by Liana Liu
DEDICATION
FOR MY SISTERS, KARINA AND KRISTEN
CONTENTS
Dedication
Before
Part I: The Island Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part II: The City Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part III: The Island Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Part IV: The City Chapter 1
Chapter 2
After
Acknowledgments
Back Ad
About the Author
Books by Liana Liu
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
BEFORE
MY FIRST OFFICIAL JOB—ONE WITH TAX FORMS AND A PAYCHECK, instead of the grungy wad of dollars I’d get for babysitting or running neighbors’ errands—was at a kids’ day camp. I was fifteen, and labor laws allowed me to work up to forty hours a week when school was out of session. That summer I worked forty hours a week and would have worked more if it had been possible. We needed the money. And I was glad to be busy. It was the year my father left.
The camp was a twenty-minute walk from our apartment: first through crooked slimy streets and a fierce heat that smelled of salt and herbs and rot; then, around the corner, the buildings grew taller and wider, the sidewalks straighter, the air softer; then another corner, and the buildings shrank but became more ornate. On the next block was the redbrick school building that housed Sunshine Day Camp.
From the beginning, I liked my job. I loved the kids, most of them. And the ones I didn’t love—the ones who misbehaved out of pure spite and felt no remorse when caught and reprimanded—I still tried to love. If I could love them, I thought, maybe that would make them lovable. It took me half the summer to realize things didn’t work like that.
But generally I loved the kids, my kids, my group of wiggly, giggly seven-year-olds. On a field trip to the aquarium, as the children crowded in front of the shark tank, I remembered that old saw about how sharks had to keep moving or they’d die, and it reminded me of my kids, especially the boys, who fidgeted when forced to sit in chairs, who fidgeted until they fell from chairs. The boys were always falling from their chairs.
Every night I would come home with stories to tell over dinner: this little boy cried at recess, this little girl played alone, this little boy hummed “Happy Birthday” all day long. My mother would listen intently, and when my older brother, Andy, was home he listened too, or pretended to. That summer, it was useful having something meaningless to talk about.
So when I was fifteen and working at Sunshine Day, I focused primarily on the children. But I also thought about what I would do once camp was over. Maybe I was like that shark, too—I had to keep my mind moving or else I’d die. So while I braided hair and sang songs and organized raucous rounds of math tournaments, I also studied everything happening around me.
And I realized that the most difficult part wasn’t managing the children—it was managing the parents. Although the kids were exhausting, you always knew what they wanted: every thought came pouring from their little mouths; every feeling was finger painted across their little faces. You knew what they wanted: your attention, all of it.
The parents were more complicated because they also wanted your attention but pretended they didn’t. So instead they complained, rationally and irrationally. “My Adeline came home upset because Spencer teased her.” “How could you punish Kiki for kicking Benny? We told you she’s extremely sensitive.” Or, when particularly upset, they might criticize using compliments: “It’s good you haven’t fixed the swing set yet—it teaches the kids about delayed gratification.” Although their complaints were always on behalf of their children, it often seemed like they were actually talking about themselves.
As the most junior of the junior counselors, however, I didn’t have to deal with parental grievances. I watched and listened, though, and noticed that some counselors were much better than others at handling the parents. And I knew I could be better too. All this passive-aggression reminded me of high school.
Plus, the parents liked me. Partly because I adored their children; partly because I was exactly their idea of what I should be—kind but firm with their babies, and sweet and deferential to them. The things they knew about me, the things I told them (only when they inquired; I never presumed their interest), confirmed their assumptions.
They asked: Where are you from? Were you born here? Where do you live? Where do you go to high school?
And when I answered their questions—sweetly and deferentially—they smiled, thinking that they were right about me.
On the last day of camp, when parents came over to say thank you and good-bye and Adeline will miss you so much, I told them I would miss Adeline so much too. Then I said in a quiet voice, my eyes slightly averted, that if Adeline wanted to get ahead during the school year, I was starting an academic tutoring service. That was all I said. If they asked for my phone number, I gave them my phone number.
I might have done it differently. I might have confidently asserted myself, declaring my aptitude and experience. I might have phrased my offer in terms of Adeline needing help rather than getting ahead. I might have made cards with my name in bold letters on bright paper, and passed them out like flyers. I’d considered doing all these things but didn’t do any of them. If parents asked for my phone number, I gave them my phone number. Then I hugged Adeline good-bye.
The first year I had two students during the fall and three during the spring. The second year I had three students during the fall and four during the spring. And this year I had five during the fall and five during the spring. More parents called, but I only had time for five students. Because there was also school. And homework. And planning, as I kept my shark mind moving, moving, moving.
Summers were different, though. Slower. Most of my students went away to the country or the shore or abroad. Sunshine Day asked me to come back, but I respectfully declined in order to spend a relaxing summer with Adeline, writing stories and reading books. The following summer I worked for another family, conducting science experiments with their twin boys.
Now for this summer—the summer after my high school graduation. Joan Pritchett is the first one to offer me a job. I thank her and tell her I’ll let her know in a few days. Joan is one of my more difficult parents. She’s demanding and gossipy and not very nice. However, I really like her son, who I’ve been tutoring these past two years. So I decide to accept the job.
But then I get another call.
Vanessa Morison is blond and beautiful and wearing a lacy silky peachy something that looks like a bathrobe. It’s true that it is very early in the morning and we are sitting in a room she calls her boudoir, a room that looks like a bedroom without a bed (luminous walls, fleecy rugs, lots of candles and mirrors). It’s true that she is confiding personal details to me in a breathy voice. It’s true that I am the one who looks out of place here, trying not to fidget in my shirt buttoned up to the collar and the navy skirt I thoroughly ironed last night.
But this is a job interview, and our first time meeting, so it must be a dress she’s wearing. Even if it looks exactly like a bathrobe.
“My husband thinks Ella isn’t working to her
full potential,” Mrs. Morison says, her voice a long sigh. “I tell him I agree, yet somehow we still end up fighting. Though I know it’s just because he’s stressed out from work. He runs a hedge fund, a really big one.”
“Impressive,” I say, as if I hadn’t known. But of course I’d known. I’d done my research; I always do. And I’d done extra research on her husband and his hedge fund.
“It’s a lot of pressure, especially with the way the markets have been lately. So I try not to bother him with anything else, but it’s hard . . . with Ella . . .”
“Sometimes smart kids underperform in school because they’re bored. The great thing about academic tutoring is we can customize the curriculum to meet each student’s needs and interests.”
She nods. “You’re right. Ella must be bored.”
Then I feel a little guilty, because I don’t actually know Ella, so I don’t actually know how bored or smart she might be. I change the subject. “Here’s my résumé and two letters of reference, Mrs. Morison. Would you like to see a sample lesson plan?”
“Sure—but please call me Vanessa.” She flips through the stack of papers I hand her.
“Vanessa,” I say. “I can’t wait to meet your daughter.”
“And she’s excited to meet you. It’s too bad she isn’t home now.”
“She isn’t? Where is she?” I smile so that I don’t frown. When we spoke on the phone, I specifically asked if Ella would be there, and Vanessa Morison said that she would. I never take on students without meeting them first.
“Her babysitter took her to the park. It’s such a nice morning, you know.” Vanessa tosses her golden hair behind her shoulder. She adjusts the belt holding her dress together. She looks nervous. Her nervousness makes me nervous.
But then she tells me how much she will pay me this summer. She names a figure twice the amount of my usual salary. “Is that all right?”
And all I can do is agree. Of course that’s all right, it’s more than all right; it’s everything. I start thinking about what I’ll do with the money: some to my mother, save most of the rest, of course, but I’d like a new pair of sneakers since mine have started pinching, and my mother could use a rice cooker that doesn’t leak and—
“By the way,” Vanessa says, “you aren’t superstitious, are you?”
I stare at her.
“No?” I ask instead of say, startled by the randomness of her question. And because I want an explanation.
But she doesn’t explain. Instead she says she’ll email me directions to their house on the island.
“The island?”
“Yes, Arrow Island. We go there every summer. We have a house there, right on the beach, so don’t forget your bathing suit. There’s also a pool in the backyard, of course. And I have the perfect room picked out for you. You’re going to love it.”
“That sounds wonderful, but . . .” I pause to think about how I’m going to explain this misunderstanding to her, that I’m very sorry but I can’t go away with them; I can’t leave the city.
Then I ask myself: Why not? After all, it’s only for two months. Not years.
“But what?” asks Vanessa.
I clear my throat and say: “I’m really looking forward to spending the summer with you and your family. By the way, how did you hear about my tutoring service?”
“Oh, my friend Joan told me how much you’ve helped her son.” She smiles.
“Joan? You mean Joan Pritchett?” I hadn’t even known the two women knew each other. Their children go to different schools. The Morisons live uptown and the Pritchetts downtown.
“That’s right. She won’t be pleased that I’ve stolen you away from her, will she?” Vanessa is still smiling; nothing about her expression has changed, yet she suddenly seems different. As if her face has come into focus. She looks sharper now.
“Something wrong?” she asks.
“Uh, no, uh . . . I like your dress.”
“This?” She glances down at peachy silk and lace. “This is my bathrobe.”
When I get home, my mother is in the kitchen stirring the pot of rice porridge on the stove. She comes out to watch as I take off my shoes, place them neatly on the rack, and tuck my purse into the closet. “Zěnme yang?” she asks. How was it?
“I got the job,” I say.
“Hăo.” Good. She turns to go back into the kitchen.
“Mom. This summer is going to be different.”
She turns around again.
“I’ll be staying with them in their house,” I tell her.
She stares at me. “Wèishéme?” Why?
I think: Why not?
I say: “The family spends their summer on an island several hours away. They have a house. On the beach. With a swimming pool. I’ll have my own room. And they’re going to pay me a lot of money. Almost double what I made last year. Anyway, it’s only for two months. It’ll be fine. It’ll be great. Really. Great. They’re going to pay me a lot.”
My mother continues staring. Although she doesn’t speak much English, she can understand it well enough. But now she stares at me as though she doesn’t understand a word I’m saying.
My shirt collar feels tight around my neck. I unbutton the top button. “I should change my clothes,” I say.
“Huàn hăo, jiù chī fàn.” All right, then come eat.
I go into the bedroom and shut the door. I know what I have to do, and I’m dreading doing it. But I call Joan Pritchett and tell her how grateful I am for the job offer, though unfortunately I’m unable to accept as I’ll be going away for the summer.
“What a shame. Benny will be disappointed,” she says. “He was so excited when I told him you were going to be tutoring him every day. I don’t know what I’m going to tell him now.”
“I’m sorry. Benny’s a great kid, and I hope we can continue our tutoring sessions in the fall. He’s been making amazing progress.”
“We’ll see,” she says. “So where are you going?”
“I accepted a position with a family outside the city.”
“Which family? Anyone I know?”
“It’s, um, well, I don’t feel comfortable—”
“You can tell me. Tell me.”
I know I shouldn’t tell her. It’s my policy not to discuss students or their parents with other students or their parents. And I particularly don’t want to get involved with whatever is going on between Vanessa and Joan. Yet I don’t know how to avoid it. “I’ll be tutoring Ella Morison,” I say reluctantly.
Joan inhales sharply. “I know Ella. Vanessa and I are friends. So I probably shouldn’t be telling you this,” she says, lowering her voice as if whispering a secret is the same as keeping it. “But did you know that Vanessa used to be a stewardess—that is, a flight attendant? In fact, that’s how she met Jeffrey. While he was still married to his first wife.”
I don’t say anything. I’m trying to think of a way to politely end this call.
“And it’s too bad about that trouble Ella got into this year, isn’t it?”
I tune my voice to its cheeriest tone. “Yes, well, have a great summer!”
“Good luck with Ella. You’ll need it,” Joan says, and hangs up.
I tell myself she is just trying to make trouble. I tell myself that no matter what the situation is with the Morisons, it’ll be better than working for Joan Pritchett. I put my phone down with a sigh.
The room has gotten dark. Outside, the sky is a pallid gray; it looks like rain. I shut the open window. I take off my shirt and skirt and hang them in the closet. Then I put on an old tank top and a pair of sweatpants and go back to the kitchen. My mother is still at the stove. She ladles the steaming contents of the pot—pallid gray as the sky—into a bowl and hands it to me.
Then she tells me not to take the job.
My mother speaks softly, as if she’s afraid of disturbing someone in the next room. Our apartment is small, the walls flimsy, but there isn’t anyone in the next room. And I have to
take the job. I’ve already taken it.
I sit down at the table and stir my bowl of rice porridge. “Smells good,” I say.
“Nĭ zhù zài jìālĭ. Nĭ kěyĭ zài zhè zhăo gōngzuò.” You can stay home. You can get a job here.
I continue eating. I feel her watching me, her gaze pressing, prodding. And all of a sudden I can’t stand it any longer. I snap: “We need the money.”
My mother turns away. “Zhen de,” she says. That’s true.
Instantly, I’m ashamed. It is true that we need the money, but it’s because of me. Because I’m starting college in the fall, and even though I have a tuition scholarship and I’ll be living here, at home, there will still be textbook expenses and student fees and transportation costs and a hundred other small bills and charges.
“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to make my voice as soft as hers. “I already told them I’d do it. I guess I shouldn’t have without talking to you first. But the pay is really good.”
My mother nods. She goes to the sink, rinses out a rag, and wrings it out. She wipes down the countertop with a few brisk strokes, and rinses the rag out again. My mother is a small woman, short and very slender, but she has strong arms. She can open stuck jar lids that I can’t open. She can scrub every surface in the bathroom without pausing to rest.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” I ask.
I’m not hungry. She goes into the living room. A moment later, the vacuum cleaner roars on. I track her location by the sound vrooming through the flimsy walls of our small apartment: now she is in the corner by the bookshelf, now she is behind the couch, now she is right near the bedroom, now she is in the bedroom.
The longest I’ve ever been away from home, away from her, was a weekend.
I finish eating my bowl of porridge. I wash the dishes. Then I take a grapefruit from the refrigerator and dissect it, meticulously removing all the skin and pith and seeds. I cut the fruit into bite-size chunks, arrange the chunks on a plate, and carry the plate out into the living room.