed—that my family had always seen as imperfections.
I practiced smiling in the mirror. First my own smile, tentative and shy. Then Jamie’s, confident and sly.
It was a cloudy day, a perfect match for the gloomy mood. Mama and I rode the train in silence. When we arrived at the First Congregational Church on the Upper East Side, I was on full alert. There was a strong possibility the Proctor could be here. They knew so much about Jamie and her friends, after all. I couldn’t let my guard down.
My gaze swept the crowd of mourners. As with everything they ever did, the Ruans had gone all out; several of their family members who lived in China had flown in, and they were all dressed in lavish, but respectful, white clothing. My eyes sought out one figure in particular—and there. I found him.
Peter’s sharp brown eyes met mine, and we exchanged a quick smile. In that trim white suit, he cleaned up well. He always did. Then my gaze slid toward the two guys sitting right next to Peter, and my heart sank into my stomach.
Peter had warned me, but it still wasn’t enough to stop the dread that filled me. It had been almost two years since they’d graduated and left Sinclair. Two years since I’d seen them, been confronted with their anger toward me. But I’d recognize those profiles anywhere.
Richard Li and David Kim. The Golden Trio, reunited for Jamie’s funeral. The last I’d seen them all together like this, it had been for a different funeral two years ago, and the irony of that wasn’t lost on me. Painful memories surfaced, but I forced them back. Not here. Not now. Today was about Jamie, and only Jamie.
Luckily, Richard and David had their backs turned and hadn’t noticed me. I ducked my head down before that changed.
A text notification popped up on my phone.
Peter: Good to see you and ur mom made it
Nancy: It’s Jamie’s funeral, we wouldn’t miss it
“Nancy, stop texting. It’s rude. Dǒng guī ju,” Mama hissed. She craned her neck and peered over my shoulder, but I shoved my phone out of sight. If my mother knew I was texting a guy—even worse, a guy who was currently my student teacher—she’d faint dead away. That was definitely not dǒng guī ju, or practicing my manners.
We snagged a spot at the end of the front row. Everyone, and I mean everyone, had turned out to pay their respects to Jamie and her family. Even people who’d been talking shit about the Ruans for weeks. After all, if the wealthiest, most influential Asian families didn’t turn up, people would have talked. And then those families would lose face, or miàn zi. That was the worst thing of all, a fate worse than death.
I wondered what it’d be like to have so many relatives and friends fly in from all across the country and globe to mourn your death. I’d be lucky if my father showed up to my funeral; forget the aunts and uncles and cousins I’d never gotten the chance to meet. I wondered how many funerals of relatives and friends Mama had missed because we couldn’t afford tickets to visit China. How many lives she’d left behind, the goodbyes she’d never gotten to say.
Jamie had so many people to shed tears for her. Friends. Peers pretending to be friends. Extended family. I had only a handful of friends and my mother. A familiar jealousy rose within me, but I shook it off quickly.
Remember: today wasn’t about me. It was about Jamie.
It was always about Jamie.
A group of girls I recognized as Jamie’s volleyball teammates gathered in a group, dabbing at their tears with their sleeves. Alexander, Akil, Krystal, and their parents sat near me and Mama. They waved at me, and I waved back.
“So sad,” Mama mumbled, patting my hand. “We’re attending a funeral for Jamie, only two years after attending a funeral for another student . . .” She heaved a sigh, like the weight of the whole world sat upon her shoulders. “Zhēn kě xī. What a shame.”
I squeezed my mother’s hand. “Yeah.”
Jamie Ruan’s smiling face stared down at us from the portrait above her closed casket. She posed with a volleyball tucked under her arm.
The golden inscription along the side of her casket read, In inceptum finis est. Even in death, this school was claiming her.
The pastor walked up to the altar, taking slow, careful steps, his expression solemn. “We are here today to pay our love and tributes to Jamie Ruan, an outstanding student at Sinclair . . .”
His words didn’t matter, I realized. He was merely reciting what we already knew. Everyone knew Jamie as the top student, the class president, the captain of the girls’ volleyball team. Then they knew her as the daughter of a corrupt businessman. She’d lived and died by that image.
But the pastor and the others didn’t know Jamie like I did. They wouldn’t remember Jamie as I did. As the girl with the toothy grin and fancy, frilly red dress, who’d been one of the first to welcome me when I was new to town. I remembered her as the girl I’d ridden bikes with in Central Park or through Chinatown during so many hot summer afternoons.
Jamie Ruan was the girl I’d fought with, the girl I could never surpass. The girl who’d drifted away from me with each passing year of school, who could be as selfish and imperfect as the rest of us. Memory after memory of our complicated friendship tumbled through my mind, from Shuang Wen Chinese School and Sinclair Prep—the Incident—and everything in between.
A young Jamie passing me her last White Rabbit candy during Chinese class.
A slightly older Jamie handing me a lemonade popsicle as we biked through Central Park, leaves crunching under our tires.
A Jamie who appeared weary of everything, standing beside me, as we lowered our heads, mourning the dead. Mourning Em.
Maybe Jamie would have wanted us to remember her only as the perfect 4.0 student, as the girl who could do no wrong. But she’d been so much more than that. So much more than a number in our ranking system. She’d been someone I’d shared some of my darkest secrets with, and who in turn had shared hers.
Jamie R
uan had been a daughter. A friend. A rival.
A person.
I hoped everyone could remember that. Flaws and all, Jamie Ruan had been much more than a Sinclair Prep statistic or the daughter of a corrupt businessman.
When the funeral service ended, we stuck around for a little bit. I desperately wanted to leave. Richard and David were mingling, and every time they drew close to me, I ducked down and let my curtain of hair hide my face.
“We have to speak with Jamie’s family,” Mama said softly, dabbing at her tears with her handkerchief.
No. Anything but that. Richard and David stood with Peter, right next to Jamie’s immediate family. “I don’t think Jamie’s family would even want to talk to us,” I blurted out in my panic. “You said we aren’t supposed to talk to the Ruans anymore, remember? Because of the scandal.”
Mama stared at me like I’d uttered something disgusting, and I dropped my gaze to my feet. “They lost their daughter, Le-Le. How could we ignore them right now?”
I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I had no response to that.
Mrs. Ruan was sobbing into a handkerchief, her voice so loud that her words carried over the crowd. “I don’t understand . . . who would do such a thing . . . Jamie was so happy.”
Jamie was so happy. I narrowed my eyes as a memory flashed to the surface of my mind. I’d almost forgotten the words Jamie had told me months ago.
I’m not happy, she’d said. Her eyes had been so serious and sad, filled with some internal storm that had frightened me with its intensity. I’m not happy, Nancy.
I hadn’t known what to say, so I didn’t say anything. I’d figured Mr. Ruan would be released soon enough, that Jamie would go back to being the rich, popular, untouchable, perfect girl again. And I was done talking with her, couldn’t bring myself to be her friend after our blow-up at her birthday party. Done letting Jamie run our friendship, run my life.
But now, I wished I’d pressed Jamie. I wished I’d demanded to know why the girl who had it all looked deeply sorrowful and pained. Why she looked like she actually had nothing.