A few minutes later, outside the store, Charley emerged with a paper bag in hand, a grin eating up her face. She held up the bag with the dress inside. Her smile was a contagious virus, and we couldn’t help but mirror her expression.
“Oh. My. God,” Charley said, grinning ear to ear.
“What?” I asked.
She sighed loudly. “Don’t get all preachy. Because it worked.”
“What?” I asked again.
“I made the shopkeeper want to give me this dress for free.”
“Like mind control? You made her think what you want?” Cord asked. My stomach clenched.
She shook her head. “I touched her hand, and with a little focus and concentration, I saw all her worries, all her fears. They flew at me. Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!” She slapped her hands together with each word. “I don’t know why I didn’t try this years ago. It’s brilliant. And then, well, I used that information to my advantage, if you will.” She grinned devilishly.
Extortion. I glanced back at the shop owner, who leaned on the counter, covering her face with both hands.
“Why’d you do that?” I asked. My voice may have sounded soft like kitten fur, but the message was clear. We couldn’t go around manipulating people with these so-called gifts.
Cord obviously agreed; even if he didn’t come out and say it, his face did.
“Oh, fine! Whatever,” she said, throwing her hands down. “You guys are so square. You do know that we’re totally getting used by these SRI people. I’m just getting what’s mine.”
“From the lady who owns the store?” I asked, frowning. “Aren’t your parents small-business owners?”
Charley swatted her hand. “Sure, but they’re not saints.” She turned on her heel to fall into the river of people.
“I’ll catch up to you. I have to go to the bathroom,” I said.
I ran back into the store we’d just left. Inside it was chaos. A middle-aged man was yelling in Chinese at the woman Charley had manipulated. Silent tears raced down the woman’s face.
The closer I got to her, the worse I felt. This tiny lady, with bony cheeks and hands like a child’s, did not look like she could hold so many secrets. The man continued to shout, his foreign words punching the air like firecrackers.
Charley did this.
Irritated, I put down a fifty-dollar bill on the table, apologized, and ran back out to the street.
I figured I’d see Cord and Charley on the street or in one of the gift shops nearby. But it was as if the crowds had swallowed them. I searched for them while browsing golden Buddha trinkets and carved wooden monkeys, and wandered down an aisle with hundreds—if not thousands—of kites. Yellow and green and red. Snakes and dragons and cartoon faces, draping from the ceilings, tickling my head, cornering me.
Back on the street, I scanned the crowd for Cord’s head sticking out above the crowd and Charley’s brown hair. Anonymous faces swam in the stream of people around me. But not anonymous—I kept seeing the same man: long jaw, narrow lips, eyes like tunnels. He smoked a cigarette on the corner and his gaze zeroed in on me. When I gazed back, he looked away.
I staggered down the street faster, picking up the pace, standing on tiptoes to peer inside shops and over the heads of passersby. A quick glance over my shoulder, and there he was again. The flash of tan from his suit jacket. The long sideburns. My heart ticked up, and an invisible explosion rumbled inside my chest. I ducked inside a store.
I’d traveled the world, experienced things most people at sixteen wouldn’t dream of. Yet I’d always done it from the cocoon of wealth and safety. This was outside the norm—no one watching over me, no black-uniformed driver waiting for me, no gated compound in which to hide.
I looked outside, and my breath caught in my throat. The man stood directly across the street, leaning a shoulder against a brick wall. Watching me.
A cab. I needed a ride to get back to the Institute. I raced through the crowd, searching for the snaking yellow of a passing taxi. But I’d given the last of my cash to the shopkeeper. Where is the bus stop? I spun around, feeling unsettled about where I really was. A throng of cars slowed to a stop at a red light. Standing in the crowd, I waited to cross. The man drew closer. The light turned green, and I tore into the street. When I looked back over my shoulder, he was on my heels, jogging to keep up.
Sprinting and sweeping the swarm of bodies for my new friends, a taxi, bus, anything—I stopped in my tracks.
I saw her: the girl in the blue dress. What in the world? She stood like a mannequin inside a market, beneath a green awning with Chinese lettering. For a second, I wondered if it was indeed a mannequin, but she waved to me, signaling for me to follow. With one last glance and my throat closing, I ducked into the market to find her.
Inside, we stood face to face next to stacked cans of coconut milk and sauces. “You’re safe here,” she whispered.
But her voice held something else. The silky-smooth timbre of it was so familiar.
“Thanks,” I said, breathless. This young woman was no ghost. She really is here.
Finally, I really looked at her. She had a gash beneath her right eye. A dark purple-and-green bruise lined her cheekbone. Her parted lips—dry, cracked, split, and swollen.
The sight of her face stole the air from my chest.
She was not just some wounded girl in front of me. She was a young woman. So familiar. I pulled photos from my mind’s eye. No one kept any photos of her anymore. Not a single one in our five-home enclave.
“Aunt Sabrina! Oh my God.” I reached out to touch her arm, but she shrunk away, avoiding my fingers. She glanced outside.
“I see you. Everywhere. What happened to you? Where’ve you been?” The questions tumbled out on top of each other, stones racing down a steep hill.
She didn’t answer. Her mouth gaped, as if seeing me so close, just across this pile of canned goods, astounded her too. Where in the heck has she been and why am I seeing her in all these places?
“Is that man following you, too?”
She shook her head, a quiver, really, and her eyes shot past me, swinging like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. She craned her neck to peek around the corner. “I think he’s gone now.”
“Who is he?” My voice, normally tight and locked away in my throat, burst forward, a steam engine forging ahead.
She shook her head. “My Russian handler.” Her voice sounded so different. Dead.
Out of breath, my heart pounding, I peered out the cluttered window, but didn’t see him. I took a few more steps and scanned the street. “He’s gone,” I whispered. “I’ll get you help.” Euphoria filled me—finally, I would bring her home. Finally, she’d be safe.
But when I turned around, Aunt Sabrina was gone. Not again! My heart fell in my chest.
“Sabrina!”
Frantic, I searched the store. It was small, the size of our housekeeper’s room, so it didn’t take long to realize she wasn’t there.
“Where’d that woman go?” I asked, half to myself, half to the short shopkeeper. He frowned over wire glasses but didn’t answer.
I slipped into the street, scanning the swarm of people for the blue dress and dark hair. I spun around, searching—and slammed directly into Cord.
“Oh!” I said, breathless. My hands fell onto his chest.
“What happened to you?” he asked through a lazy grin. “We looked everywhere.”
“There she is!” Charley slung an arm around my shoulder. “Is your superpower going invisible?” She giggled.
They felt like a bubble of safety.
I’d been plucked from a surreal—and scary—situation. But what about Aunt Sabrina? She clearly needed help, and yet she was lost in a flood of people.
Where is she? I scanned the street, panicked she’d be caught by that guy, beat up again. She slipped through my fingers, water passing through a sieve. Dammit!
My chest pounded.
“Hey, chica…” Cord said.
; “You look like you saw a ghost,” Charley said.
Maybe I did?
I liked Charley and Cord. I really did like them. But did I trust them? Every time I gave it, my trust was tossed in the trash. And I couldn’t afford for another car-smashing episode to happen. Otherwise, I’d for certain end up like my aunt. Gone, broken. Or maybe dead?
Maybe I really was losing it. If I’d started imagining my missing aunt following me around San Francisco, this had to be some serious anxiety. So bad that I was having delusions.
“I couldn’t find you … and I was scared,” I finally said. I scanned the crowd once again, terrified at what I would—or wouldn’t—see.
Cord placed his hand on my shoulder and squeezed, and Charley tipped her forehead on mine and whispered: “We got you now.”
16
Charley
Now this was California.
I’m talking deep thudding bongos—bongos!—reverberating in my chest. Some girl with flowers in her hair strumming a guitar, and a shirtless guy playing the flute. The music sounded so out of tune and meandered all over the place. But from the swooning expressions and swaying bodies, you wouldn’t know it.
The seven of us had crashed their party on the athletic fields near Stanford Stadium. There, other kids studied under big, old eucalyptus trees, while the bongo people danced in the sun. It was Sunday, and we had no testing all day long. We could do anything we wanted. Anything. I figured a day in the sunshine people-watching and listening to music sounded perfecto.
I laid out a large blanket, stolen from the student housing, glancing up to see the swirling and spinning on the field. Minnie opened a bag of chips. Katerina and Cord stretched out on their backs in the grass, eating up the sun. Julia, Henry, Samuel, and I plopped down to watch that shirtless man dance, giggling as he jerked his arms and legs up like a spazzing marionette.
It was as if he’d just pressed a button and opened up the exit door on life. They simply floated, without cares or worries.
Worries.
I thought of Cindy. It had been a couple days, and I hadn’t even checked in on her. I stood up. “I’ll be right back.” I pointed to the pay phone I spotted earlier on campus. I walked quickly to the phone, trying not to run.
Inside the booth, I made the collect call. First, I called Ruby. I heard her voice on the line, but when the operator asked if she would accept the charges, she paused and said, “No.” Her dad must’ve been there, watching, and he would have probably shut it down.
I called my house next. Sure, I knew it was a bad idea. Mom could barely pay the electric bill, let alone pricey long-distance calls from what she’d call God-Knows-Where. Cindy accepted the charges. If Mom had answered, I didn’t know what I would have done, how I would have explained where I was, if she would have demanded that I come home right then.
“When you gonna be home?” She sounded like that little Cindy again.
“Soon,” I said. In the background on the phone, I heard Dad’s voice. He had this tone, like a loose board on a stair. You heard that minute little creak, that tiny groan, and you knew it was going to snap.
“How much has he had?”
“Dunno. Half a bottle. Maybe more.”
“Okay, promise me if he loses it, you’ll go to Ruby’s?”
She paused. “Her house is so gross,” she whined. It was true. Ruby’s house was really disgusting: from the entrance of the house to the back of the kitchen, every surface was covered with something. Muddy shoes. Overflowing laundry baskets. Countertops with dishes with dried spaghetti. A kitchen sink vomiting pots and pans.
“I know, but you gotta,” I said. I sighed, and my heart squeezed tight in my chest. “I should’ve pulled you out of that place a long time ago. I should’ve called the police—”
“That’s not what you said,” she snapped. She was right. Before, I had figured if Dad got arrested, it would crush the diner’s business. Or worse, if both Mom and Dad got arrested, they’d take away Cindy and put her in foster care. With no extended family on either side, it was likely.
“Call the cops. If something happens, you have to call this time.” I was surprised that the advice came out of my mouth and so forcefully. The thought was terrifying. But what was worse was to think of Cindy being in the midst of that storm without me to help her. Mom needed help too.
Being away from it had made me see how peaceful life could be without chaos. It was as if my lungs could finally expand.
Cindy didn’t say anything. Just did that weird little-kid nose breathing sound into the phone.
“Love you,” I said.
“Char—”
“What?”
She paused. “Nothin’. Never mind.” She was probably biting her lower lip like she did when she was nervous.
“No, what?”
“I said never mind.” She exhaled, irritated. “I’m fine.”
“I know.”
When I came back to the group, Samuel was doing some sort of martial-arts moves. His legs looked skinny in those short red shorts. “The mechanism is complicated,” he said. “I would say it’s akin to instinct. I simply feel my chi.”
I watched him stand on one leg, move his arms up and down like a bird in slow motion.
“Arms up and arms down washes your chi down your torso, legs, into the earth,” he said.
As he talked, he moved in slow motion. “You see? It’s as if, perhaps, maybe … perhaps I’m transporting the energy in the air.” He looked as if he held an invisible ball in his hands, pulling it and pressing down toward the ground. He lifted his arms to the sky and his nostrils flared.
Whatever. It was kind of painful to watch.
He went on and on, explaining that it was a tradition, dating back thousands of years in China. As if we cared. I sat down on the blanket.
Cord stood up. “You think it’ll be used by the Chinese? As a weapon?”
“What, moving invisible air?” I asked, talking over him.
“It’s called qigong.” Samuel’s body was calm but his voice held an icy edge. “It’s a method I often use to focus before I manipulate energy.”
“Huh.” I squinted at him in the sun, wondering how long he’d keep moving like that.
“A number of other skilled practitioners use it for telepathy. My grandfather taught me. It’s moving golden light in and down. You see, science has demonstrated that electromagnetic fields of the body are generated during various biological processes.” He paused, breathing out loudly. “Including rapid cell division—”
“You say it’s Chinese. But I thought you were Japanese?” I interrupted.
He didn’t answer at first. He stopped moving and slapped his arms down at his sides and glared at me. “I’m American, just like you are, Charley. My father is Japanese and my mother is Chinese.”
“Huh,” I said again.
Katerina appeared super interested in this and sat next to him, asking questions. After a bit, we all decided to give it a try, joining him—even Julia—laughing as we teetered around to copy him. After a while, the guy with no shirt stopped dancing and came over and joined us.
We all caught the attention of a woman standing on the corner who had been shouting at people. She wore a rust-colored long dress and held up a sign reading, Make Love, Not War. She started shouting at us. “Murderers get out of Vietnam!”
Cord shook his head. “She don’t know what she’s talking about.”
“Why?” I asked, collapsing back onto the blanket.
“My dad, you know?” He stopped pushing air with Samuel and the others and reached down to dig his hand into the potato chip bag.
“Yeah,” I chuckled. “You talk about him nonstop.”
“He sits in this blue chair. Every night, watching the TV.” He shoved chips in his mouth and chewed for a minute. “We got just one channel. This one time, on TV, these gringo college kids.” I chewed. “They’re at University of Columbia. My dad said, Them hippies disrespect our soldiers.” He shoved s
ome more chips into his mouth.
“What?” I asked, baffled. I looked back at the girl who held the sign. She looked pretty harmless. Dry and splotchy skin, as if she’d been standing in the sun for weeks.
“That’s minuscule,” Samuel said. He’d quit his energy dance and stood over the blanket.
I squinted up at him.
“Asian Americans who fought in the war have been treated horrendously,” Samuel continued.
Henry appeared next to him, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Great job, man,” Henry said. “Really interesting stuff. Maybe I’ll finally be as good as you guys when it comes to psychic stuff.”
Julia, our little mouse over there, pursed her lips.
Samuel looked at Henry sideways. “The best way to become proficient is through regular practice.”
“So, I don’t get it. Why were Chinese Americans treated so bad, like you say?” I asked.
“My cousin served in Vietnam. The quandary is this: we look like the enemy. Ignorant people insulted him, calling him ‘gook’ and other monstrous insults. At school, classmates harassed me as well, claiming that I was VC. These imbeciles did not consider that I’m American. My parents are physicians who trained at Harvard. My father achieved a residency at Marian University College of Osteopathic Medicine and my moth—”
“What’s VC?” I interrupted. No one cared about his parents’ stupid résumé.
Henry hung just behind Samuel, his hand still on his shoulder. Samuel looked four times as bitter as he had just a few seconds earlier. “Vietcong, you idiot.”
His verbal attack hit me like a slap upside the head; his voice also sounded different, deeper.
He was this pot of water simmering to a boil, and with Henry at his side they hovered in a creepy way, like shadows over me.
“Hey now, don’t y’all go flyin’ off the handle. War is ugly all ’round,” Minnie said, approaching Samuel and linking her arm through his. Her softness juxtaposed with his lean angular body. “Prejudice ain’t no better. As I do know from what I seen happenin’ all ‘round the South.”
Extraordinary Lies Page 12