Bitter Melon

by Cara Chow

  About ten minutes later, Theresa calls. I want so badly to tell her about Derek. But I’ll have to wait until the two of us are alone, out of Mom’s earshot.

  “How did it go?” she asks.

  “I won second,” I say.

  “Oh. That’s great.” Her voice sounds flat; she’s not her usual chipper self.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask.

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “Come on. Tell me.”

  “It’s stupid.”

  “How many stupid things have I told you?”

  Theresa is quiet for several seconds. Finally, she says, “The Winterball was yesterday.”

  I completely forgot about that. Theresa hasn’t mentioned Alfred since the week after the fall dance.

  Suddenly, a cold realization dawns on me. I blame my mom for sabotaging me and Derek. Haven’t I done the same kind of thing to Theresa? Theresa probably would have called Alfred had I not discouraged her. Then maybe they would have gone to the Winterball together.

  I feel nauseous. My body breaks out in cold sweat.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Oh, it’s okay. It’s not your fault,” Theresa says. “I’m making a big deal out of nothing. I should just forget about it.”

  I say a silent prayer of contrition and ask for forgiveness. I vow to make this up to her somehow. I vow never to betray Theresa again.

  The following morning, Mom makes good on her promise to weigh and measure me. I am shivering in my underwear as Mom hauls the scale from underneath the bureau, along with the measuring tape, which is coiled perfectly and perched on top. Though I am starving, I am not allowed to eat my green banana. In fact, I am not permitted even to drink a glass of water. Mom doesn’t want me doing anything that might add an extra pound to the scale. I can have only a cup of tea, since tea makes me go to the bathroom, which may reduce the reading on the scale.

  Of course, this is ridiculous. If I pee out a pound of urine from caffeine intake, I am not really a pound thinner. I am excreting water, not fat. And how can one banana affect my result? I watch Mom as she pores over my charts, analyzes my diet, and makes adjustments. Mom gestures towards the scale. I’m about to step onto it, but something holds me back.

  You should be one hundred fifteen. No wonder you look so fat.

  You should be thirty-six inches by twenty-four inches by thirty-six inches.

  If that’s such a big deal, then how come Derek likes me?

  “Hurry up,” Mom says.

  A lot of people do care about superficial things, Ms. Taylor said to me. But you don’t have to buy into that just because they do. I replay the awards ceremony from last night, except with a twist. Derek is about to slip me his note asking me to call him; then he stops himself and whips out a measuring tape. “Oh, wait, I forgot. I need to see if you measure up first,” he says. Then he raises his hand, addressing the crowd in the bleachers. “Excuse me. Does anyone have a scale?” I stifle the urge to giggle.

  “I don’t want to do this anymore,” I hear myself say.

  “Yes you do,” Mom says.

  “No I don’t.”

  “It’s good for your future.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t want to do it anymore.”

  “Are you saying that you don’t want to improve yourself? Even if you end up a fei po?” “Fei po” means “fat hag.”

  “Yes,” I say, even though it sounds like Yes, I want to be a fat hag.

  Mom flings the scale across the room. It crashes into the wall. Then she walks over to me, grabs me by the arm, and drags me towards the scale. I pull myself back. Mom grabs me by the neckline of my pajama top. It tears open down the front, sending buttons flying everywhere.

  “Look what you did!” Mom screams, panting. “Do you know how hard I worked to buy you those pajamas?” I’m frightened by how far this has gone, but I force myself to meet her stare. “Fine, then,” she says. “Be fat, disgusting, and pathetic.” She turns and walks out the door.

  I am shaking with terror and disbelief. This is the first time I’ve ever said no to my mother. I am also relieved. From now on, my mother can no longer poke and prod at my body. Someday, when I’m in college, I won’t be living here anymore. My future home will not have a scale. I will never weigh myself again.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The following week, I notice a change in Diana’s mood. She no longer smiles when she sees her classmates. Her shoulders slump when she sits and walks. The first time Theresa and I notice this, we exchange knowing glances. Though I am sad for Diana, I can hardly suppress my happiness for myself. That happiness is quickly followed by frustration, because without Derek’s number, I can’t take advantage of my opportunity. I try looking up his number in the phonebook, only to find a dozen Collinses. How many families would I have to bother before finding the right one? And what if I go through the whole list, only to discover that Derek is unlisted?

  Mom and I pass Christmas Eve with Nellie and Theresa. Nellie gives me a leather-bound journal. Theresa gives me a teddy bear. Mom gives me a girdle. The following day, Nellie, Theresa, and Theresa’s brother, Ben, fly to Hong Kong to spend the rest of winter break with Theresa’s dad.

  In January, speech class is over, and psychology takes its place as my senior-year elective. I still see Ms. Taylor on a daily basis, because she is also my English teacher. I remain active on the speech team and anticipate my February competition, when I will get to see Derek and finally ask for his number.

  Unfortunately, I come down with stomach flu the day before the competition. As I spend the entire night on the toilet, I tell myself that my illness will pass by morning. The next day, I get dressed and eat a banana to give me energy, only to throw it up on my outfit. My fear of doing this during the competition is all that motivates me to give up. All day, as I lie in bed, I imagine Derek looking for me at the competition, wondering if I am avoiding him on purpose. During brief bouts of disturbed sleep, I dream that I am running to the competition, but my feet are heavy, as if anchored in wet concrete.

  Mom is overjoyed that I have finally lost some weight. She is probably plotting how to keep me permanently ill so I can continue on this righteous path.

  April rolls around and so does the next speech tournament. If I do well in this competition, I can go on to the state championship and then to nationals. A week before the tournament, Ms. Taylor beckons me to her desk after English class to schedule some after-school practice time.

  “By the way, have you heard back from Scripps yet?” she asks.

  “No, not yet,” I reply. Not only have I not heard back from Scripps, I haven’t received any word from any of the scholarship organizations. A sliver of worry scrapes against my chest. “Is that a bad sign?”

  “No need to worry,” Ms. Taylor says. “I have a good feeling about this. I’m so excited for you. You’re going to meet so many new and interesting people.”

  As I imagine myself at Scripps, I suddenly realize that I will know no one. This thought fills me with terror.

  “I wish you could be my teacher in college too,” I say.

  “You’ll have other great teachers in college,” Ms. Taylor says. “I’ll be a distant memory.”

  “No. I’ll never forget you. Maybe I can visit from time to time.”

  “Well … can you keep a secret?”

  I nod, eager to hear any of Ms. Taylor’s secrets.

  “I’m looking into getting a teaching job in North Carolina. My mother’s sick, and I want to be closer to her. It’s not finalized yet, but I’m getting some good offers.”

  My heart sinks. “I’ll miss you,” I say.

  Ms. Taylor’s eyes sparkle like sapphires. “You’ll be fine. You’ll have yourself and your achievements.”

  That afternoon, I search our mailbox as soon as I get home, hoping that today is the day that I will hear from Scripps. But all I see are bills and junk mail. I sigh and proceed upstairs.

  Mom’s company is forcing her to take
some of her vacation days; otherwise she will lose them. That is why she and I join Auntie Nellie and Theresa for dim sum on 27th and Geary the following Saturday morning. We arrive by ten forty-five, because by eleven thirty, there will be a crowd of customers spilling out onto the sidewalk, waiting to get in. Already the restaurant is full. The body heat of the customers causes steam to form on the windows. Waitresses push their dim sum carts through the narrow spaces between tables while shouting out the names of their dishes above the loud hum of Cantonese conversation. We are sipping gok poh tea, a combination of chrysanthemum and bonay, while eating steamed dumplings.

  “I have good news!” Nellie announces. “Theresa got into Berkeley!” She is so excited that she ought to be wearing a party hat and throwing confetti.

  I look at Theresa with surprise. I’m her best friend. Why didn’t she tell me? Theresa just looks at her lap.

  “Have you heard back from Berkeley yet, Gracie?” Nellie asks.

  Mom takes a careful sip of her tea. “No. Not yet.” Her smile reminds me of cracked plaster.

  Nellie shoots a nervous glance at Mom, then at me, and then at Mom again. “I’m sure that her acceptance package is coming soon,” she adds quickly. “If they are willing to accept Theresa, then they would be foolish not to welcome Frances.”

  We eat the rest of our brunch in silence. Nellie is careful not to mention another word about Theresa’s accomplishments. Mom strains to keep a composed appearance as her fault line of worry widens.

  On our way home, Theresa and I walk ahead as Mom and Nellie lag behind. Nellie begins chatting about the latest Hong Kong celebrity gossip while Mom pretends to listen.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Berkeley?” I ask Theresa.

  “I figured you would ask me about it once you heard from them,” Theresa says.

  “But why wait?” I say. “Wouldn’t you want to share your good news with me?”

  Theresa squirms under her jacket. “Sorry. I didn’t want to make you nervous.”

  “Nervous about what?” I try to sound curious, but instead, I sound irritated.

  Before Theresa can answer, we reach Nellie’s house. Nellie and Theresa part with Mom and me, and Mom and I continue to our apartment. As we get closer, the mail truck pulls away. Mom jogs to the mailbox. I jog after her. Mom fumbles through her purse for her keys and opens the gate. She rushes to our mailbox, wrenches it open, and pulls out some junk mail and a few envelopes. She sifts through the mail and finds what she is looking for. The legal-size envelope from Berkeley is skinny—not a good sign. My heart starts pounding. Mom climbs the stairs to our apartment and I follow.

  Once inside, Mom sits down at the dining table and slices open the Berkeley envelope with her letter opener. With shaky fingers, she reads the letter. Her lower lip quivers. Her eyes register shock. Without seeing the letter, I already know what it says.

  “How can this be?” Mom says. “Don’t they know about your speech wins? Didn’t they see you on the news?”

  I don’t bother to remind her that I wasn’t featured on the mainstream news.

  “Maybe … Maybe it’s a mistake,” Mom says. “Maybe they mixed you up with another applicant.”

  Mom looks helpless as she fumbles for a way to understand. I look away, as if avoiding the sight of a naked person.

  Then it occurs to me that maybe this isn’t so bad after all. If Berkeley is no longer an option, won’t that increase the chances that Mom will let me go to Scripps? When will I hear back from Scripps? I notice another envelope next to the Berkeley envelope. Could that be the letter from Scripps? It is skinny, just like the Berkeley letter. Maybe Ms. Taylor is wrong. Maybe I didn’t get in after all. I take a few steps to get a closer look.

  Like a starved animal hoarding her food, Mom glares at me. “It’s Ms. Taylor’s fault,” she says. Her voice is almost a growl. “If she had kicked you out of her class, you would have taken calculus. If she hadn’t conned you into competing, you would have gone to Princeton Review and improved your SATs. See what happens when you trust other people besides me? You’re an idiot.”

  My SAT score had improved by a hundred points. But because it wasn’t good enough to get me into Berkeley, to Mom, it was non-existent.

  Mom slices open the envelope I was eyeing. Inside are a letter and a check. Mom’s eyes light up for a moment—until she reads the check.

  “Damn them!” Mom says as she slams the check down onto the table. “Why would they be so stupid as to make it out to you? What kind of child has her own bank account?”

  “What is it?” I ask, totally confused.

  “It’s your check. From the Chinese American Association.”

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “I can’t deposit it!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because your name is on it. Our bank account is in my name. They probably did it on purpose,” Mom hisses. “The longer it takes for us to deposit it, the more interest they can accumulate in their bank account. That’s probably why they waited this long to send it in the first place.” I wouldn’t have understood what she meant if Ms. Taylor hadn’t explained what interest is.

  Mom buries her face in her hands. Her shoulders slump forward in a defeated posture.

  Finally, Mom sighs with resignation. “You will attend State.” She is referring to San Francisco State University. “You didn’t get rejected from that school. They have a good journalism program. Ms. Costello said. Maybe after a year, you can transfer to Berkeley.”

  My heart sinks. I already know from the finality in her voice that even if I am accepted by Scripps, she will not let me go.

  In spite of my grim prospects, I check the mail every day after school for anything from Scripps. For five consecutive days, I receive nothing. I start to wonder if it got lost in the mail. Even a rejection would be better than this purgatory of not knowing.

  The following Saturday, Mom drags me to the red fake-brick bank on Clement Street to open a new bank account so she can deposit my check. Even though it’s supposed to be my account, Minnie, our teller, talks mostly to Mom. She even hands the checks and check register to Mom. The two act as though I’m not even there. When we get home, Mom doesn’t show me how to write a check or use the check register. She doesn’t teach me how to use the ATM card. Instead, she just places my checking account materials in her filing cabinet. She never mentions my account again.

  The following Monday, after school, I make myself a cup of tea to stave my afternoon sleepiness so I can study. I remove my tea bag from my mug of over-steeped tea and throw it into the trash. It is then that I notice a big, thick envelope in the kitchen trash basket. I brush aside the cold, wet food scraps on top of it and pull it out. The envelope is heavy and stuffed full. It is greasy from food and wet from tea leaves.

  It is from Scripps. Inside are my acceptance letter, which states that I have been awarded a scholarship, my registration form, and a course catalog.

  Like a terrier smelling a rabbit, I dig farther into the trash and pull out several damp, stained, and smelly letters addressed to me. They are all from various scholarship organizations. About two-thirds of them inform me that I have been awarded money to attend Scripps.

  All that worry over the last month for nothing. How did this end up in the trash?

  I think back to the check I got from the Chinese American Association. Mom was angry that the check was in my name and not hers. To her, it was ploy on the CAA’s part to accrue more interest.

  Interest is why it’s in the lender’s best interest to lend, Ms. Taylor said. Suddenly, this statement sounds like it applies to my mother. Has every penny spent on me been nothing more than a loan, something I must pay back with interest? Has every selfless act been merely an act of self-interest?

  I play back all the times Mom has scoffed at how I don’t understand the value of money. How could I understand if she never explained it to me?

  Maybe she has withheld this knowledge from me on purpose.
After all, I can’t be independent without my own money, so wouldn’t it be in her best interest to keep me ignorant about it? Along with keeping me dependent on her, it also gives her another excuse for criticizing me. That would explain why she was so angry about having to open an account for me. That would also explain why she neglected to teach me how to write a check or use an ATM card.

  As the pieces of this mystery come together, a boiling anger erupts in my stomach. I can’t let Mom get away with this. I’m going to go to Scripps, with or without her approval. But how?

  The reason I got to do speech in the first place was that I hid it from Mom. By the time she found out, it was too late for her to wrench it away from me. Might the same tactic work for Scripps as well?

  I decide not to fill out my registration form for State. If I am not enrolled, then Mom can’t make me go. If her choices are Scripps or nothing, maybe Scripps will look more attractive to her. I fill out my registration form for Scripps. It is then that I hit another obstacle.

  The form says that I must include a check. What to do?

  I dive into Mom’s file cabinet and ferret out the folder with my bank account materials. To my surprise, the checks have both my name and my mother’s name on them. Maybe it’s because I’m a minor. Unsure of how to write a check, I pull out a checking statement from Mom’s account, which has mini photocopies of the checks she has written. I follow that format as I fill in my check. With shaky hands, I clip it to my registration form and insert them both into the enclosed envelope. With a pounding heart, I walk it to the mailbox down the street. I hold my breath, hoping that Mom won’t find out until it is too late.