I'd nod. It felt like a lie.
"Annyeonghaseyo," they'd say excitedly.
My manicurist, Mei, taught me the proper response is, "Bangapsumnida."
"I don't speak Korean."
They'd be shocked. They'd always be shocked. "Why?"
"I'm adopted." They'd nod, although they wouldn't know what this meant. They weren't listening. "My parents are white."
"Why you no learn?"
I'd shrug. I didn't know. I'd have no acceptable answer.
They'd offer to teach me. They'd invite me to their churches and show me pictures of their single sons—as if their wanting me made the fact that BioMom didn't okay.
* * *
"You really don't want to know about Korea?" my tutor Jamie persisted.
"Nope," I replied, "not even a little bit."
"Well, if you ever change your mind and want to—"
"I'm good, thanks. If we could just do the triangles or whatever . . ." I trailed off. I think it's the only time in my life I've ever shown enthusiasm for mathematical education.
Waiting for Jamie's mother to pick her up felt longer that day. I don't know if it was because I didn't want to be Asian or because I told her triangles were stupid. Either way, I didn't care. I just wanted her gone.
"Who's that in the front seat?" I asked, as the Volvo pulled into my driveway.
"That's my brother."
"Oh, I have a brother too. Mom! Jamie's mom is here!"
Mom rushed outside to meet Mrs. Feretic. Normally, I'd have dumped Jamie and let her face the hour-long farewell between our moms alone in the car, but there was something about the boy in the front seat. I followed her outside.
Upon seeing Jamie and me emerge from the house, the boy in the front seat automatically unclicked his seat belt, opened the door, and got out to move into the backseat.
"Thanks, Trav," Jamie said, climbing into the front seat.
"No problem."
"Your name is Trav?" I asked with a smirk.
"Travis." He smiled, extending his hand.
"Rowan."
We talked about our mutual disdain for math while Jamie randomly interjected facts about right triangles.
"SATs—man," he sighed, running his fingers through his hair, "I'll be taking those next year. But at least I'll have a big room to study in!" He nodded toward Jamie.
"You're not getting my room, Trav. Now get in the car."
"C'mon, Travis—we're leaving!" Jamie's mom called.
"See you later," he said, hopping into the car.
"See you."
* * *
Mom was impressed with the new initiative I was taking in mastering the Pythagorean theorem, and happily let me use the cordless to call Jamie for extra help. I couldn't help it if Travis happened to get the phone before Jamie could answer.
"So, I'm officially going to pass math."
"Really? Great!"
"Thanks. The thing is, I won't really be able to call as much because, like, you know."
"Oh, yeah, that's right. That sucks. I really like talking to you."
"I like talking to you too. Actually, I wanted to know if you wanted to, uh—I wanted to know if you wanted to go to this dance with me. You have to get, like, dressed up and stuff and it's totally cool if you don't—"
"You want me to go to prom with you?"
"I mean, yeah, but only if you really want to."
"Sure! I'd love to go!"
"Really?"
"Of course! When is it?"
Now, the entire prom had Mom's stamp of approval—my dress, my date, my friends. We danced and laughed and Travis even kissed me at night's end. When he called the next day, and the one after that, we talked for hours before Mom kicked me off the phone and told me it was time for dinner.
Travis seemed happy to know another person who was adopted, who understood what it meant to grow up in a neighborhood where no one looks like you, who wanted to know about where we came from. But I wasn't really that person. He spoke of his plans to apply for a passport on his eighteenth birthday—to travel to Korea and find his mother . . . his real mother.
"We could go together," he proposed.
"No," I said, "I don't want to do that."
He was shocked. "Why? Don't you want to know who she is? Why she gave you up?"
I did want to know. Oftentimes, it felt as though my heart were made of the questions surrounding BioMom, and that its beat was fueled by the need for answers. But I knew there was a possibility, however minute, that when I did find BioMom, there would be children alongside her. I knew there was a possibility BioMom just didn't want me. I stopped taking Travis's calls.
* * *
Mom went into all-out college-preparation panic in the weeks following prom. Despite having put a deposit down on the school of my choice, Mom left applications for Hofstra and Adelphi on my desk. I found her desperation to keep me on the island and under her control laughable.
My fights with her were constant and relentless. She was merciless in her quest to get me into a good, local college, unrelenting in her fear that I didn't have what it took to get there. There was no time for friends, for boys, for fun.
I didn't realize all she wanted was for me to have power over my own destiny, and thought a college education would give me the tools to harness and wield that power. I didn't know her only desire was for me to have the best of things, and that she didn't have the words to tell me.
After the fights came the silence, which seemed to last between Mom and me until the day I left for college. Dad would relay any requests I had to Mom, and she'd scream at him for indulging me, for taking my side, for passing along my messages. When my requests were denied, I'd lie about where I was going, who I was with, get caught and grounded, only to do it all over again.
Mom seemed hell-bent on keeping me away from boys. Now, I wonder if she knew it's because men wound women in impossibly cruel fashions. I wonder if she knew what I was searching for, and hoped keeping me in my room would allow me the time and space to find it.
Either way, I was glad to choose a school in Pennsylvania, and rolled my eyes when she hugged me goodbye two months shy of my eighteenth birthday.
Chapter Seven
* * *
Google Maps tells me I've arrived as I drive past a cluster of brick buildings with no identifying qualities. I ask several people where I can find the SANE Center and am met with shrugs, confusion, fingers pointing nowhere.
"300 Community Drive?" I say to a man with a badge and a name tag.
"This is 300 Community Drive," he says, never looking away from the TV in his security booth.
"Is this the SANE Center?"
"I don't know about no SANE Center, but this is 300 Community. Parking is to the right, on the left."
"So, I go in here and make a right—"
"Make a right and then parking is on your left."
"Could you tell me—"
"Miss," he says, finally looking at me, "you're going to have to move along, there's cars behind you, please."
I decide not to thank him and roll up my window. There's no parking lot to the left of the right I've made, and every sign I encounter begins with NO. As I drive farther and farther away from what is allegedly 300 Community Drive, I scream obscenities.
A green Honda's taillights light up red, and I thank god for this small mercy. When I pull in, I raise my middle finger to the sign beginning with NO directly in front of my Toyota.
I walk back to the security booth, determined to force the security guard to confess the location of the SANE Center.
* * *
By the end of my junior year of high school, I felt I had discovered the truth: Mom hated me. She hated me for not being her real daughter—for not looking and being exactly like her. That's why there were so many rules—they existed to make it easier for Mom to control my entire life and, by extension, control who I became. But no matter how hard she tried, no matter how many rules there were, I was
never going to be who she wanted me to be. And so, I was determined to get out.
I applied to three schools: the College of Mount Saint Vincent in Bronxville, New York, University of Hartford in Connecticut, and Cabrini College in Radnor, Pennsylvania. All three were far enough away that I'd have to live in a dorm, close enough that an envelope of cash wasn't more than three days away, and all had either a creative writing major or minor.
Mom wanted me to apply to Hofstra, a twenty-minute bus ride from the house on Elderberry, or Adelphi.
"If you go to Adelphi, I can drop you off in the mornings," she observed over dinner one night.
"I don't want to go to Adelphi."
"What's wrong with Adelphi? It's one of the best schools on Long Island!"
"It's on Long Island—that's why. I hate it here!"
"Hey, hey," Dad interrupted, pointing his fork at me. "I'll have you know Long Island has some of the most desired real estate in the country."
"Yeah, right," I laughed. "Who would want to live here?"
* * *
Mom left five checks on the pile of college applications on my desk. I took all five envelopes down to the mailbox, where Vinny picked me up each morning, but only mailed three. When I got to school, I tossed the Adelphi and Hofstra envelopes in the garbage can of the senior locker room.
Mom called the bank when the checks hadn't cleared eight weeks later. When they couldn't explain the anomaly, she called the schools, who informed her they'd never received an application for Rowan J. Kelly.
The fight Mom and I had that night was epic. It was the one time I thought she might actually hit me. I thought she was mad I'd gotten the best of her—that I'd taken charge of my own future. I didn't know all she wanted was for me to have the options and choices she never did.
In the following weeks, as our mailbox continued to go without news, part of me started to think Mom may have been right. Perhaps applying to only three schools to make a point had been a bit foolish.
If I didn't get in anywhere, I was headed for Nassau Community College, commonly referred to as the thirteenth grade among Long Islanders. I'd have to live at home, find a job, and get a car, unless I wanted to take the bus. Mom would still have power over me—my comings and goings, my friends . . . I'd never get a boyfriend.
* * *
During junior high, after I'd completed the Catholic High School Entrance Examination, the scores were sent to the three high schools I'd listed, but I was still required to submit a formal application to each school individually.
The mail arrived before I did. When I came home from school, there was an envelope set out for me on the kitchen table. It had been opened and taped back together. I sat on the bench, and saw the seal of Mercy in the corner.
Mom and Dad ran in from the kitchen to watch me discover what they'd already found out: I'd gotten in. They hugged and kissed and congratulated me. They told me how Nana would be thrilled to know her granddaughter would be continuing the legacy of Kellys at Our Lady of Mercy Academy.
It was the first time I'd ever felt like I'd done something right—that I'd made Mom proud. That for once I wasn't the letdown I'd always been. So, I signed my name on the acceptance form, and let Mom write a check for the deposit.
The acceptance letter from Holy Trinity came the following week. Mom said it wouldn't be a big deal if I wanted to change my mind, that the deposit wasn't an issue . . . that it was my choice. I chose not to disappoint her and resented this for the next four years.
* * *
The College of Mount Saint Vincent was the first to accept me, followed by the University of Hartford. Mom left their letters unopened on the third step of the stairs, along with my Rolling Stone magazine. Despite barely sharing any details of my life with her, she knew which school I was waiting on.
The letter from Cabrini College came on a Friday. It was still cold outside, so I'd worn tights instead of knee-highs. They were a pain to get on, and I hated how they needed to be washed every night to retain stretchiness for the next day.
I dropped my backpack on the laundry room tile, figuring I'd come back for it later, since homework could be done anytime. Mom and Dad were sitting at the kitchen table—a bright white #10 envelope between them.
Their faces lit up as I walked in and Mom excitedly pointed to Cabrini's custom return address, when Emma ran in.
At eleven, her loose curls hung just above her tailbone, a few strands tucked behind each of her diamond-studded ears. She was tall for her age, almost reaching my shoulder. The years had given Emma's green eyes a touch of brown—it was no wonder she seemed to be the center of attention.
"Marie," Emma said to my mom, "can you put a movie on?"
"Give me a few minutes," Mom said, to my surprise. She always had time for Emma. "I'm busy just now, but I'll be in in a little while, okay?"
"Okay," Emma sighed, going back to the den.
"You didn't open it this time," I said, picking up the envelope.
"It's not mine to open."
"What about Mercy's?" I asked.
"That was different," Mom said. "I didn't want your first acceptance . . . if it had been bad news I wanted to—I just, I just didn't want—" She took a deep breath. "I just want you to be happy, okay?"
I nodded and went to tear the envelope open before she stopped me.
"Whatever it is, Rowan, it's okay. If you don't get in, you can always go to Mount Saint Vincent or Hartford and transfer to Cabrini if you still want to go there. It's not the end of the world—it'll be okay. If being a writer is what you want to do and Cabrini is where you want to go to do it, we'll find a way."
I nodded, tore open the envelope, and said, "I got in."
She and Dad screamed, throwing their arms around me.
"Aidan," Dad called up the stairs, "get down here!"
"Why?"
"To tell your sister congratulations—she's going to college!"
* * *
It wasn't until I left Long Island that I discovered not all diners were open 24/7 and sandwiches did not typically come with almost a pound of meat crammed between two slices of bread. I also learned no one seemed to know what or where Long Island was. I found this to be unsurprising. After all, Long Island had proven to be the apex of where absolutely nothing happened.
People were shocked to learn Long Island was part of New York, and not a separate entity. I began describing it as the tumor hanging off the state. Real Manhattanites laugh at this—happy there's at least one Long Island native who knows they're not a real New Yorker.
"Are you close to New York City?" the non–New Yorkers ask.
"Yeah, I guess. The city is, like, not even an hour away."
They want to know if I go there all the time, if I've ever seen anyone get shot . . . if I've gone to see Saturday Night Live.
I don't have the stomach to tell them that despite living forty minutes from the City That Never Sleeps, I never go there. That my friends and I prefer to drive across the same few highways, which all seem to go to the same place, with the windows down and the music up. That no matter where we go, what we do, or how many strip malls we pass, we always wind up at the same diner, ordering from the same laminated menus, as we lament living in the most boring place, with the most boring people, with nothing to do.
So when asked if I've seen anyone get shot, I say, "Yes. Yes, I've killed a man."
* * *
With less than a week left until we drove down to Pennsylvania, Mom and I still hadn't made up. I could take my pick of reasons: I'd chosen to go to the mall with Valentina to shop for college clothes instead of with her; I told her I didn't want a stupid family dinner at home because I was more concerned with making an appearance at Valentina's parents' barbecue; and I wasn't being much help when it came to packing—I never did organize my clothes up to her standards anyway.
The real reason Mom was angry was because I thought I didn't need her. I was college bound, which meant her days of telling me what to do
and who to be were over.
* * *
"Say, 'Goodbye, house!'" Dad commanded as we pulled out of the driveway.
Aidan and I mumbled a half-hearted farewell to the house on Elderberry as Mom instructed us to say a prayer for our safe arrival. I slipped my headphones on while Aidan turned to his Nintendo DS.
At the last minute, I turned toward the back of the Tahoe to catch one last glimpse of the house on Elderberry through the cardboard boxes and containers full of clothes taking up the trunk. It was hard to believe the entirety of my existence could be packed into the back of a car.
* * *
Cabrini College sat on 112 acres of Pennsylvania bumblefuck, half an hour outside Philly, and appeared to be in a constant state of autumnal transformation. Even on the scalding August day of freshman check-in, the trees looked as if their leaves had caught fire—shimmering auburn, orange, and gold against the sunlight.
The incoming class of 2008 was no greater than 350 boys and girls looking to stave off adulthood, and I was no different. At seventeen, all I wanted was enough miles to prevent Mom and me from sharing a roof, and now here I was.
I got out of the Tahoe with a smile on my face and sprinted to the registration table at the front of Founder's Hall, scanning the check-in sheet to see if Erin had arrived.
* * *
At 5'10", Erin had a good six inches on me. She had dirty-blond hair, broad shoulders, and ears like Dopey. We'd met during Cabrini Day of Service, on the second day of Accepted Students Weekend, and I loved her instantly.
Founded by the Missionary Sisters of the Sacred Heart of Jesus in 1957, Cabrini College was not only committed to educating the future of America, but also to providing its students with a sense of responsibility to their community. Erin and I were assigned to the Habitat for Humanity group to help gut one of the row homes in North Philly.
Erin was spackling the front of the house, while I was put on top of a ladder and told to use a sledgehammer to take out the ceiling. After observing my lack of upper-body strength, Erin offered to switch, and I agreed happily.
"Just so you know," she said, holding the ladder as I climbed down, "I'm not a lesbian."
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