Girl Overboard

by Justina Chen

  To regroup, I demonstrate the proper posture of a lunge for her, sweeping one foot in front of me, bending the back leg until it almost touches the floor.

  “Keep your front leg at a ninety-degree angle,” I correct her, as she lunges. “Chest up.”

  Out of the blue, Grace says, “You’ll get a bigger turnout if you stage Ride for Our Lives in Seattle, not at Snoqualmie. Do you know of anyplace that’s already set up for a snowboarding event in town?” Breathing harder now, Grace asks, “Anyplace we don’t have to pay for the venue?”

  “No,” I start to say, but remember how over one summer, Age dropped me off at Baba’s office and drooled over all the steps leading to the front door.

  “Those rails are wicked good,” he’d said, eyes glittering at this snowboarders’ nirvana. I could see back then that he was already plotting to ride them come the perfect winter’s night.

  “Are you kidding?” I told him, unable to even fathom the trouble I’d be in if the headlines ever screamed, CHENG DAUGHTER, 14, ARRESTED FOR RECKLESS ENDANGERMENT AND TRESPASSING.

  So now I suggest to Grace like I’m half-kidding, “Well, DiaComm would be free.”

  Instead of scoffing at me, Grace looks thoughtful for a long moment, and then she says, “Actually, the parking lot is big enough to set up a stadium and a ramp or whatever it is you snowboarders use.”

  “Rails. But DiaComm? Come on, that would be a no.”

  “Why not?” Grace swivels around so effortlessly, she’d be a natural at snowboarding. Facing me, she demands, “What symbolizes mobility more than snowboarders? Matching up snowboarders with DiaComm would be a PR coup.” The way her eyes gleam at this new challenge, this new opportunity, I can tell she’s fallen in love with the idea. “If you’re going to do something, do it big and do it right. Remember that.”

  “Okay, but first, I need Baba to buy into my plan.”

  As if she’s assessing whether I’ve got the guts to follow through with that—guess what, I do—Grace continues to study me, and then she nods. It’s as if we share one of those sister bonds I read about in my favorite manga series, The Shaolin Sisters, about three girls who share the same father, but different mothers because, I swear, Grace says, “You’re onto something big.” Before I can react, she uses her shoulder to wipe a trickle of sweat off her cheek and asks, “So when’s the funeral?”

  “Saturday at two.”

  “We’ll have to leave Sunday morning.”

  “Really?” I can’t keep the squeak out of my voice.

  “I wouldn’t offer unless I meant it,” she says sharply, back to the Grace I know.

  “Thanks,” I tell her, feeling weightless in a way I haven’t since the avalanche poured down the mountain behind me. I know what has been lifted. Not my insecurity or my neuroses or my fear. But my loneliness. At a dinner a couple of months ago, a researcher whose work Baba personally funds told us that the mortality rate for single men is higher than it is for married ones. That weight of loneliness, of feeling like you don’t matter to anyone in the world, can literally kill you. I can’t help it. I gush, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Grace says, holding my gaze in the mirror, an unwavering look that tells me I matter and that she won’t change her mind.

  27

  By the time Grace drops me off at school, the bell has already rung, but before I head to homeroom, I stop in at the library, where I know I’ll find Lillian. Just as I thought, she’s parked at the computer, devouring another jargon-laden medical article as though she’s cramming for a final that’s going to help Amanda.

  “Lillian,” I say, resting my hand lightly on her shoulder.

  Despite the dark circles scooping out her eyes, Lillian shines a megawatt-smile at me. “What’s up?”

  “You don’t have to with me,” I tell her quietly. “You don’t have to be perfect, not with me.”

  Instead of being offended, Lillian nods, her smile sloughing off her face, leaving her as vulnerable and panicked as a girl who has slipped overboard. But I’m on lifeguard duty, and I’m not letting her go down, not without a fight. So when she asks, “God, what’re we going to do if the transplant doesn’t work?” I tell her, “I think I have an idea.”

  “Syrah, not even your dad can do anything. Even Dr. Martin said that this was our best option—thanks for having him call.”

  “My pleasure, but—”

  “Look, I know you want to be helpful, but Amanda’s got the best pediatric oncologist around, thanks to Chelsea’s mom.”

  Mrs. Dillinger connected them to Children’s Hospital? No wonder Lillian’s been on her best behavior with Chelsea. I sit in the chair next to hers. “I know Amanda’s getting the best care in the world, but I’ve got an idea for finding her a bone marrow match.”

  As if she’s traipsed down this well-worn path from hope to heartbreak one too many times, Lillian only shrugs. “How?”

  “What if we stage a fundraiser—”

  “Money’s not the issue.”

  “—fundraiser,” I continue, pretending her doubts haven’t interrupted me, “that will also publicize the need for more people to get tested for the National Bone Marrow Registry?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You said that the issue is that Amanda doesn’t have a perfect match. And that there’s probably somebody out in the world who’s mixed race and matches her, right?”

  Finally, Lillian turns in her chair to face me head-on, willing to listen now.

  “So what I’m saying is that we draw attention to Amanda. We stage a snowboarding exhibition in her honor. ‘Ride for Our Lives.’ ” I pull a copy of my business plan out of my backpack. “We’ll invite some of the best snowboarders around, especially the ones of color. There are a bunch of Japanese riders who are absolutely kicking it in competition. I bet they’d care about this because it could be them, or someone in their family, or a friend who needs a bone marrow match. We’ll offer a prize purse, and get a matching donation for the registry.”

  “It’s a long shot, Syrah.”

  “I know, but so is your parents having a just-in-case baby.” On the cover, I tap the manga drawing of Amanda on her snowboard etched with Ride for Our Lives. “All I’m saying is why not have a just-in-case plan?”

  Lillian lifts her eyes from the deck of PowerPoint slides she’s holding as if they’re winning lottery tickets and asks, “Why would you do this?”

  “Do you really need to ask? I’ve got zero community service hours. And a semester’s worth of manga to write for the newspaper.”

  “Yeah, right,” says Lillian, smiling, and I can tell my one tiny drop of hope is thawing her heart. “Okay, so question of the day.”

  Shoot them at me, I think. I’m ready to answer any objection.

  “How are we going to pull this off?” she asks.

  We, as in we are a team.

  I hug Lillian and say, “You forget who I am.”

  There’s a moment in snowboarding when a rider shifts from being technically proficient to being stylish. Her riding becomes fluid, easy, shows flair and personality. That’s how I feel right this moment, like I’ve crossed over from being the daughter of Ethan Cheng to becoming me, Syrah Cheng, girl with guts.

  While everyone else with a driver’s license at Viewridge screams out of the parking lot, giddy with winter break freedom, Lillian and I are putt-putting along the side streets to Boarder Xing, the leading snowboard shop in town, since Lillian is afraid to drive on the highways.

  “So we’re looking for them to review the plan?” asks Lillian, not taking her eyes off the road.

  “And plant the idea that they might want to underwrite the event.” I sound braver than I feel. My amped-up nerves have nothing to do with potentially seeing Age where he works after school and everything to do with me on the verge of making my first big Ask. At least, that’s the story I tell myself. “Boarder Xing sponsors a bunch of the local snowboarding events up at
Stevens and Snoqualmie.”

  “So how does that work? I mean, like, what are we supposed to say?” asks Lillian, whose stress must be channeling into her foot, which all of a sudden is pressing the accelerator. The car lurches forward. “Oh, my sister has cancer, so please give us five thousand dollars for a snowboarding event?”

  “Something like that.” I watch the speedometer steadily creep from speed limit to speeding.

  “God, Syrah, I suck at this.”

  With Lillian’s death grip on the steering wheel, I decide now’s not the time to joke that what sucks is her driving. Instead, I say, “I’m new to fundraising, too, but think of this as a preliminary talk with the owner. She invited us to meet with her.” Just as we nearly sideswipe the car in Lillian’s blind spot, I warn her, “Watch out!”

  Even after Lillian screams and returns to her old lady driving, we reach Boarder Xing sooner than I’d like.

  No schmoozer at one of my parents’ parties could scope out the store as proficiently as I do when we walk in to Boarder Xing. The store is a snowboard boutique, a mix of fashion with clothes even non-riders would crave, and that function with all the latest boards and boots to satisfy the hardest-core rider. Huge red sale signs are everywhere, in preparation for Boarder Xing’s annual Presidents’ Day weekend blowout. Playing on the large-screen in back of the store is a new snowboard video that I haven’t seen yet with music that would be fun to ride to. At once I see that Age isn’t around, but approaching us is some new sales guy I don’t recognize, stocky with a scraggly soul patch. For all my nervousness about seeing Age, I’m crushed when I don’t.

  “You finding what you need?” asks Soul Patch Guy, all eyes on Lillian.

  That would be negative, because what I need is Age. But what I want is to help Amanda. So I nudge Lillian, who is looking googly-eyed back at the sales guy, and tap into my inner Grace. All business official, I announce, “We’ve got a meeting with the owner.”

  “Are you the ones with the sick sister?”

  “Amanda,” says Lillian, as the interest cools in her eyes. “Her name is Amanda.”

  “That’s tough, really tough.” Soul Patch Guy sounds so mournful Amanda could be his own kid sister who’s got cancer, and just like that, he lands back on Lillian’s cute-boy radar. “Tracey had to step out. An emergency.”

  Even with zero experience in fundraising, I know this is not an auspicious start. But as I’m about to reschedule, Mr. Soul Patch says, “She wanted you to talk to the assistant manager when he comes in. Speak of the devil. Yo, Age!”

  My heart squeezes at the sound of that name, which is nothing compared to the acrobatics it does when Age ambles through the store’s front door. His eyes find mine, shocked that I—the friend he used to see all the time—am standing in the same recirculated air as he is. Me, I’m shocked that love has commando-crawled its sneaky way inside me, no matter how much I tried to barricade it.

  Mr. Soul Patch introduces Age, assuming we’re strangers: “And here’s the man himself, Adrian Rodriguez, head honcho here, at least when the Boss Woman’s gone.”

  When had Age gotten promoted? What else has happened since we stopped speaking to each other?

  “Syrah,” he says, and idly kicks away an imaginary dust ball, which tells me that Age is as nervous as I am.

  “Age.”

  Vaguely, I’m aware that Lillian is looking back and forth between Age and me, putting together a puzzle. That’s what he and I have become, disconnected pieces that no longer fit.

  Right when I start to tell him why I’m here, Age asks, “What’s up?” Before Natalia, we could finish each other’s sentences; now, our timing is so off we can’t even get our words out right.

  Pull it together, Cheng, I tell myself. So when Age gestures for me to go first, I say, “Tracey wanted us to talk with you about this snowboarding event we’re planning. Why don’t we sit down, since this might take a couple of minutes?” By some mutual, unspoken consent, Age and I leave a healthy distance between us on the bench fashioned out of an old snowboard at the front of the store. My pitch sputters forward, all ums, ers, and silent oopses, until Lillian intervenes, “This is all Syrah’s idea after she met my little sister, who, incidentally, thinks of her as some kind of hero.”

  Age smiles in that crooked way of his. How can I possibly miss him more when he’s sitting next to me than I do waiting for his call? So when he says, “I can understand that,” I fall back into our pattern of banter and retort without thinking, “That’s because you spent so much time worshiping my snowboarding.” Which makes him answer, “You wish, Gidget. It was my butt you were worshiping when I smoked you.”

  We smile awkwardly at each other, stuck in that uncomfortable former friend zone, well beyond getting to know you but far short of being privy to all your current secrets. We have become well-acquainted strangers.

  “So what do you want?” asks Age, looking at me intently.

  You. But I stick to my script, deciding that being professional is just a euphemism for being politely distant. “So I’m looking for your feedback on the plan, and I’ll be honest,” I tell him. “I’m also looking for your support.”

  Still, even though I tell myself that I’m just presenting to a potential sponsor, it’s weird to be sitting here with Age. What’s stranger is that we sound so businesslike, the way he asks and I answer about signage (“Yup, we are selling signs to hang on the rails and along the stands.”) and sponsorship levels (“Gold level sponsorships start at fifty thousand dollars.”)

  Then, like a seasoned manager, Age asks, “What about press?”

  “Grace is all over that,” I say.

  That surprises him so much, Age drops his professional demeanor: “Not a chance.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say, laughing before I catch myself about to launch into a yeah, can you believe it? So I turn back to the presentation: “What do you think?”

  “Impressive,” Age says, his knee bouncing up and down the way it does when he brainstorms. “I don’t want to promise anything, but I’d be surprised if Tracey didn’t want to participate in some way. I’ll have to talk it over with her, though.”

  Yeah, just like you needed to talk over our friendship with your girlfriend, I think to myself. Unfair, uncool, and totally unexpected, but my anger burns through my thin veneer of professionalism. And out of that opened vent bubbles my frustration: Wait a second, buddy, but I deserved the best from you. I deserved to be treated like a great, trusted, cherished best friend, not some bottom-fishing Z-lister who doesn’t rate a call back.

  “So are there any deal breakers that we should know about?” I ask him, sharply.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’d just like to know ahead of time if there are any issues, any concerns, that you or anyone else might have that will tank your commitment to me?”

  “She means, to Ride for Our Lives,” corrects Lillian, which is girlfriendese for What the hell are you doing? She smiles prettily at Age as she stands. “Why don’t we check in with you in a few days to see whether Boarder Xing is interested? Thanks so much for considering this. It means everything to me and my little sister. And Syrah.”

  As soon as we’re out of the store, Lillian says, “Well, that was interesting. When exactly did you guys break up?”

  “We didn’t.” I fast-walk along the sidewalk toward her minivan, my arms folded tight across my chest. “We’re—or we were—just friends.” My emotions are running amok: anger, sadness, anger, regret, anger, and above all, confusion. Where’s my manga-journal when I need it?

  Lillian keeps up with me and both of us turn at the shouted “Wait!” to find Age trotting to catch up. Under her breath, Lillian mutters, “Just friends, huh?”

  “What?” I demand when Age is standing in front of me, which I acknowledge isn’t the most effective or gracious way of sealing a deal.

  “Can we talk for a second?” he asks, glancing at Lillian.

  “Oh, there was a sweater that I
wanted to try on,” she says, and disappears back into the store.

  But when it’s just the two of us, Age and I are back to square one of having nothing and everything to say to each other, so we don’t say anything at all. Random gum wrappers and leaves swirl along the sidewalk, not staying still long enough to give either of us the satisfaction of kicking them out of our way.

  “Everything good with you?” he asks.

  “Everything’s great. You?”

  “Yeah, great.”

  “You got a promotion. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.”

  God, we don’t just sound like strangers, we act like strangers. That is almost worse than not seeing Age at all. So I take a deep breath and take a risk, betting on our friendship to tell him honestly, “Actually, life sucks. Bao-mu is gone, I’m moving to Hong Kong, and you and I aren’t talking. I mean, I get that Natalia isn’t comfortable with me and everything that comes with the”—I swing my hands out to the side like I’m presenting myself in a royal court—“Syrah Cheng package. But I thought I was part of your package, too.”

  “That’s just it. I was never part of the Syrah Cheng package.” He stares over my head, running out of things to say. Or maybe that’s what he wanted to say all along: good-bye.

  Some secret girlfriend SOS signal must be radiating out of me, because in three counts, Lillian is out of Boarder Xing, at my side and bundling me into her minivan and away from Age.

  “Do you know what you need?” she asks as she sticks her key in the ignition.

  “A heart transplant?”

  Lillian casts me a fierce look that I thought Bao-mu had copyrighted. “You need chocolate.”

  All the putt-putt vanishes from that girl, as if Lillian is fueled by the high octane of my heartache. No less than ten minutes later, we’ve covered twice as much ground as our slow drive over. She breaks her own order—“Nope, not one peep until we’ve got some chocolate inside us”—with a loud “Yes! Parking karma!” and swings into the one open spot in front of a coffee shop famous for its homemade organic cupcakes.