by Cara Chow
In the locker room, before first period, I ask Theresa, “Are you free after school?” I already know the answer to this question. Her social life isn’t any more active than mine.
“Sure!” she says. “What do you have in mind?”
“I thought we could go … downtown!” I infuse my voice with enthusiasm.
“Downtown? What for?”
“I thought we should be adventurous and venture out of our neighborhood,” I say. “What do you say?”
After school, Theresa and I take the 38 Geary bus to Downtown. Downtown tends to be sunnier than the Richmond District. That is the certainly the case today. Nonetheless, it actually feels colder than home, because the tall buildings block the sun and form long tunnels for the icy wind, which cuts through my pants and blows my hair in all different directions. As we walk by Macy’s, we conveniently pass a window with two mannequins wearing prom dresses. One is wearing a formfitting knee-length velvet navy blue dress. The other is wearing a silky ankle-length black dress that reminds me of Audrey Hepburn.
“Wow, how beautiful!” I say, eyeing the dresses.
Theresa’s eyes sparkle in agreement.
“I think you’d look great in the navy one,” I add.
“Wow. You think so?”
“Absolutely,” I say. “We should go inside and check it out.”
Suddenly, Theresa becomes hesitant. “Oh, I don’t know.”
“Come on.”
“Well … maybe for just a little while.”
We enter the store and ride the escalators to the juniors level. The whole juniors section is the prom version of Disneyland. The dresses are clustered into groups based on style and color. Each group of dresses has its own size-two mannequin modeling the style. The dresses come in mostly dark colors, like black, navy, royal blue, burgundy, and emerald green. I can’t resist the urge to touch the various materials. Many of the dresses are silky and shiny. Some are crinkly and rough. The velvet dresses remind me of pets—you can stroke them one way but not the other. The sequins remind me of fish scales. They sparkle like Christmas tree decorations.
Other girls are shopping for their prom dresses with their moms. These girls look giddy with excitement. The moms look at their daughters, some with girlish enthusiasm, some with bemusement, and some with annoyance. Nonetheless, they are all there, helping their daughters. Most of them hold their daughters’ dresses as they follow them around. A few of the girls are heavier than I am, but their mothers aren’t berating them about it. They just select larger sizes in a matter-of-fact manner. Can these girls confide in their mothers about school or even boys? Will these mothers let them go to whichever colleges they choose? I feel a stab of envy that hints at depression, the way heavy clouds signal rain.
I quickly brush away this feeling. I seek out the navy dress that most resembles the one worn by the mannequin. I grab one in Theresa’s size and one in my size and hold the smaller one up to Theresa. “Hey, this looks like the one we were admiring,” I say. “Why don’t we try it on together?”
Theresa backs away from the dress. “Oh, that’s okay. You can try yours on. I’ll just wait outside.”
“You don’t have to buy it,” I say. “Just try it on for fun.” I hold the dress up to her face the way one might hold a bone to a dog’s nose.
“I don’t understand,” Theresa says. “What’s the point of looking at prom dresses when we aren’t even going to the prom?”
“Well … I was thinking that”—I take a deep breath—“maybe I was wrong. About the Alfred thing.”
Theresa winces. “I-I’ve already forgotten about him,” she says. Her tone, however, suggests the opposite.
“What if he lost your phone number and was hoping that you’d call?” I say.
“But … that was five months ago,” Theresa says. “I don’t understand. Why are you bringing him up now?”
Should I tell her about Derek now or later? I hesitate, unable to decide.
“Because this is your last chance ever to do a formal,” I say. “You won’t get that chance back. You wouldn’t want to wonder what if, right?”
Theresa crosses her arms in front of her chest. “I thought you were my friend,” she says.
“I am!” I say.
“Then don’t make me feel worse.”
“What do you mean? I’m only trying to help.”
“Yeah. By telling me not to call him when it would have mattered and now telling me to call when so much time has passed that he won’t even remember my name. Thanks for your help.”
I plop the dress back on the rack. “Fine. We can do something else,” I say. Though I try to make my voice cheerful, it ends up sounding hard and flat.
“No, I don’t feel like it anymore. Let’s go home,” Theresa says.
“But we just got here! We just wasted our time coming all this way!”
“It was your idea!”
Theresa walks away. My eyes dart between Theresa’s receding back and the navy dress draped over my arm. If I don’t buy this dress now, I will have nothing to wear tomorrow. But if I do buy it, I won’t be able to catch up with Theresa before she boards a bus home. Besides, how will I explain the new dress while trying to placate her?
Panicked, I hang my size-eight dress in the size-two section of the rack and race past the openmouthed stares of the prom girls and their mothers. Theresa nimbly runs down the escalator like a mouse while I gallop after her.
“Theresa,” I say.
But Theresa ignores me. I follow her out of Macy’s and all the way to the bus stop. Theresa stands with her back to me, her arms crossed and her foot tapping.
“I’m sorry,” I say to the back of her head. “Don’t be mad, okay?” I hate the whining, begging sound in my voice, but at the moment, I don’t care.
Theresa’s head bows. Her shoulders slump. Finally, she turns to me. “No. I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”
“No it’s not.”
“Yes it is. It’s not your fault that Alfred didn’t ask me to the Winterball,” she says. “I shouldn’t be taking that out on you.”
I avert my eyes from her contrite gaze.
“You were just trying to help by suggesting that I go to the prom with him,” Theresa says. She sighs. “It’s bad enough that he rejected me the first time. If he rejects me again … I’ll just die of humiliation. I just want to forget about the whole thing and put it behind me, okay?”
I am so grateful to have her friendship back that I give up pushing her further. I banish the possibility of telling her my true predicament. Instead, I take the bus home with her, silently wondering what to wear and what my alibi will be for Mom.
As soon as I arrive home, I open the closet door. I sift through my side of the closet, only to find a uniform blouse and the button-down shirt and skirt that I wear to speech competitions. I also see the dress I wore to my eighth-grade graduation. It is off-white and pink and very lacy and frilly. Desperate, I take it off the hanger and try it on. I can barely pull the dress past my hips, much less pull up the zipper. I suck in my belly as hard as I can as I force the zipper up. Then I look in the mirror.
I look like I’m ten years old. All I’m missing are the Shirley Temple sausage curls.
I squirm my way out of the outfit and hang it in the closet. Desperate and irrational, I start sorting through Mom’s half of the closet. At first, I find Mom’s work clothes, a series of drab but inoffensive blouses and slacks. Then I find casual clothes that she must have brought over from Hong Kong in the sixties, polyester button-down shirts and bell-bottom pants with paisley patterns and elastic waistbands—definitely not prom material. I almost give up hope.
It is then that I notice a chest sitting under Mom’s clothes. It is made of lacquered wood and has an intricate carving of women in a landscape. The women are dressed in traditional attire, the kind imperial women wore during the dynasties. I open the chest, releasing the strong scent of mothballs. The first thing I see is a sleeveless navy blue
dress with large round collars made of white lace. I decide to try it on.
It doesn’t look quite like the dresses at Macy’s. The material is thick and coarse, and the collars are distracting. Nonetheless, it does mimic the sleek form-fitting shapes of the Macy’s dresses, and the dark color is slimming and formal looking. I put on my black flats and scrutinize myself in the mirror. Not great, but not bad. I turn to examine my back side. Unfortunately, the dress is short, barely covering my behind. The slit in the back makes the problem even worse. I guess that makes sense. This was Mom’s dress, and she is six inches shorter.
It occurs to me that my mother used to fit into this dress when she was young. If she was my width but shorter, then technically, she was actually fatter! What right has she to be so critical of my weight?
I fold the dress carefully and place it in my backpack. Then I close the chest and arrange Mom’s clothes to look exactly as they were before. In the evening, I ask Mom if I can spend the night at Theresa’s tomorrow. As usual, she hassles me about it before giving her consent. Then I add my casual clothes and my toothbrush to my backpack to keep my actions consistent with my story.
My plan, though clever, isn’t perfect. If Mom isn’t expecting me home tomorrow, where will I spend the night? I hope that if I remain calm and resourceful, all other obstacles will be easy to overcome.
Chapter Nineteen
The next morning, I shower and style my hair. Though I still have the makeup Theresa and I used at the fall dance, I decide not to put it on. After all, I used it at the fall dance and got nowhere. In contrast, I didn’t wear makeup at any of my speech competitions, but I still got Derek to like me. So what’s the point? Instead, I wear a tinted lip gloss to give my face a little color. Before leaving home, I double-check my wallet to make sure I have enough change for the pay phone.
During the school day, I move slowly, so as not to sweat, which would necessitate another shower. After school, I hang out in the library until all the students have left campus. Then I change into the navy dress in the bathroom. Because I didn’t have the chance to air out the dress, it still smells like mothballs. I fan the dress with my hands to diffuse the smell. Afterwards, I call Derek on the school pay phone and ask him to pick me up at school. Then I wait outside. Though it isn’t warm, at least it’s not too cold. The sunshine helps make up for the occasional wind.
About a half hour later, Derek’s car pulls up in front of me. He looks handsome in his black tux and crisp white shirt. I climb in and he pulls away.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“You’ll see.”
We continue west until we reach Ocean Beach. At the Great Highway, Derek turns right and drives us up the hill, which eventually veers to the right. At the top of the cliff, he turns left into a parking area. He pulls into a spot facing the ocean and parks. There is a forest and a hiking trail to our right. In front of us, giant rocks jut out of the ocean. Every violent wave that slaps these rocks sends a fan of white spray in all directions.
“Wow,” I say. “Nice view.”
“Yeah.”
Derek leans towards me. As his face gets closer to mine, I stiffen, my heart racing, but he ends up reaching behind my seat for something on the floor. It’s a corsage made of tiny bloodred roses and baby’s breath.
It occurs to me that amid the drama of getting a dress, I forgot to get him his boutonniere.
“May I?” Derek asks.
I nod. Derek pins the corsage onto my dress.
“I forgot to get you one,” I say. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay,” he replies. “I’d look silly wearing a corsage.”
I chuckle. We stare awkwardly out the window, unsure of how to pass the time.
“Are you hungry?” Derek asks me.
“Sure.” Actually, I’m so nervous that I can’t imagine eating anything.
Derek climbs out of the car, walks to the passenger side, and opens the door for me. I take his arm and we begin walking down the steep hill.
We reach a boxy two- or three-story building at the bottom of the hill. It seems to be jutting out over the ocean. “The Seacliffe. We talked about it when I drove you home, remember?”
Though I’m excited about going to this restaurant, I’m also nervous. Are there special rules or rituals we should follow that only I don’t know about? Automatically, I stand up taller, as if preparing to deliver a speech. If I present myself with poise, maybe Derek won’t notice that I’ve never been to a classy restaurant.
When we enter the restaurant, we are greeted by a woman standing behind a podium. A man wearing a long white half apron leads us upstairs and into the dining area, which has large windows revealing the big white waves. Usually when I enter a restaurant, I am bombarded with bright lights, the sounds of people shouting and food sizzling, and the smells of grease and all things savory. In contrast, this room is quiet, cool, dark, and completely void of smells. The server guides us to a small round table next to a window. Simultaneously, the server pulls out the chair closest to the window and Derek pulls out the chair facing the window. I sit down on Derek’s chair. Awkwardly, Derek sits on the chair that the server pulled out for me.
The server then hands us our menus. Another server fills our glasses with ice water and lays down a basket of bread. The menu is heavy, firm, and bound in leather, not flimsy and laminated like the menus I am used to. I marvel at the plates and silverware in front of me. The plates are bright white, matching the tablecloth. Three forks lie on the left side of the plates, while a knife and two spoons lie on the right. Why so many pieces of silverware? At home, we either use just a pair of chopsticks or a fork and a knife.
Derek opens his menu, and I copy him. Some of the items I am familiar with, such as steak and chicken. But what is filet mignon, confit, or hollandaise?
“What looks good to you?” Derek asks me.
“Uh … what looks good to you?” I say, hoping to glean a cue from him.
“I always like steak, so I think I’ll get the filet mignon and lobster tail.”
“But if you like steak, why are you getting filet mignon?” I ask.
Derek looks at me strangely. “Filet mignon is a kind of steak,” he says.
“Oh.” There’s more than one kind? “Then … I guess I’ll get the same.”
Derek scrutinizes me with a piercing expression. Suddenly, I feel naked, humiliated. I look down, ashamed. We are silent for what feels like several minutes.
Finally, Derek says, “My friend David’s family took me to a Chinese restaurant once. We were all perusing the menu, which, fortunately, was bilingual. Otherwise, I would have been lost. Anyway, Dave’s dad started rattling off to the waiter a list of menu items in Chinese. I asked Dave what he was saying and Dave translated. I went through the menu, furiously trying to find these items, but I couldn’t find them. I asked Dave where he found those items, and Dave pointed at the wall. Turns out there were all these pieces of paper taped to the wall with dishes written entirely in Chinese.”
I smile. I know exactly what he’s talking about. “Don’t feel bad,” I say. “My mom and her friend order from them all the time, but I can’t read them either.”
“Unfortunately, it gets worse,” Derek says. “Everyone started eating except for me. I just sat there staring at my food. Finally, Dave’s mom asked me what was wrong. I had to explain to her that I didn’t know how to use chopsticks. They had to order a fork especially for me.”
Poor Derek!
“Once I got my fork, I ate everything in sight,” Derek says. “Everything was so good that even though I was full, I couldn’t stop eating. I was so enthusiastic that when the next dish arrived, I began helping myself. It looked like some kind of brown broth with lemon slices. So I spooned it into my bowl and began drinking. Then I noticed David’s family and the waiter staring at me with eyes wide as saucers. Turns out that the soup was actually tea and lemon—for washing our hands.”
I burst out laughing. “I’m so
sorry,” I say.
“It’s okay. It wasn’t as bad as the time when I went to a sushi restaurant and mistook the wasabi for green tea ice cream.”
I laugh even harder. Maybe he’s not looking for a Princess Grace or a Princess Di. Maybe I don’t need to pretend to be like him, because in some ways, he is like me.
A waitress comes to take our order. Derek orders his filet mignon, and I do the same. Derek adds two salads to our order. As we wait for our food, he encourages me to enjoy the view. I stare past him at the crashing waves going in, out, and in again, the foam forming lace patterns along the water. When I snap out of my trance, I notice Derek gazing at me with a tender and serious expression. As soon as he catches me watching, he shifts back to his comic grin.
Our food arrives, and Derek gently points out which utensils to use for each course. Halfway through the main course, Derek says, “There’s something I’ve been dying to ask you. Why did you change your speech?”
I cringe at the memory of my last competition. “In my old speech, I said that I wanted to attend UC Berkeley and go to med school so I could—”
“Become a doctor and take care of your mother,” Derek says. “When your hard work pays off, so will hers.”
I am stunned. I think back to the pain I felt when I delivered this speech to my mother at the Chinese American Association only to find out that she hadn’t heard a single sentence. In contrast, Derek remembers and understands every word.
“Well, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I didn’t really want to go to UCB or med school. That’s what my mother wanted,” I say.
Derek nods. His piercing gaze is unblinking.
“When I won the Chinese American Association competition, my mom was starstruck by the judges, who were all TV journalists,” I say. “Now she wants me to be the next Connie Chung.”
Derek grimaces. “I can’t see you wearing all that makeup,” he says.
“She tried to make me beautiful and glamorous so I could look good on TV,” I say. “But it wasn’t what I wanted.”