by Stacey Lee
I grit my teeth. “I doubt it, given it is a school for girls.”
Her ma speaks without moving her thin lips. “Not every tree is meant to bear fruit. Sometimes a girl has too much yeung to be married.” That is her way of saying I am too male, as opposed to the female energy, yam. The woman considers herself an expert on marriage, having secured the silk merchant’s son for Ling-Ling. Unfortunately he died last winter before they were married; though he was forty-two.
The cake grows soggy in my palm.
Ma puts her steadying hands on my shoulders, which have migrated to my ears. “I have found that the sweetest fruit comes from the trees that have been given time to grow.” She lances Ling-Ling’s ma with her all-seeing eyes.
“Come, Ling-Ling.” The woman ushers her daughter away.
Ma takes the cake from me, knowing I will not eat it.
In the back of the crowd, a figure leans against a wall posted with Chinese scrolls, his faded newsboy cap pulled low. Tom could be just another onlooker with his dark Chinese suit and slipper shoes. But unlike the others, his presence fills me with something warm and healing, like the first sip of soup to a starving man.
Jack presses something into my hand: our Indian head penny. “Take this for your adventures.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Don’t spend it on candy.”
A hot lump forms in my throat. “I won’t.”
A roofless blond-colored car pulls up, engine rattling clackety-clack and gas lamps turning the street white. A black man jumps out of the driver’s seat and pulls his goggles to his forehead. “Evening. You must be Mercy. I’m William.”
“Good evening, sir.”
People inch closer to the vehicle, ogling its shiny chrome and velvet seats.
Jack attaches himself to me. “Why do you have to go?”
My chest tightens, and I suddenly wonder if the cost of attending St. Clare’s is too dear after all. Monsieur Du Lac made it clear that Jack and my parents could never visit since it would expose the deception. I will be missing out on a whole springtime of Jack’s life, and nothing can replace that.
But one day, when I can buy him more than the bones of the ox, it will be worth it.
I go because Ba is training you for the laundry, and you haven’t even lost your first tooth. Because Ba works sixteen grueling hours a day, and he needs a rest. And because, baby brother, our ma believes in me.
I bend down so our faces are even. “One day, we shall sail to the South China Sea. Maybe we’ll even get a peek at Ba’s Precipitous Pillars.” Ba was always talking about those sandstone towers he saw as a boy.
“Who will do the laundry then?”
I look him straight in the eye. “Not us. Now, if you start to miss me, place one grain of rice into my bowl. If I’m not back by the time there are enough grains to fill a soup spoon, I’ll let you throw this on our next adventure.” I show him our coin.
Jack rubs his eyes with his fists. The bruises on his knuckles are now the shade of summer squash.
“Oh, Jack.” I squeeze him. “A last game of Two Frogs on a Stick?”
It kills me when he shakes his head. He has never refused to play our game of who can make the other laugh first.
“You ready, Miss? I have another pickup to make.” The driver’s low voice is professional but not unfriendly as he opens the door. He already placed my travel satchel—containing my uniforms, underwear, toiletries, padded Chinese jacket with matching trousers, and of course, Mrs. Lowry’s book—into the trunk.
“Come here, dai-dai.” Ma pulls Jack to her, strapping her arms across his thin chest.
Ma stiffens as I hug them both. We don’t often embrace. “You’re a good girl,” she says thickly, one of the few English phrases she uses with me.
“Say good-bye to Ba for me,” I tell her in Cantonese to let her know I will not forget my roots.
“Remember not to be loud, and to get along with the others,” she adds sharply.
Jack watches me get into the car. I give him a smile that he doesn’t return. Then William toots the horn, and we’re off.
“There’s a robe on the floor for your feet if you get cold.”
“Thank you, sir.” I spread the blanket over my toes.
Though this is my first ride in an automobile, I cannot enjoy it. My heart aches as we leave Chinatown. The image of Jack scrubbing his eyes rips a hole in my soul the size of California.
Twisting in my seat, I search for a last glimpse of Tom.
The sight of Ling-Ling talking to him hits me like a fist to the face. Her gaze is cast demurely, her body angled to show off her slender figure. Ling-Ling’s ma, standing behind her, lifts her cunning eyes to me, and a smugness creeps over her hard features.
I am tempted to tell William to turn around and, while he’s at it, aim for the crone with the lacquered bun. As soon as Ling-Ling’s ma digs her claws into anything, it is hard to escape.
As the expression goes, when there is no tiger in the mountain, the monkey declares himself king. Well, let them try to snare Tom. Didn’t he once tell me Ling-Ling’s breath stank of onions? Then again, that was when we were ten and still racing pill bugs.
I am so consumed by my thoughts that I don’t notice we’ve stopped in front of the St. Francis hotel until the door swings open.
Elodie Du Lac steps out in a cream-colored coat that perfectly matches her silk gown. She stops short when she sees me in her automobile. Our gazes meet, but I am the first to look away, focusing instead on the wood of the steering wheel.
Elodie slides in beside me. She doesn’t bother to say hello, so I don’t, either.
William starts the car again. “How was your dinner, Miss Du Lac?”
“Mediocre.” She arranges her gloved hands over a beaded purse. “My pheasant came with an artichoke that looked like a squashed toad on my plate. I wanted to complain, but Maman said that was the way it was and I had to accept it.” She smirks at me, and I realize she is not talking about the artichoke. “Rather dismal way to live life, don’t you think?”
William doesn’t reply, eyes focused on the road.
I cough. “For the artichoke?”
Her rosebud lips crush together, then pop open with a tsch! “My papa tells me I am to pretend you are an heiress from China. I am not fond of make-believe.”
“Then I suggest we interact as infrequently as possible.”
She frowns, reminding me of Tom’s old bulldog, Chop, who never seemed happy, even in front of the meatiest bone. “Suits me fine.”
She gathers the silk folds of her coat around her, hoods her eyes, and stares straight ahead. A clammy sort of anxiety settles on me. She could make my life very difficult, even if she keeps my secret.
For the rest of the trip, we sit in thorny silence, made even thornier by a parade down Market Street, which slows traffic to a walking pace. San Franciscans love to parade—even the Chinese, though we generally reserve our processions for funerals.
When we finally arrive at the school, the house lights are lit, casting golden halos over the brick facade. Elodie hardly waits for William to stop the car before she alights from the cabin. The door nearly swings shut on me, but William grabs it.
“Thank you,” I say.
William winks. “I’ve been catching doors for forty years.”
Mrs. Tingle waits for us on the stoop. I confirm that my skirts are straight, then follow Elodie into the mansion. She flounces up a winding staircase, but I stop at the foyer, feeling like an intruder.
“Please wait here,” says Mrs. Tingle, bustling away.
Ma would disapprove of a door-facing stairway. The door is the mouth through which energy flows into the house, and a staircase opposite causes energy to rush upstairs, leaving the first floor empty. Keeping flowers on the ground level helps encourage energy to linger, but the only vase I see—a
heavy white and blue one that looks, ironically, Chinese—sits empty.
The cut carpet features a peacock, its head turned toward the name of the school, while an enormous Tiffany chandelier, as big as the one Jack and I saw at the Palace Hotel, hangs over the staircase. More peacocks are pieced into the glass. It’s an interesting choice of mascot. For the Chinese, a peacock symbolizes compassion and healing as the favored animal of the goddess Goon Yam, who refused immortality to stay on earth and aid humanity.
“Such noisy, irksome birds.” A woman who looks to be in her fifties appears at the foot of the staircase.
A hump between her shoulders combined with her bustle gives her the posture of a smoking pipe, all held tightly in a dress of gunmetal gray. Her pupils are like pencil dots on sky-blue paper, with pouches below them that Ma would say result from “unshed tears.” Her dark hair, shot through with silver, is pulled into a bun. Something about her severe appearance makes me conscious of my every imperfection, from my crooked teeth to the blisters on my too-long toes.
“I’ve never seen one in real life, ma’am.” To sound more like a Chinese native, I sprinkle my speech with a light Chinese accent, which simply involves rounding out certain syllables. I mimic how Ba speaks English. Belatedly, I remember that if I’m a wealthy heiress, I probably would keep a whole flock of peacocks in my summer palace, or wherever it is I live.
“You are fortunate. They squawk as loud as someone being murdered. Messy, too. We used to keep a pair on the grounds, but after a month of that vexation, I had our cook roast them for dinner.” Her mouth is an even line, the kind that doesn’t need to open much to say a lot.
“If they are so irritating, why do they represent the school?” I ask meekly.
Her face becomes cunning. “Because they are proud in bearing and the envy of all other birds.”
I spend the next moment wondering what to say, but she breaks the silence. “I am Headmistress Crouch. I must admit, your command of the English language is impressive. Even the local Chinese don’t speak half as well.” One threadbare eyebrow lifts a fraction, sending a bolt of fear into my heart.
“I was educated in an American school in China. Father hopes for me to help with the family business one day. We are tea merchants.” That seems the safest lie, as tea is China’s greatest export.
“What is the name of the school?”
“Gwok Jai Hok Haau American School.” I hope that one’s hard to remember.
“Why would an American school have a Chinese name?”
“It is how they do things in China.”
Headmistress Crouch rakes her eyes down my uniform, then up again. “Are you Catholic?”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Which parish?” The questions fly like darts.
“The parish of Wong Hoh, the eternal flowing river of accountability.”
“That hardly sounds Christian.”
“I am sorry. Again, the Chinese do things a little differently.” I bow my head apologetically, wondering how long before that excuse wears thin.
“Clearly.” She grips the polished rail with a clawlike hand, and her steely eyes bore into my skull, as if trying to look around inside. I begin to doubt that I will even make it past the first step. Monsieur said I would have to convince the staff, but he didn’t warn me of the guard lion at this entrance.
After a long pause, she finally says, “This is highly irregular, but it seems my hands are tied. You will be staying with the rest of the girls on the third floor. Nightgowns are hung on wall hooks. House slippers and a trunk for belongings will be found under the bed. When the clock reads half past seven, you should be on your knees in the chapel. Now, Monsieur Du Lac has already requested an outing for you to translate for him on Friday.”
I nod. The Association hearing.
“He assures me it is only the one time, and so I will grudgingly allow it.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Any questions?”
“When do we, er, the maids, do the laundry?” Heiresses do not do laundry.
“You will place your soiled clothes, inside out, in the provided baskets before retiring each night. Here is your schedule.” She hands me a paper. “You will be taking French, comportment, and embroidery.”
I frown, studying the paper. Surely there must be more.
“That expression on your face is most unbecoming. I pray I shall not see it again.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I stammer. “I was just hoping for a class in economics, or commerce. As I mentioned, I will be entering the tea business one day, and—”
“How dare you,” she says so sharply I feel the sting of her reprimand on my cheeks. “I assure you, the education you receive here will be the best in any of our forty-five states. A St. Clare’s education opens doors into fine carriages, carriages destined for influential circles. Last year, one of our girls married an Austrian prince. Another is betrothed to a Hearst.”
Steady, girl, I tell myself. Do not get yourself kicked out before you’ve even begun. “I beg your forgiveness, ma’am. I did not wish to offend.”
“Now, if I may continue?” Her words are more a caution than a question.
I nod, my mouth dry. Headmistress Crouch has an uncanny talent for sucking the moisture out of the room.
“Dinner is at five, followed by evening prayers. Lights out at nine.” She produces a ruler from somewhere and points to a grandfather clock tucked in a corner. It is nearly quarter past eight now.
I feel a rap on my hip. She waves the ruler at me. “You’re standing crooked. A crooked posture will make people think you are surly.” Another tap, this time on my chin. “Chin up. A lowered head suggests a melancholy disposition. Lips together. Placing your tongue on the roof of your mouth will help you not to cry.” May I never need to employ that particular trick.
Laying the ruler horizontally across my nose, she says in a crisp voice, “Keep your eyes pinned to the five and the seven.” I can hardly see those numbers without going cross-eyed.
“That is how girls of good breeding hold themselves in public.” Satisfied, she removes the ruler. “Infractions will be dealt with harshly and quickly. I do not believe in sparing the rod for anyone, even Chinese heiresses.”
I go mute, thinking of Jack. Seems the white practice of beating children into good behavior transcends both class and age. My parents never hit us, instead preferring the tried-and-true technique of old-fashioned guilt.
“Now, the girls are currently practicing for the Spring Concert but will be returning soon to make their toilettes. Go upstairs and take your turn in the washroom while you can. Remember that cleanliness is next to godliness.”
“Yes, Headmistress. Thank you.” I climb the staircase, hardly breathing for fear of ruining my posture. What a spleeny shrew. Perhaps it’s a thankless job, keeping forty of San Francisco’s most eligible fillies in bridle. Maybe she is all bluster. A whipping in this day and age?
“Oh, and one more thing, Miss Wong.”
From seven steps up, she reminds me of a shark, sleek and gray with a terrifying smile. “You will be sharing a room with Elodie Du Lac. She is one of our most popular students, and I’m sure you will have much to learn from her.”
7
I PLOD TO THE THIRD FLOOR, WEIGHED down by the certainty that Headmistress Crouch’s mission in life is to make mine as uncomfortable as possible. A door marked with a T contains a flush toilet with the softest toilet paper I’ve ever felt, a bathtub big enough to sleep in, and bar soap as fragrant as a full head of narcissus.
The bathtub sings to me, but I hesitate. Bathtubs of that scale are generally off-limits to people like me. Still, I’m here, and probably my new classmates will appreciate me using the facilities.
The water runs clear, not even a speck of rust. I step in and don’t turn off the faucet until I’m submerged to m
y neck. Hot water works at the knots in my shoulders. I stretch out my legs and try not to mind that crusty old biscuit Headmistress Crouch.
After the shrimp peeler found the gold nugget, Ba took me to pan for gold on the American River. An hour passed, and we still hadn’t found a flake, so I threw my pan. Ba patiently retrieved it and put it back in my hands. “Sometimes you have to throw out lots of sand to find your nugget. But you’ll never find it if you stop shaking.”
Headmistress Crouch is simply another pan of sand, and I must keep shaking.
More disconcerting than a crotchety headmistress is the news that St. Clare’s isn’t on par with the Men’s Wilkes College, as the brochure had promised. Surely they learn more than how to tie their cravats and how not to make a buffoon of themselves while putting fork to mouth. I remind myself that even if I don’t learn much of substance, a diploma from St. Clare’s is still currency in the business world. I’ve sacrificed much to come here.
Tom slips into my head, and Ling-Ling materializes beside him. What if they are together right now in her bakery, where she is encouraging him to admire her fluffy buns? My scrawny self is a small-witch-meets-sorceress. Whereas her hair pours down her back like liquid onyx, mine barely grazes my cheek. Unlike my bossy bumps, her cheeks are moon-cake round. Her feet are lotus blossoms, and mine are lotus boats.
I am reminded of the proverb about the man with a single teacup to fetch water for his plants. In order to keep some alive, he had to let others die or run himself ragged. I have chosen to water this particular plant despite all its thorns, and I must simply hope my relationship with Tom can survive my absence.
On the bright side, I will be learning how to be a lady of good breeding, and if it’s a lady Tom wants, then a lady he shall get.
Someone knocks sharply. “Who’s in there?” says a girl with a deep and raspy voice. I pop up, for a minute thinking it might be a boy, and water splashes over the tub’s edge.