by Gloria Chao
“Well, I haven’t tried poop and I’m confident saying I don’t like it,” I said.
Darren laughed, and my mother turned to him in surprise. Was that wonderment in her eyes? Confusion?
She shook off whatever had come over her with a head jerk. “Darren, I didn’t know you were interested in our culture. Mei, you should have told me.”
You couldn’t hear anything about him once you knew his ethnicity, I wanted to say but instead managed a tight-lipped smile.
Below the table, Darren placed a comforting hand on my knee. He squeezed once, and I knew he was telling me to hang in there.
The rolls arrived. When I grabbed one, my mother’s hand didn’t twitch—a reminder of how far she’d come—and my shoulders relaxed.
It’s going well, I reminded myself. No racial slurs, no murder accusations, and Darren had somehow impressed the unimpressible.
My mother broke her bread apart and dabbed the tiniest piece in olive oil. “What are your career plans, Darren?”
Maybe I’d spoken too soon. I braced myself.
“I’m interested in biology—”
“Are you going to be a doc-tor?” Her eyes lit up, and I wished I could extinguish them now before Darren had to.
“That’s an option,” he said, buttering a roll calmly as if his reputation didn’t balance on a tightrope. “Right now I’m leaning toward research.”
“Research is for people who can’t get into medical school!” my mother huffed, her eyes darkening.
I jumped in. “He doesn’t mean being an RA to spruce up his med school application. He wants to be a professor. At a university.”
The light returned to her eyes. “A professor. Respectable. Good. And with a biology degree, you will still have the option to be a doctor in case you change your mind later.”
I had assumed she was serious, but her mouth was ticked up. A joke attempt? I forced a laugh even though it wasn’t funny. Points for effort.
The waitress served our pizza, pasta, and salad all at once to be eaten family-style. Asian-style.
My mother reached for the food first. “I love pizza. It’s like an oyster pancake, but with the chee-se.” She separated the word “cheese” into two syllables, the way it’s pronounced in Mandarin. “I wish Bǎbá liked it as much as I did. Then I wouldn’t have to wait until our meetings to get it.”
I knew her use of the word “meeting” was the result of the language barrier and that she hadn’t meant to refer to our bonding sessions like a business gathering. But still, I needed a deep breath. I reminded myself how her voice rose in pitch when we made plans and how her face always brightened when she saw me.
“How’s Bǎbá?” I asked. I hadn’t seen him since the funeral, and not for lack of trying, mostly on my mother’s end. I had sent a few emails and left one voicemail, all unanswered. On the outside, I pretended my infrequent tries were because I didn’t care, but it was really because the rejection was too hard. I tried to focus on the positive, how he no longer objected to my mother’s relationship with me. I hoped that one day we’d be a family again. Some days it felt like a matter of time, but others it felt like a delusional dream I was clinging to for survival.
Like today. Before my mother had even responded, I knew the answer to my question. Lines had appeared on her face, a handful of new wrinkles since our last get-together that said, Your father hasn’t changed.
Yet, I tried to remind myself.
My mother tore off a piece of crust, and without looking up, she said, “He’s the same. Mopey. He misses you and Xing but won’t admit it. I don’t know why he can’t just give a little.”
“Cognitive dissonance perhaps?” I suggested.
My mom raised an eyebrow in question.
“Bǎbá sacrificed so much because of these traditions, and if he gives a little, it would mean his hardships were unnecessary,” I explained. “So in a way, he can’t give in because he can’t accept that he suffered for no reason.”
“My daughter, so smart,” my mother said with a proud smile. I waited for the faux part of the brag, perhaps something about how I never used my intelligence for anything useful, but nothing came.
Suddenly my food tasted better despite my nose burning. I smiled at her, a cheek-straining, unadulterated smile I haven’t given her since I was a little kid.
When only a few sausage balls remained on the pizza pan, Darren excused himself to the bathroom.
My mother cupped a hand over her mouth and whispered, “He’s cute, like a young Takeshi Kaneshiro. He has the same jawline and nose.”
“Ew, Mǎmá, please don’t make me throw up my shrimp Rossini.” I made a mental note to Google Takeshi Kaneshiro later.
Her face and voice grew serious, and I leaned forward instinctively.
“He likes you. He didn’t care how loud you laughed or how fast you ate. How is this possible?” Her voice was tinged with jealousy.
My heart sank with the realization that she was ladylike for my father, fighting her natural instincts in fear of being cast aside. She looked exhausted from a lifetime of acting.
I placed a hand over hers. “You don’t have to pretend. You can be yourself.”
She turned her palm up and squeezed. “I’m learning from you. My smart girl. My American panda.” Then she said the words I’d waited seventeen years to hear. “I’m proud of you.”
I sucked a noisy breath in through my nose, unable to do anything else.
She slipped her hand away, reached into her purse, then tucked a red envelope into my palm, as she did every time we met.
“Thank you, Mǎmá,” I breathed, referring to both the money and her words.
Darren was weaving his way back to us.
“Hang on to him, Mei. No one else will love your manly laugh.”
I grinned. “So will I never hear the name ‘Eugene Huang’ again?”
“Of course you won’t! Didn’t you hear? He didn’t get into medical school!”
Then we laughed. Together.
“And a five, six, seven, eight!”
The studio came to life with thirty tiny feet stomping, leaping, and trotting. At first I hadn’t guessed those stubby legs could create such vibration, but now I was used to it. Rose arm-flapped right up to me, her red ballet skirt flowing, and she arched her neck to stick her giant smile in my face. Well, more like my stomach. I leaned down and flapped my arms in sync with her. She shrieked, then ran away to join her posse (of which she was queen, of course).
The pop music transitioned into Dunhuang bells and lutes, and I yelled, “Switch!”
Fifteen heads bobbed side to side in Xinjiang fashion as they rose to their tiptoes, bourrée-ing around the room amid giggles. I glanced around, taking in their energetic movements and gummy smiles.
If my heart hadn’t been contained within my rib cage, it might have burst from happiness.
Once the little munchkins were gone, my adult students streamed in.
I clapped my hands to signal the start of class and switched on Beyoncé. I took my place at the front of the studio and eased into our warm-up routine, starting with isolations. As my head turned right-center-left-center, I glanced at the students in my peripheral vision. I couldn’t make out their features but knew each of them by the way they moved.
Ying-Na was a hip-hop queen, each hip jut, body roll, and knee pop as natural as having a microphone in her hand. From the second she entered the studio to the last beat, she gave it everything, as if her movements could keep the ancestors away.
The first class, Tina (no longer Dr. Chang to me) had stood still in the corner. Just watched the others with wide mooncake eyes and slumped shoulders. But she returned week after week, and the fifth class, she took her first step. First stomp. First punch.
I looked at her now. Squared shoulders, wide smile, and bright eyes not focused on the others. Not focused on anything. She was feeling the music, throwing herself into each head turn. When we moved on to hip isolations, her pops
were stiff and small, but she no longer flushed while doing them.
And when she walked, she no longer disappeared. Just like me.
I breathed dance every second of my life but spoke it to others twice a week. It seemed unfair to get paid to do something I loved so much. And in addition to getting a paycheck every month, I also got to take free classes.
After the students were gone, I took a moment to stare at the empty studio. My second home. Dance was where I had learned to be myself, but I no longer hid there. I danced everywhere I went, a little pas de bourrée slipping in here, a tombé there.
Always myself—noodle slurper, face toucher, and all.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Dearest Reader,
I wrote American Panda because it was the book I needed in high school and the book I needed when I decided to put my dental career aside to try writing, which I had no experience in. (I’ll let you use your imagination to picture how my parents reacted to that.)
This novel is steeped in truth either from my own life or from friends. Some parts are from people I’ve met in passing who trusted me with their stories. It is based on experiences, but it has been fictionalized, and no characters or situations are exactly as they unfolded in reality.
I worked hard to keep Mei’s experience authentic, but it is just one Taiwanese-American experience. I hope there will be more and more Chinese-American books to help represent the wide range of experiences out there.
I can’t thank you enough for picking up this book, and I hope knowing Mei’s story (and mine) will give you something I didn’t have: the gift of knowing others share your experience, that it’s okay not to feel wholly one thing or another, and it can get better.
You are not alone. You shouldn’t have to hide to be accepted. You deserve to be appreciated and loved no matter who you are.
Find your inner měi and own it!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you, first off, to you, dear reader, for picking up this book and sharing in Mei’s story. I hope I was able to show some of you that you’re not alone.
Kathleen Rushall, literary agent extraordinaire: Thank you for your wisdom, hard work, and endless optimism. Thank you for your spot-on revision notes, for taking risks with me, and for prioritizing my desire to keep this book authentic to my experiences. I feel like I can do anything with you on my side!
Jen Ung, my exceptional, zuì yōuxiù editor: You are such a perfect fit for me and this book, I sometimes think I wished you into existence. Thank you for bringing out the best in these characters, for championing this and other diverse books with so much heart, for being a dream to work with.
Thank you to the Simon Pulse team for your enthusiastic response from day one. I knew immediately that my book had found not just a publishing house but its home. Mara Anastas, thank you for your passion, your brilliance, and for everything you’ve done for this book. I am so grateful to the sales, marketing, and publicity teams. Special thanks to Liesa Abrams, Jodie Hockensmith, Nicole Russo, Vanessa DeJesus, Catherine Hayden, Lauren Hoffman, Amy Hendricks, Chelsea Morgan, Penina Lopez, Stacey Sakal, Kayley Hoffman, Christina Pecorale, Emily Hutton, Michelle Leo, Anthony Parisi, Amy Beaudoin, Janine Perez, and Anna Jarzab.
Sarah Creech, brilliant designer: Thank you for creating a cover and jacket that make me smile and feel fuzzies every time I look at them. They capture Mei and the book better than I could have dreamed! Thank you to Steph Baxter and Jill Wachter for your contributions to the gorgeous cover! And thank you, Tom Daly, for the gorgeous interior design!
Kim Yau, fantabulous TV/film agent: Thank you for believing in this story and for your passion. I’m so excited to work with you!
Thank you to the wonderful friends who made this book possible and who have left their footprints in these pages: Susan Blumberg-Kason, for your advice, endless support, and all your help with this manuscript. I’m so glad I picked up your book and reached out on Twitter. At the time, I had no idea I’d be making a lifelong friend. Lauren Lykke, for being my first writer friend and critique partner, and for squealing with me, dancing with me, and being one of my favorites. Rachel Lynn Solomon, for being my Simon Pulse sister, for our brainstorming sessions, your spot-on feedback, your constant support, and all the laughs! Meredith Ireland, for riding this out with me and for your editorial eye. Eva Chen, Melissa Ong, and Michele Margolis, you’re the best beta readers and friends I could ask for! Lizzie Cooke, Samira Ahmed, Jilly Gagnon, Maddy Colis—you’ve made Chicago feel even more like home. A special hug to Claribel Ortega for your generosity and support, always. Arielle Eckstut and David Henry Sterry, for being the first two in the industry to believe in me (and Mei) and for your priceless wisdom along the way. A shout-out to Zoraida Córdova, who so kindly helped me with my cover reveal—thank you! Janice Zawodny, for showing me the beauty of dance and making me fall in love with it in a way I never thought possible. Thank you to the friends who supported me when I decided to change careers—you know who you are!
The Electric Eighteens, for your advice and encouragement. Class2K18, for your friendship and promotional help. The Kidlit AOC group, for your support and commitment to diversity. The We Need Diverse Books organization, for all the important work you do. Team Krush, you are as supportive as you are talented, and I’m proud to be a part of this loving family. Hugs and Kisses to ChiYA & my Awesome Authors Support Group.
Thank you to the lovely folks who were kind enough to read pages and provide feedback throughout this process, including: Whitley Abell, Christa Heschke, Jen Linnan, Sandy Lu, Myrsini Stephanides, Janine Le, Ella Kennen, Ronni Davis Selzer, Lisa Schunemann, Gracie West, Rachel León, Tamara Mataya, Roselle Lim, Katie McCoach, Naomi Hughes, Kevin Winn, Laura Heffernan, the AYAP Workshop.
Thank you so much, Tong Chen, Youqin Wang, and Jin Zhang, for your help with the pinyin in this novel and for not asking why I had so many phrases about poop. Thank you, Koichiro Ito, for verifying the Japanese.
A huge thank-you to the wonderful librarians, booksellers, bloggers, and teachers out there putting books into the hands of readers who need them. An extra hug to the Chicago indie bookstores who have been so welcoming and supportive! And a special thank-you to Franny Billingsley, who I’m honored to call a friend, and Rachel Strolle, whose love of books is inspiring.
And a loving thank-you to my family: my grandparents, for their love, support, and stories. Dan and Matt, for helping me find the humor in stinky tofu, shrimp oil, and old Chinese songs growing up. Remember how we used to lock ourselves in a room, towels stuffed under the door, whenever Mom and Dad cooked stinky tofu?
Mom and Dad, for supporting my dreams and education. Oh, and thanks for the material. ;) Mom, I’m so grateful this book brought us so close. I don’t know what I’d do without your support and love. Thank you for helping me with this book and for sharing your experiences and thoughts. I’m so happy I know you, really know you, now.
Anthony, there are no words for me to tell you what you mean to me. Thank you for believing in me before I did. For inspiring me. For reading a thousand drafts. For loving Mei like I do. For loving me more than anyone deserves. And of course, thank you for putting a roof over my head and feeding me and all that other important stuff while I typed-typed-typed into the night. You are my home, my hero, and my better half. *hip-level wave* (It works, people!)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
GLORIA CHAO is an MIT grad turned dentist turned writer. She currently lives in Chicago with her ever-supportive husband, for whom she became a nine-hole golfer (sometimes seven). She is always up for cooperative board games, Dance Dance Revolution, or soup dumplings. She was also once a black belt in kung fu and a competitive dancer, but that side of her was drilled and suctioned out. Visit her tea-and-book-filled world at gloriachao.wordpress.com.
SIMON PULSE
Simon & Schuster, New York
Visit us at simonandschuster.com/teen
Authors.SimonandSchuster.com/Gloria-Chao
This book i
s a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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First Simon Pulse hardcover edition February 2018
Text copyright © 2018 by Gloria Chao
Jacket photograph copyright © 2018 by Jill Wachter
Jacket and case illustrations and lettering copyright © 2018 by Steph Baxter
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Jacket designed by Sarah Creech
Interior designed by Tom Daly
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jacket designed by Sarah Creech
Jacket photograph copyright © 2018 by Jill Wachter
Jacket illustrations and lettering copyright © 2018 by Steph Baxter
Names: Chao, Gloria, author.
Title: American panda / by Gloria Chao.
Description: First Simon Pulse hardcover edition. | New York : Simon Pulse, 2018. | Summary: A freshman at MIT, seventeen-year-old Mei Lu tries to live up to her