"So, pick ten and I'll do each of your fingers a different color."
"Okay," she laughed.
"What are you guys going to wear tomorrow to the family reunion thing?"
"I don't know," Michelle said between flips of Cosmo Girl. "But would you please please please straighten my hair?"
While Danielle had opted to grow her hair long, Michelle's came to just above her chin, her soft, auburn waves making her look like she was fresh from the beach.
"Of course I will, but you can't show up with no clothes on. I don't know about how they do things in Malaysia, but here you gotta at least wear something," I teased.
"I just don't like anything I brought with me."
"You know what we should do? We should go to the mall!"
It was a great idea. Michelle needed help finding a Walkman for a boy she liked in Kuala Lumpur. He was in Danielle's grade and had taken an interest in her when he found out she was coming to the US.
"What about you, Danielle? You like anyone back home?"
"A few, but I don't think they like me. What about you? Do you have a boyfriend, Rowan?"
"So, there's this guy . . . his name is Cole," I said.
"Oooh," Danielle cooed, "Co-ole."
"Shhh," I said, hitting her with a pillow. "My mom's going to be home any minute!"
"What's he like?"
"I don't really know. I mean, he's cool. He has green hair and goes to Nassau."
"What's Nassau?"
"It's the community college around here. Anyway, he's really smart and he drives and I want to ask him to prom, but I don't know."
"Why don't you ask him?"
"Well, we went to the Sadie Hawkins Dance last year." I paused, taking note of the confused looks on their faces. "It's, like, a dance where the girls are supposed to ask the guys instead of the guys asking the girls. Anyway, we went together last year but I only think Mom let me go with him because he's my cousin's best friend."
"One of the cousins we're meeting tomorrow?" Danielle asked.
"No, no. This one's on my mom's side."
"So why isn't he your boyfriend?"
"I don't know. We, like, made out a few times before the dance, but the past few times I've visited him at the mall he, like, doesn't talk to me as much."
"Maybe he has a girlfriend?"
"Shut up, Michelle!" Danielle said, tossing a pillow at her.
"I don't know. I think it's just because Chris is always around and Cole doesn't want him to know. But when I told my mom I was thinking about asking Cole, she made this huge deal about him being older and stuff and I'm like, 'Have you seen some of the boys my age?' Plus, he's not that old! He's only, like, three years older than me. That's, like, nothing."
"Totally," they agreed.
As I painted the top coat onto Danielle's nails, I thought back to the Sadie Hawkins Dance, and how things had changed between me and Cole. Prom was my last chance to get things back to the way they were that night.
* * *
The next day, Mom said there was too much to be done for The Malaysians' welcome party, and there was no way Danielle, Michelle, and I were getting a ride to the mall. Instead, we walked to Bagel Express and finished our chocolate milk on the way home. Danielle and Michelle had never tried Nesquik or bacon or bagels, and were fascinated by how much cream cheese can fit on such a small amount of bread.
When we got back, Michelle put the Moulin Rouge soundtrack in my stereo.
"Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir," we sang. "Voulez-vous coucher avec moi . . ."
By the time we finished the album, the entire contents of my closet were on the floor. We swapped clothes and crushes and stories until people began to arrive.
"Who is that again?" Danielle whispered.
"That's Aunt Audrey. She's married to Uncle Brad—Avery and Max are their kids. Avery is the same age as me."
"I don't think I'm ever going to remember all of them."
"Trust me, it took forever to get to know all of them—don't sweat it."
"Did you see where Michelle went?"
"Yeah, she's over there talking to Uncle Luke. I'm going to get some food—I'll save you guys a seat."
At the buffet, I was disappointed to see that despite there being twenty kids under the age of eighteen, there were no chicken fingers or french fries to be found. I loaded up my plate with penne alla vodka and took a seat next to my cousin Avery at the kids' table.
"So Rowan," Avery began, "what's it like living with The Malaysians?"
"You mean Danielle and Michelle?"
"Yeah," she laughed, "how's it going?"
"It's good. Hey!" I waved Danielle and Michelle over to sit. "What did you get, the eggplant?"
"There was no pasta left!"
"Here, take some of mine and give me some of that. Save my seat—I'm going to the bathroom."
Avery was staring into a compact, Juicy Tube in hand, when I came out.
"So, what? You don't like us anymore?"
Avery's mother and my mother had this whole competitive thing going. Even though Avery was a year older, as a December baby she missed the cutoff, landing her in the same grade as me. She attended Mercy's rival, Sacred Heart Academy. She was slim, beautiful, and smart—assets my mother constantly reminded me about.
"What are you talking about?"
"Well, all of you seem to be in, like, your own little group."
"We're not in a group—they've just been staying with us, so they know us better."
"Just don't forget your real family—we're the ones who are going to be here when they leave."
"They are family, Avery."
"Yeah, but, like, not really. I mean, they're going to be gone soon and we're never going to see them again."
* * *
Danielle and I had a fight a week after the party. She dropped my hair straightener, cracking the ceramic plates, and I had to go to school with my hair in a bun. Mom insisted I didn't need a straightener—that my hair was naturally straight—but all the other girls straightened their hair, and I didn't want to be any more different than I already was. When I came home that afternoon, Danielle had bought me a Milky Way at CVS and I forgave her.
The following day, as I walked up the driveway from SAT prep, I saw their suitcases on the deck. I dropped my backpack on the curb and stormed into the house.Uncle Shane and Dad were having a beer at the kitchen table while Mom, Nana, and Jovinia chatted in the living room.
"Where's Danielle and Michelle?"
"They're in your room doing last-minute checks," Uncle Shane said nonchalantly, as if they always performed "last-minute checks" in my room.
"Rowan, why don't you go up and get changed and tell the girls to come down? We're all going to go out to dinner," said Dad.
"I don't want to go to dinner!" I screamed, running past him.
My bedroom door was open; Michelle was planted in my bubble chair and Danielle was kneeling beside the open suitcases on the floor. There was nothing to say.
That night, Danielle, Michelle, and I decided to sleep on the air mattress together. We linked arms in the hope that our parents would pause at the thought of separating us. Yet somehow, we wound up outside the house on Elderberry—a minivan taxi in the driveway. Michelle was first in the van—she couldn't deal and I hated her for it. Danielle and I held hands, and for the first time, I felt the heartbeat of another human being within me. We were bound by something greater than a shared last name and slanted eyes—we were family. The blood running through us wasn't the same, but we belonged to each other.
"Don't forget to e-mail me," she said, pulling me in close.
"I won't."
"You'll have to tell me how prom goes."
"Please don't go."
"Come, Danielle!" Shane said, handing the last of the suitcases to the driver.
"Dad!" I yelled. "Can Danielle stay?" I didn't know why the thought hadn't occurred to me sooner.
"Can I?" Danielle asked.
> "You said they have dual citizenship, so why can't she just stay? She doesn't want to leave anyway."
"Rowan," Mom said sternly, "stop it. It's time to be a grown-up."
"No, she can—she can stay. She has every right! She can go to Mineola High School and next year I can leave Mercy and I can go there too!"
Danielle was pleading the same case to her parents. We didn't need an answer right now—we just needed to make them late enough to miss the flight.
"Danielle, say goodbye to Rowan and let's go. Now."
In the end, Dad pried us apart and the taxi door closed.
Danielle didn't come back.
* * *
Mom let me skip school the next morning, and the morning after that. The weekend came, and she continued to indulge my moping. By Monday morning, she'd had enough and dragged me to the end of the block by the collar of my sweater. I slumped into seat on the bus, while the edge of my collar hung close to my elbow.
The smell of hibiscus and rafflesia faded more quickly than the memory of life with Danielle and Michelle. We exchanged e-mails for a few weeks, but as June grew closer, I surrendered to prom fever, and lost myself in the decorations committee and theme possibilities.
Chapter Six
* * *
Nurse finishes checking off boxes on the chart when the phone rings. She walks toward the phone hanging on the wall and I wonder how she's going to pick up the right line since almost all the lights are blinking. I hear the words "preliminary exam," "police report," "victim." She nods, says, "But . . ." nods, "but . . ."
It occurs to me that while there is most certainly a protocol, Nurse doesn't know it. Nurse doesn't encounter many victims. Nurse says on the phone she doesn't know if SANE is a two extension or a three extension. Nurse rolls her eyes and hangs up.
"I'm sorry, sweetie, but it looks like the front desk made an error. You're not supposed to be here."
"What?"
"You need to go to the SANE Center." Nurse sees I'm not getting it. "The SANE Center," she repeats, exasperated. "It's over on Community Drive about two miles from here—"
"But, like, what is that—the SANE Center?"
"The SANE Center is Long Island Jewish Hospital's Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner Program. They'll be able to provide you with the proper care," Nurse states, rummaging in the drawers by the sink before placing a photocopy of a map with faded print beneath it on the counter. "These are directions to the SANE Center. If you don't have a vehicle, you can go to the front desk and the admin can coordinate transportation for you. Do you have any questions?"
"What's going to happen there?"
"To be honest, I don't know, baby. I don't have that kind of training. All I know is that's where you gotta go to get right."
I wonder if this is the universe's way of telling me the lie has gone far enough—that I don't have what it takes to see it through. That I'm not really in need of medical attention. That there isn't anywhere I can go—that I will never be right.
* * *
Things had been weird between Cole and me ever since the Sadie Hawkins Dance. We'd stopped making out in the Journey's stock room, and our calls got shorter and shorter. Still, I was convinced if I could just get him to senior prom, everything would fall into place.
But Mom wouldn't hear it—he's too old, he doesn't respect the rules, he has green hair. We couldn't agree on my date, my shoes . . . my dress.
"I don't want to wear this dress!" I screamed, hurling the red Delia's gown into the hallway.
"Too bad, because it's the only one you're going to get."
"That's what you think. I have my own money."
"Oh yeah?" she laughed, coming to face me in the hallway, "What are you going to do? Walk to the mall?"
"I'd rather walk there than wear this," I said, stepping on the dress and twisting my feet.
I'd done it now. She took two steps forward and lowered her voice, "Pick that up. Now."
"No."
I was sick of her shit. Sick of being told what to wear and what time to be home. Sick of watching my friends hang out with whomever they wanted, whenever they wanted. Sick of being told the guy I loved wasn't up to her standards. Sick of her.
"I said pick it up now."
"I don't care. You're not my real mother, anyway."
It took her a minute, but eventually she brushed the tears away from her eyes, snatched the dress, and unzipped the back. She rolled up the gown and walked toward me. Instinctively, I ran to my room, closing the door behind me.
In her fury, she kicked the door open, the doorknob getting stuck in the wall. She backed me into a corner and threw the dress over my head.
Our arms got tangled, our hair messy, eyes puffy. Eventually, she pulled it downward, stepped back, and said, "That's a beautiful dress, Rowan. Whoever bought it for you must love you very much."
"I hate you!"
* * *
There are things I didn't know: I didn't know I'd say this to her again and again over the years. I didn't know I'd be spending my adult life trying to make it right. And I didn't know that eventually I'd have to come to terms with the fact that I can't. All I knew then was that she cried first, and I won.
* * *
Valentina and Laura were booking the limo, Sophia was handling the corsages, and Madison's dad was letting us use his beach house in the Hamptons for after prom. My only responsibility was finding a date, and it wasn't going well.
"Journey's Roosevelt Field, James speaking—how can I help you?"
"Hey James, it's Rowan," I said, twirling the phone cord around my finger.
"What up, little mama? How's it hangin'? Haven't seen you here in a while."
"You know—SATs and crap."
"I remember those—bummer."
"Yeah, total bummer."
"You looking for your cuz?"
"Actually, I'm looking for Cole."
"Sure, he's right here—yo Cole! Phone!"
"This is Cole."
"Hey!"
"Oh, Rowan . . . hey."
"What's up?
"Nothing," he answered curtly. "I'm at work."
"Oh," I mumbled to myself.
"Do you need something? Because I kind of have to go—"
"Cole," I heard a familiar voice say, "who you talking to?"
"Is that my cousin?" The voice was closer now. "Here, gimme that. Rowan, is that you?"
"Hey, Chris."
"Rowan, you can't call here, okay? This is my job—it's not cool."
"I was just—"
"Look, this little crush you have on Cole—it was cute, but it isn't funny anymore, okay?"
"I don't have a crush on him," I said defensively.
"Fine, you don't have a crush on him. But whatever it is, you gotta let it go. You have to stop calling here."
"Okay," I murmured.
"I've gotta get back to work. Next time you come to the mall, let me know and we'll hang out, all right?"
"Yeah, okay."
I stopped bringing up Cole's name at the dinner table, and made a point not to browse the south side of the mall on Friday nights with Valentina. Cole and I were over, but worse than that, Delia's was directly diagonal from Journey's—their selection of prom dresses clearly visible, leaving me no choice but to wear the red dress Mom had bought me.
* * *
As prom inched closer, so did graduation. Mom had become friendly with Mrs. Panarelli during Meet-the-Teacher Night, and had asked if there were any brilliant math students looking for some extra cash, as my trig average continued to plummet. Even though the SATs were behind me, I still had to pass math.
"I really don't want a tutor, Mom," I whined.
"You're going to need good scores to get into a good college," she said, placing some broccoli on my plate.
"Mom, I hate broccoli!"
"Is there anything you do like?"
"I like not being forced to spend an hour of my day studying dumb math I'm never going to use in my life."
"You think you're never going to use math?" Dad laughed. "I use math every day!"
"Writers don't need math, Dad."
"Writers don't add? Writers don't measure things? Writers don't use time?"
"Oh my god, you guys are so retarded."
"Rowan, don't say that," Mom said. "You're getting a tutor, you're going to get into a good school, and you're going to eat that broccoli."
* * *
Jamie was about a foot shorter than I, with thick black hair which never seemed to deviate from her bobbed haircut and glasses. One of the only other Asian girls at OLMA, Jamie seemed to think this made us kin.
Mom loved the fact that Jamie was also adopted from Korea. Jamie had pictures of herself as a baby in Hanbok. She knew her Korean name, spoke some Korean, ate kimchi, went to church on Sunday, and was bound for Susquehanna University on a partial scholarship.
In between teaching me about sine, cosine, and tangent, Jamie confessed she thought it strange I didn't want to know more about my Asian roots.
"Because I'm not Asian," I said.
"But you are," she argued.
"No, I'm really not." I wasn't denying my Asian-ness out of some loyalty to Mom and Dad. Sure, I was grateful. I knew Mom and Dad had done me a major solid and saved me from endless days in a rice paddy or a windowless warehouse assembling iPhones. It's just that "Asian" had never been a word I'd used to describe myself—it wasn't who I was.
"You aren't curious about where you come from? I mean, I know we're lucky to be adopted, but that doesn't mean you can't know more about where you come from."
I hated how people acted like being adopted was some kind of fucking miracle. Everyone wants to tell you how lucky and blessed and fucking fortunate you are. "You know," they say, "when you think about how many unwanted children there are in this world, it's nice to see two people like your parents giving one of those kids a loving home."
I found Asians to be the worst. I only really saw people who looked like me when I was getting a dress hemmed or needed a manicure, but it was always the same exchange.
"Where you from?" the conversation would begin.
"Mineola," I'd say.
"No," they'd chuckle. "You Chinese? Japanese?" Even to Asian people, China is the default for where all people with slanted eyes must be from. "Korean?"
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