Butterflies & Characters

by Liz Hsu

  His eyes were impassioned. I stepped forward and lightly touched his forearms. He’d helped me so much recently, and I wanted to give him a little of that comfort back. Excitement coursed through me as I felt his wiry muscles. His skin was so smooth and, unlike Ross or Jeff, his arms weren’t very hairy.

  I tightened my fingers, realizing I needed to speak and not just awkwardly caress his arms. “You’ll be brilliant.”

  His lopsided grin hovered over me. This close, I had to look up to see his eyes. He must’ve been at least six-two. Normally he appeared to have almost solid black irises, but now I could see the line between his pupil and his dark, dark brown eyes. I could get lost in that contemplative gaze.

  “Thanks, Ray,” he said, his dimple popping.

  We held each other’s eyes for a what felt like a whole minute, until I realized I was distracting him from practicing when he was already nervous. I hastily withdrew my hands. I turned so he couldn’t see what I was sure were my red cheeks. I busied myself laying the newspaper I’d brought onto his coffee table before sitting down cross-legged and getting out the rest of my supplies, including my colored pastels. The music hadn’t started yet, so I glanced up. Charles was staring intently at me.

  I gulped, hoping I hadn’t been too obvious in my reaction to his eyes. Oh, Skittles! He was going to tell me he didn’t feel that way about me and then I wouldn’t have any friends here. I molded my rubber eraser between my fingers. “Charles?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll be gone for almost a week, but I’ll be back before school starts. I was going to say, if you want, I can drive you to school so that, you know, you don’t have to take the bus.”

  I beamed. “Really?” I couldn’t keep the excitement and relief out of my voice.

  He raked a hand through his hair, disheveling it further, before walking to the piano. “Yeah, I don’t mind.”

  “Thanks, that would be wonderful.” I couldn’t keep the grin off my face as I gazed at his shoulders. I’d been dreading taking the bus.

  Charles began his two-song sequence that I’d grown to love as I started to sketch a copy of a picture of the band. I’d printed it from Charles’s birthday concert. It was a perfect thing to sketch because the dark interior and bright stage lights created romantic shadows. It would also be a challenge with the instruments, especially the guitars—hands were never easy.

  I’d gotten so into my work I hadn’t even noticed the room had fallen silent or Charles had walked up behind me until I heard his intake of breath above me. I turned and met his eyes, suddenly self-conscious. I had to control the urge to hide my sketch.

  “That is so cool,” he said. Butterfly wings fluttered in my chest and not across my cheeks for once. “Can I send it to the guys?”

  “Sure.” I moved my hands away, even as I wondered whether it warranted showing to the guys. “I mean, if you think they’d like to see it.”

  “Ooooh, yea-ah!” he said, and I couldn’t resist a grin as his Michigander accent popped out. He snapped some photos with his phone. “This is awesome. We look like rock stars.”

  Maybe I’d been looking at it too long, but I just saw the flaws: Charles’s hand wasn’t quite right, and I didn’t like the glare on James’s glasses.

  “It’s just missing one thing,” he said.

  I looked down, unable to figure out what it was, then up at him.

  “You.”

  “What? I’m not in the band.”

  “You could be. Do you have a free period next year?” When I nodded, he said, “Take choir. James suggested it. Your voice is nice but could use a little training.” He motioned to the piano. “I didn’t get here overnight. People really liked the duet. James’s voice is so nice and deep; yours is high and sweet. Artistically, you complement each other well. We wouldn’t want you in all the songs, since that would change the style too much, but we could do a few covers. People love covers. We even talked about writing a song or two for you.”

  My mouth hung open. “You guys actually want me as a Snowblower?”

  He looked down and scuffed his sock, like he was nervous. “Yep.”

  I jumped up and squealed. I could tell from the look on his face he was startled, but I couldn’t help grabbing his forearms and jumping up and down. “I would love to be in your band,” I said breathlessly. “I don’t need study hall. You got yourself a backup singer.”

  He beamed down at me and I quickly dropped my hands. “Anyway, I should probably take you home. I need to pack for the trip.”

  “Sure,” I said and hurried to the sink to wash the pastels off my hands before gathering my stuff. But I paused before I put away my sketchbook. “Do you want the band sketch?”

  “You’d give it to me?”

  I laughed. “Yes, of course! I mean, you’ve been such a good friend, and you’ve driven me all over the place.” I gently tore it from the book and held it out to him. “Just be careful touching it, because it’ll smear. I have a sealant spray I can bring over and apply next time I’m here.”

  He took it with a look of reverence I didn’t think my drawing deserved. Before I turned back to finish tidying up, I burst out laughing.

  “What?”

  When I could finally talk, I said between snorts, “Your arms are covered in pastels. Sorry, I grabbed you when I got excited. I’m a messy drawer.”

  “It’s okay,” he said with his one dimple flashing and went to wash off the rainbow and black fingerprints.

  When we got to my place, I leaned over and gave him a big hug. It felt so good to hold him—firm, warm, and safe. His scent, a little like incense and uniquely him, lingered. I didn’t want to let go. I enjoyed the heat of his wiry chest too much. Dad gave hugs here and there, but hugging Charles reminded me how nice it felt to be held. Here I didn’t have Ross, Jeff, and my sisters hugging me every day.

  “Good luck, but you won’t need it. You’ll do great.” I pulled back and opened the door. As an afterthought, I added, “You can call me if you get bored with your family over there. It’ll be lonely here without you.” Then I jumped out and hollered, “Bye!” before he could answer.

  He waved once, an unreadable expression on his face, before backing up the car. Those cicadas in my chest buzzed faster. Charles was brilliant and talented. The only things people ever said about me were I was “a pretty girl,” “a sweet girl.” He’d never end up with an average, broken girl like me. When Charles dated someone, it’d probably be with the other perfect SAT scorer he’d meet at his international piano competition. Charles was a perfectionist. He would wait, patient and calculated, for someone perfect like him.

  It didn’t matter if I liked him. He was better as a friend than as nothing. I headed to the door, suddenly a little moody, shuffling my feet. My only friend here would be gone a week. I’d miss him. Jeez Louise, I’d miss him, and I hoped he’d call me.

  The drive to Toronto was long. Tediously long. And full of my parents’ questions about when I’d turn in my college applications. Duh, the answer was the first few weeks of school. I’d planned to do early action everywhere. Why not?

  As we drove through the bland, green Canadian countryside of south Ontario, I pictured the sharp San Gabriel Mountains framing Pasadena. It wouldn’t be flat and humid like it was here. I felt a trickle of sweat roll down my back. Baba was too cheap to turn on the AC, not wanting to get the costlier gas on the Canadian side of the border. Robotics camp, school, competitive piano lessons, Chinese school, and such my parents paid for without question. Everything else, I was on my own. And they were unbelievably frugal.

  They’d only purchased the Forester so I could complete all my activities. And the Forester had been a fight. It was a Japanese car, but it was also the best and cheapest used car option that provided great snow safety. They’d relented, and I fixed computers and did the snowblowing to afford my hobbies. I was lucky the stree
t we lived on had many snowbirds who went to Florida for months at a time. Not only was it obvious to leave the driveway unplowed, marking your house as vacant, it was illegal not to plow the sidewalk. They’d been more than happy to pay me to do it while they were gone.

  “Baba, please.” I finally broke. “I’m getting a headache. Turn on the AC.”

  “Jia Jia, here,” Ma said and turned it on low, rolling up the window. If it was just us, Ma always called me the familiar version of my Chinese name, Jiawei. She was sweating too. Low wasn’t much, but at least it was something.

  A little while later, we pulled into a familiar restaurant. Da Jo Jo and Da Jo Ma had flown in with Wàipó, my grandma. Their two daughters couldn’t come because of school obligations, but Da Jo Jo and Da Jo Ma had wanted to see Ma. Emily had just started her first year of medical school at the University of California, San Francisco, and Jane was going to be a senior at Berkeley studying programing. This summer she had an internship at Google; neither could get away.

  I got out and greeted my family, Er Jo Jo and Er Jo Ma, who we were staying with, and their twins, Megan and Marcus. The twins were high school seniors like me.

  “Eh, I hate the English translations at this place. I’m always tempted to type them a new menu,” Megan complained. “Slippery meat. Ew. No, thanks. That just sounds so gross. It’s not even gross.”

  I laughed. Slippery meat did not sound good. And she was right that dish tasted much better than the name implied.

  Wàipó entered with Da Jo Jo and Da Jo Ma, all looking tired. We stood to greet our grandma, who smiled when she saw Marcus and me. “Yun Ye and Yun Yu, how tall you both are.”

  I looked at Da Jo Jo, her son, whose name she’d called me. He had a pained look on his face.

  “Ma, this is Jiawei and Liqiang, your grandsons,” Ma told her mother gently. I’d known her Alzheimer’s was progressing and she had been losing her English, but I hadn’t realized it was this bad. She’d lived with us, helped raised me until I was ten.

  Her eyes brightened and she then hugged me, “Jia Jia, you are so handsome now. So tall.” She turned to Marcus. “Liqiang, you’re getting fat.”

  Megan snorted but straightened her face to embrace Wàipó.

  “Ming Ming, your bangs are so pretty,” she greeted Megan warmly, and then we sat down.

  As the meal progressed, Wàipó seemed fine, but I heard Da Jo Jo whisper to Ma that she’d been getting worse. After the meal ended, I went with Wàipó and my cousins to their house. My older uncle and aunt and parents went to a hotel nearby. Marcus and Megan sat in the den with Wàipó, but I practiced piano instead for several hours before heading to bed.

  I glanced up only once at the bright stage lights and audience before drawing a breath and starting. The Liszt piece flew from my fingers as my hands skated back and forth across the keyboard, twisting and crossing over each other. Then I heard the slip—the wrong key.

  It took everything I had to keep going, knowing now there was no way I’d make first. At least I could still place.

  I sucked in two deep breaths waiting for the applause to end before switching to my jazz piece, “Sweet Georgia Brown.” While it wasn’t easy, it wasn’t as difficult as the Liszt. As it finished and I stood to bow, a deep, crushing disappointment coiled inside me.

  I’d missed one note.

  Walking off the stage, I wondered if I could have studied more. If I should have practiced more and, ungraciously, if I’d allowed my friendship with Ray to distract me from the competition. For so long, I’d wanted Caltech more than anything. Now I wasn’t sure everything I’d done had been enough. This was why I just had the band: they understood school was more important than anything.

  Hours passed before the judges finally announced the results. My mouth fell open, before I stood. Second place. I’d listened to the competition and knew the songs I’d chosen had been the most difficult. The Liszt was fast and moved across the entire keyboard. Hearing my placement, I was able to breathe again, glad the risk had at least paid off—no one else had dared to play it.

  Yet, when we sat down to dinner that night with my family, I was disappointed that after months and months of practice, it still wasn’t enough. Da Jo Jo hadn’t said anything, but I saw on his and my aunt’s faces that they were weighting their daughters’ striking successes against my clear failure. Baba had told me to practice more before the next concert. Then he joked that maybe I’d be at Michigan after all. The words stung.

  Megan said not to worry, but she’d always been the nicest, least motivated cousin. After dinner, Wàipó went to bed. Megan and Marcus had asked if I wanted to go hang out with them and their friends, but I locked myself in the piano room instead and sat for hours playing—perfecting. I would not be stuck in Ann Arbor another four years. I wanted to go to Los Angeles. Eventually, my fingers cramped, and I headed up to Marcus’s room for the night.

  I grabbed what I needed to shower and thought about everything I could do to ensure this didn’t happen again. I had three messages from Ray and decided to text her in the morning. It was late; even Marcus was already back home and asleep. Part of me wanted to talk to her, though—tell her how disappointed I was in myself. I wanted to confide in her how scary and sad it’d been to have my grandma call me my uncle’s name.

  Marcus woke me by turning on the overhead lights. “Oh, sorry,” he said apologetically. “I forgot you were here.” He yawned. “When did you go to bed, anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied around a yawn of my own. I’d been so disappointed in myself; I’d just kept pushing—just one more time.

  “Come on, even you can’t work all the time. Family first. Dim sum time.”

  I got dressed, but couldn’t stop thinking about how I could fix this for next time. Before I went downstairs, I remembered to text Ray back.

  Morning, I placed 2nd.

  A few minutes later, my phone buzzed. Wow! I knew you’d do great.

  My stomach summersaulted. Maybe second place wasn’t too bad, but still, I’d expected myself to do better.

  Thanks. What are you up to today?

  I’m going to a lecture with Dad. Then gtg to school and have a meeting with the teachers about lupus /:

  Why?

  I dunno. The doctor asked me to. They think I’ll miss extra school, maybe. You?

  I could imagine hearing her voice and seeing her shrug, and it made me laugh. I’m spending time with my family, Wàipó is here.

  Wàipó <3 tell her I said hi!

  Moisture gathered at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked it away. Wàipó had met Ray so many times when she’d lived with us, but now Ray wouldn’t even be able to talk to her. She’d lost her English. Even if she hadn’t, my grandmother probably wouldn’t remember her.

  I will.

  I’ve been practicing some covers. I can’t wait to sing with the Snowblowers!!

  Her text brought the smile back to my face. At least she wasn’t as disappointed in me as I was with myself.

  “Charles!” rang out through the house, and I hastily texted back, gtg. I’ll be back Sunday evening. See you Tuesday at 8?

  Back to school (:

  The bedroom door flew open again and Marcus strolled in. “Hey, everyone is waiting.” He looked at my face and then phone, before asking, “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “What? No,” I said, sliding my phone away.

  “You just have this ridiculously happy grin on your face that my friends normally have when they’re texting their girlfriends.”

  I hurried down the stairs to our dumpling breakfast. Did I really have a look when I talked to Ray?

  “Nils, wait,” the speaker said to my dad as we were leaving the latest Brown Bag. He’d talked about micro-living and the newest complex his architecture firm had helped design, a residential tower in downtown Detroit. Dad had asked m
any questions, since it also provided a reduced rent option that was right up his economic heart’s alley. Dad was a social-economist and providing workers the ability to live safely and affordably downtown? He was interested one-hundred and ten percent.

  We stopped and turned. The speaker was a handsome, middle-aged man with silver laced, light brown hair. “Is this one of your graduate students? We’re always looking for promising recruits.”

  Dad put a hand on my shoulder. “This is Ray, my daughter.”

  “Daughter?” His eyes widened, and I felt myself cringe on Dad’s behalf. I mean, sure, Dad looked younger than he was, but it wasn’t entirely unthinkable that he could have a daughter my age. Fortunately, he recovered quickly and extended a hand. “Ray, nice to meet you. I’m Larry Davis. I’m a senior partner at Bartley, an architecture and design firm based here and in Detroit.”

  I shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, sir, Rayanne Ericson.”

  “Is that a Southern accent?”

  “Yes, sir. I was raised outside Savannah.”

  His face lit up. “How lovely. My parents have a place on Hilton Head. They’re snowbirds now. Are you visiting your dad?”

  “Actually, Ray’s living with me now,” Dad chimed in when I hesitated. “She’ll be a junior at Rosalind this year. You have a son about her age, right?”

  He smiled and looked at me anew. “Yes, Greg. He’ll be a junior at Rosalind, too. I’d love for you two to meet. I’d have to drag him to a Brown Bag, but you looked like you enjoyed it?”

  “Yes, sir. I’d like to be an architect.”

  “Michigan has a wonderful architecture program. And camp. You should consider their three-week architecture camp next summer. They often visit some of our firm’s projects.”