by Liana Liu
“I won’t.”
“Good,” she says. “Though I still wish you were going to Waltman College.”
The pain is sudden and crushing. I’m as shocked as if she’d struck me; perhaps that’s why I admit what I’ve never admitted aloud, or even admitted to myself: “I wish I were going there too.”
Then immediately I shake my head at my teacher. At myself. I correct myself. “Actually, I’m happy to be staying here. There are so many opportunities at the city university. The class catalog is huge! Besides, this is my home.
“Anyway,” I continue, “speaking of home, I should probably go. I’m only here for the weekend, and I should spend some time with my family. My brother’s back, and I haven’t seen him in ages! But it was so nice running into you. Thanks again, for everything!”
“Wait, please wait. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. Let’s talk about this.” Ms. Baldwin places her hand on my wrist and grips lightly. Her fingers are cool. Her smile is warm.
“It’s fine. I’m fine. I have to go.” I pull my arm away and gather my shopping bags. I smile and tell her good-bye, cheerfully.
The sun is excruciatingly bright when I emerge from the darkness of the café. I blink and blink, trying to adjust to the light. My eyes are watering. I don’t know why I’m upset. I shouldn’t be upset. I tell myself not to be upset. It doesn’t work.
Waltman College, a small, private liberal arts college, is one of the three schools I applied to and the only one of the three that isn’t in the city. In fact, it is more than two thousand miles away from the city. A four-hour flight. A two-day drive. Half a week on the train.
Ms. Baldwin encouraged me to apply: it was where she went to school and the professors were inspiring and the other students were great and the campus was beautiful and she had loved it. And though the tuition costs are extremely high, my teacher assured me the college was generous with financial aid.
So I applied. And was accepted. With a decent scholarship.
Ms. Baldwin was thrilled. She was so thrilled that I didn’t tell her I wasn’t going until after I had turned down their offer. I knew it was cowardly of me. But I also knew I couldn’t bear it if she tried to change my mind.
“Why?” she asked, her forehead furrowed with frustration.
“It’s too expensive,” I said.
“What about your scholarship?”
“It’s not enough. Plus there are housing costs and food costs and travel costs. I’d have to take out a lot of loans. So I’m going to stay here. I got a full scholarship to the honors program at the city university. I’ll live at home and continue tutoring to cover my other expenses. It just makes more sense,” I told her. I’d rehearsed this speech a few times. A few dozen times.
Ms. Baldwin eyed me skeptically. “What do your parents think?”
“It’s my decision. Completely,” I said. I hadn’t even told my mother I got into Waltman College. I hadn’t even told her I’d applied.
“Well. If that’s what you want, then I’m happy for you.” She didn’t sound happy at all.
Nonetheless, I was relieved that she hadn’t tried to change my mind. Even though it was already too late to change my mind, Ms. Baldwin was the kind of teacher who never gave up, not even on her most impossible students. It’s why I liked and respected her so much. It’s why I felt guilty about disappointing her.
But not as guilty as I would have felt if I had decided to go.
Now I’m walking east, toward the shoe store where they’re holding a pair of sandals for Vanessa Morison. The shopping bags are heavy and jostling, my hands are cramped from carefully carrying the box of delicate almond cookies, and the tip of my finger is throbbing where I cut it on the ballerina figurine last night. Also, it’s hot out. Also, I’ve had enough. I go home after picking up the sandals, even though there are a couple of items on Vanessa’s list.
My mother is already in the kitchen preparing dinner, chopping a chicken apart with her cleaver. I lean against the refrigerator and watch her small hands, slimy and reddened, deftly handle the raw meat.
“What are you making?” I say.
“Gālí jī.” Chicken curry. My brother’s favorite.
I go sit on the couch in the living room. Andy is gone, his sheets and blanket folded in the basket under the coffee table, so neatly folded that I guess it was my mother who put them away. I take out Vanessa’s purchases and organize the contents of the many shopping bags into a single shopping bag. I flatten the empty bags, wedge them into a stack under my arm, and walk to the door.
“Nĭ qù nălĭ?” Where are you going?
“I’m taking these to the garbage room. I’ll be right back.”
My mother comes out of the kitchen, drying her washed hands on a worn dish towel. She bends over to inspect the stack of fancy shopping bags. She fingers the ribbon handle of one bag, strokes the glossy surface of another. These are nice, she says.
“No, Mom. We don’t need them,” I say.
She reaches to take the bags.
I grip them hard under my arm.
She looks at me with confusion.
“It’s more garbage. There’s no room in here for any more garbage,” I say much louder than necessary. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. But I don’t let go of the shopping bags.
She lets go. She is still looking at me with confusion. And hurt.
I know I’m wrong. I don’t care. My finger is throbbing where I cut it last night. All I want to do is hurl the bags—sharp corners and dense cardboard and ropy straps—right at her. My mother.
Of course I don’t do it.
Instead, I apologize. I tell her that she’s right, the shopping bags are very nice and we should keep them. I lay them gently on the kitchen table. I announce that I have to go buy a few more things for Vanessa Morison, but I’ll be back soon. Somehow, I smile.
Then I leave. I shut the front door with the softest possible thump and walk down the narrow hallway. I’m walking fast. I don’t pause to wait for the elevator. I continue to the stairwell and sprint down the stairs, all ten flights of them. I race past the security guard snoring over his newspaper, past the elderly women and loitering men, past the women with groceries in one hand and their snot-faced kids in the other, past the steaming heat and putrid smells and I don’t slow down, can’t slow down, not until my surroundings become cleaner, clearer, and completely unknown.
Finally I stop. I have to because my lungs are swollen tight so I can’t breathe and my legs ache and my heart hurts. I have to because I have no idea where I am. I have no idea where I’m going.
“Get the hell out of the way!” screams someone behind me.
“Sorry, I’m so sorry.” I dart over to the side of the sidewalk. I wipe my sweaty face on my shirt. My braid is unraveling. I’m panting. I stand there until I stop panting.
Then I comb my hair with my fingers and secure it into a tight ponytail. I blot my face on my arm. There is nothing I can do about my streaky-soggy shirt. I look up the address of Vanessa Morison’s coffee shop. I walk there slowly. I buy two pounds of premium espresso beans and a box of licorice tea.
“Are you all right?” the cashier asks me. She is my age, or a little older. A white girl with thick purple eyeliner and a pierced eyebrow, nose, and lip.
“I’m fine. It’s just so hot out there.”
“It really is. You have to be careful.” She turns around. From the refrigerator behind the counter, she gets out a can of soda. “Here,” she says. “Drink this.”
“Oh, no, thank you. I’m all right, but thanks.”
As I walk home I lecture myself, as if I’m my own student. Be patient, be nice, be happy to be here. Remember that your mother loves you. Don’t let your brother get to you. I wipe my sweaty face on my sweaty shirt and think longingly of the cold can of soda the girl offered me. It was foolish of me not to accept it. But I didn’t deserve it.
I’m taken aback by the chorus that greets me when I unlock the door of our apar
tment and step inside. There is my mother, of course, and my brother—even after seeing him yesterday, I’m still kind of surprised he’s around. But what surprises me most is my best friend, Doris Chang, crying out a happy welcome. I hadn’t told her I was coming home.
“I missed you so much!” Doris squeals.
“I missed you too!” I squeal.
“I’m so happy to see you!”
“I’m so happy to see you too!”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“I . . . wanted it to be a surprise?”
“Hey, sis.” Andy comes over and slings an arm around my shoulder. It’s the most affectionate he’s been toward me in the past three years. I doubt it’s because of me.
“Hi, uh, bro. How are you?” I say.
“Awesome.” He actually smiles. And I notice that he looks different—not just because he’s smiling for once. He’s put on some weight and it’s an improvement. My brother was always too skinny, spiked elbows and stick legs, but he’s filled out a little. He looks healthier now.
But that, in my opinion, is the only way he has changed. The rest of it is just acting: acting glad to see me and acting glad to be here and acting glad we’re having dinner together. Clearly, it’s all a show for Doris. I see it in the way his gaze slides toward her whenever there’s a pause in the conversation. In the way he sits motionless when she speaks, giving her his complete attention. In the way he says her name, “Doris,” and how frequently he says it, “Doris,” and how gently.
“Doris,” he says. “Will you please pass the vegetables?”
She smiles sweetly at him as she does. Then she notices me watching and smiles sweetly at me. Then, so no one feels left out, she smiles sweetly at my mother. That’s Doris.
“How’s the job going?” I ask Andy.
“It’s cool. My boss is a control freak, but the work is easy,” he says.
“Nĭ gēgē qiūtiān shàng dàxué,” says my mother. Your brother is going to school in the fall.
I think: You already told me that.
I say: “That’s great.”
“Yeah, I enrolled in some classes at the community college.” Andy shrugs.
He’s taking three classes. My mother gazes at him proudly.
“He’s taking biology! We’re going to study together,” Doris says.
My brother scoffs. “You mean you’re going to tutor me. I’m taking biology for idiots, you’re taking biology for doctors.”
“Biology is biology,” Doris says serenely.
My mother says that if they study here, she’ll cook for them.
Doris thanks her and says that she would love to come over for more of my mother’s cooking—especially this curry, it’s delicious. “Nĭ zěnme zuò?” she asks. How do you make it?
Unlike me, she speaks to my mother in Mandarin. Because her Chinese is better than mine. Because my accent is terrible. Because I almost never speak it.
While my mom describes her ingredients and methods, Doris murmurs small sounds of approval and my brother nods benevolently. The three of them look so comfortable. I wonder if they’ve had dinner together while I was gone.
I stand and start clearing the table. As soon as I do, Doris stands and starts helping. As soon as she does, Andy stands and starts helping too. My mother stands, but we shoo her away, telling her to go sit on the couch, relax. She agrees reluctantly, but I can tell she is pleased.
While Doris and I wash the dishes, we talk about our other friends. Patty likes her job at her church’s day camp. Tiff has moved upstate for school and is settling in well. Janine and her annoying boyfriend have finally broken up. Most of this information comes from Doris. As she tells me about Tiff’s weird roommate, I realize I haven’t stayed much in touch with the other girls this summer.
“What are you doing tonight?” Doris asks. “Andy and I are going to watch a movie here. You should watch with us.”
I glance at my brother, who is hovering just outside the kitchen. I expect him to be scowling. But he is nodding. Perhaps not enthusiastically, but still nodding.
“What movie?” I ask.
“An action movie,” he says.
“A romantic comedy,” she says.
Andy gazes at her. “Fine, we can watch your stupid rom-com,” he says, the sharpness of his words softened by the tenderness in his voice.
“Thanks. Though I know you secretly want to too.” She smiles.
“Whatever you say, Doris.” He smiles.
Another minute of this and I’m going to be sick.
Doris turns to me. “So you’ll watch with us?”
“I’m not really in the mood for a rom-com,” I say.
“What are you in the mood for?”
“Actually, I already have plans.”
“What plans? With whom?”
“A friend you don’t know,” I say.
She looks doubtfully at me but doesn’t ask any more questions.
I get my phone and go into the bedroom. I try to think of who there is to call. Obviously not my best friend, Doris. Probably not any of our other similarly sweet girlfriends who I’ve barely talked to since graduation. Possibly no one.
Except . . . maybe . . .
I dial before I can change my mind. The phone rings and rings and I decide he’s not going to answer and part of me is relieved. Then he answers.
“Who is this and how’d you get this number?” says Henry Morison.
“Hi, yeah, it’s, uh—”
“I’m kidding. Of course I know who you are.”
“Yeah?” I say. “Who am I?”
“Academic tutor by day, party animal by night.”
I laugh. “That sounds extremely wrong. How’d your meeting go yesterday?”
“Thanks to all our practice, it went okay,” he says. “Kristoff let me retake the exam, and I’m pretty sure I aced it.”
“That’s great! I’m so glad.”
“Now you have to come celebrate with me. What are you doing tonight? My friend is having a birthday party for his girlfriend, pretty close to where you live. You want to come?”
“Okay,” I say.
“So I was right. Party animal at night. You’ll fit right in.”
I think: What have I gotten myself into?
I say: “What have I gotten myself into?”
And it doesn’t reassure me when Henry just laughs.
4
IT’S STILL LIGHT OUTSIDE AND IT’S STILL HOT. I’M WALKING slowly now, though I left our apartment in a rush—without explaining to Doris and my brother why I couldn’t watch the movie with them, without telling my mother where I was going or when I would be home. I didn’t even change my clothes. Though I wish I had. My shorts are creased and my tank top is rumpled. My sandals could use a dusting. But I don’t go back.
I stroll to the river and stare out at the waves. It’s easy to forget that this is also an island, like Arrow Island. Yet completely unlike Arrow Island. Here the water is murky with shadow. The salt air smells off, old, a little rancid. But I admire the glittering skyline. And I appreciate that there are people, people of all ages and races and sizes and styles, walking and running and talking and laughing along the waterfront. I’d miss this—I tell myself—if I ever left.
“Hey! Check out how early I am.”
I turn around. “Yeah, but I was earlier.”
“Is this a competition?” Henry grins. I’m relieved to see that he’s wearing a ratty gray shirt and his hair is as uncombed as ever. His outfit makes my outfit look almost fancy.
“Everything is a competition,” I tell him.
“Hmm. That perspective explains a lot about you.”
“I’m joking.”
“Are you?”
“I don’t know. Where’s this party?”
The party is on the top floor of something that looks more like an enormous sculpture than a building. It’s glass and metal spliced together and rising, writhing, into the clouds. There is a man at
the door who I don’t realize is a doorman until he opens the door for us. He has slicked hair and tailored pants; he looks like he should live here, not work here.
“Going to Shelby’s? Penthouse floor,” he says.
“Yeah, man. Thanks.” Henry high-fives him while I watch, fascinated. I didn’t know this was correct doorman etiquette. But probably only for certain people.
The elevator zooms up so quickly that my ears pop and my stomach wobbles. I trip out when the doors open. Henry catches my elbow and steadies me. “Careful,” he says. “We’re not even there yet.”
“Ha,” I say. “Ha. Ha.” I shove him.
Henry flails and falls exaggeratedly to the carpeted floor. He gazes up at me with the saddest, most pitiful expression. This time my laughter is genuine.
“Come on.” I bend forward and reach out to him.
He grips my fingers. “Your hands are so cold.”
“Cold hands, cold heart,” I say.
“That’s not how the saying goes.” Henry jumps up.
I shrug. I tug my cold hands from his warm ones and twine them behind my back.
A door opens, and the hallway fills with banging music. “Henry!” someone shouts through the open door. Then there are more voices: “Henry!” they shout. “Henry! Henry! Hey, man! Get over here!”
He turns away from me and walks toward the shouting voices.
I follow him into the apartment. Then I stop. The living room is the size of a hotel lobby. The ceiling is so high, it strains your neck to gaze up at it. A chandelier like fireworks. Walls painted a glossy black. Leopard-print furniture. I realize I’m gawking and force myself look away. I look for Henry. He has disappeared into the crowd.
It’s crowded. Almost everyone is dressed up. Especially the girls. Girls wearing short floaty dresses or long floaty dresses, and wedge sandals or high heels, and dangling earrings or delicate necklaces or gold bangles. Their mouths are red, their eyelashes are thick, their legs are long and shiny. Their hair is perfectly curled or straightened or tousled. They glitter and gleam, and every one of them is pretty, or at least gives that impression.