Bitter Melon

by Cara Chow

  “So, what do you want?”

  “I want to go to Scripps College.”

  “And how about your career?”

  “I don’t know. But not medicine and not TV journalism.” I groan. “But instead of making the speech better, I just made it worse.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “It’s true,” I insist. “At the end, everyone just gave me this horrible blank stare. The only reason anyone applauded was because you did it first. I didn’t even make the first cut.” My face burns with humiliation at this admission of defeat.

  “It wasn’t a bad speech,” Derek says. “It just felt … unfinished. People didn’t applaud because they were still waiting for the ending.”

  I give Derek a quizzical look.

  “People like certainty,” Derek explains. “People like answers. In your speech, you started asking a lot of difficult questions and then you just ended the speech without answering any of them.”

  “That’s because I don’t have the answers!” I say defensively. “What was I supposed to do, lie?”

  Derek stares at me for a long while. His expression morphs through many shades of thought. It is like watching a flower blossom on fast-speed video.

  “Maybe you’re the real winner here,” he says.

  “How so?”

  “Do you remember what my speech is about?” he asks.

  “Compassionate conservatism. Corporate greed.”

  “Guess what my dad does?”

  I shrug. “CEO?”

  “He’s a corporate lawyer. He runs his dad’s law firm. Guess what they want me to do?”

  “Be a lawyer in their firm.”

  “Bingo. My grandpa went to Harvard. My dad went to Harvard. Guess where they want me to go?”

  “Harvard.”

  “Right again.”

  “So … what are you going to do about it?”

  “Oh, I’ll be attending Harvard this fall,” Derek replies. “Then I’ll probably go to law school and eventually join their firm. In the meantime, I vent by winning contests speaking out against what they do—all the way to nationals.”

  “Does your family know what your speech is about?”

  “No. It’s my own dark secret.”

  “So you’re living a double life,” I say. “Speech is where you can be a better version of yourself. Like Clark Kent versus Superman.”

  Derek nods.

  “I understand,” I say. “But what if your family is like a small, cramped house, and what if speech is a window giving you a view to the outside? What if, one day, that window opened and you could just fly out?”

  Derek reaches for my hand. His is hot and dry. In contrast, mine is embarrassingly cold and clammy. I think he will pull his hand away, but instead, he rubs my fingers to warm them.

  After dinner, we walk hand in hand back up the hill to Derek’s car. By now, the sun is beginning to set. Derek turns towards the ocean and points to a labyrinth of rocky paths that are partly submerged in water.

  “That’s the Sutro Baths,” he tells me. “It was this huge swimming facility that burned down years ago.” I try to imagine how the building must have looked when each rock path was the foundation of a wall. “And there are some cool caves over there,” he says, pointing to the right of the baths. “I’ll take you there sometime.”

  The wind whips my hair in all directions. Derek brushes my hair out of my face and rests his palm against my cheek. His eyes pierce into mine. He leans in and touches his lips to mine. They are soft and hot, just like his hands. At that moment, I no longer feel the cold of the wind. The roar and crash of the waves go silent. So do my thoughts. So do my worries and everything that has ever made me unhappy.

  Derek drives me to the St. Francis hotel. From the parking lot, we walk towards the banquet hall, where the loud bass vibrates against my chest. The entry is decorated with gold and white balloons.

  A long line of people snakes from the entrance to the banquet hall, where the prom is held. My eyes travel to the head of the line, where a couple is posing for pictures. The photographer is cracking jokes to make them smile before snapping his flash. I imagine myself posing before the camera with Derek’s arm wrapping around me.

  “Let’s dance first,” Derek says. “We can take pictures later, when the line is shorter.”

  As we pass the photo line, a few of the girls gawk at my dress. Suddenly, I become hyperaware of my large round white lace collars and the shortness of my hem. In fact, out of all the girls here, I have on the shortest dress. I become paranoid that my underwear is showing. I consider excusing myself to the restroom to check, but decide against it. If it is indeed showing, there is nothing I can do about it, so it is best not to know.

  On the way to the banquet hall, Derek is greeted by his friends. He introduces me to each of them, even Dave, the friend who took him to the Chinese restaurant. Inside the banquet hall, there are round tables and chairs lining the periphery of the room. At the center of the room is a large dance floor. The room is dimly lit, just bright enough so that you can see everyone in their formal attire.

  It is then that I notice that the disco lighting makes my white lace collars glow neon violet. Embarrassed, I cover them with my hands.

  Derek leads me past the tables to the dance floor. I feel awkward, hearing the thumping beat of the bass and not knowing how to dance to it. I look around to see how others are dancing. They just bob up and down, not touching each other. Derek peels my hands from my collars and begins moving as though dancing to a big band song. He doesn’t worry about not looking like the others. I decide to let go and let him swing me. He spins me around counterclockwise and then clockwise. As my body becomes warmer, the mothball scent in my dress becomes even stronger. I hope that the distance between us is wide enough that he can’t smell it. We dance several songs like this, never stopping to catch our breath.

  Eventually, a slow song comes on. Derek slowly brings me towards him until our bellies are touching. At first, I am self-conscious about the mothball smell and the sweat dripping down my back. Then I notice that the back of his coat is also warm and damp. Though my dress is drenched, he does not move his hand or shrink away from me. A thin line of sweat runs down his cheek in front of his ear. And to my utter relief, the perfume in his deodorant is actually overpowering my mothball smell. We are perfect in our collective imperfection.

  Just as I think this, we bump into a couple behind Derek. Derek turns around and so does the boy we bumped into. He is a heavyset Asian with metal-framed glasses. He is wearing a dark suit and a boutonniere of white roses that are red at the tips. He looks strangely familiar.

  “Hey, Derek!” shouts the boy over the music.

  “Alfred!” Derek replies.

  Alfred. Immediately, my body tenses up.

  Derek and Alfred shake hands.

  “Hey, I want you to meet Frances,” Derek says to Alfred.

  As Alfred offers his hand, he squints and frowns, as though reading through a foggy lens. “Have we met before?” he asks me.

  “No, I don’t think so,” I say, shaking his hand firmly, to communicate certainty.

  “So, who’s your date?” Derek asks Alfred.

  “Oh, uh …” Alfred turns around and steps aside. “This is Theresa,” Alfred announces. “Theresa, this is Derek and, uh, Frances.”

  Theresa is wearing the exact knee-length slim-fitting navy blue velvet dress that I picked out for her at Macy’s. She is wearing matching pumps. A corsage of white rosebuds with red tips decorates her dress. Her thick black hair, which is clipped back with a matching rosebud barrette, cascades past her shoulders in long, loose tendrils. I’ve always thought of Theresa as childlike, but suddenly she looks glamorous and sophisticated—unlike me in my sixties minidress and white collars.

  But what is most striking about her is how she is staring back at me, her eyes wide and her mouth in an O of shock.

  Chapter Twenty

  I paste on a smile. “Hi,” I
say.

  Theresa’s mouth slowly closes. Her round eyes narrow.

  “Well, good to see you,” Alfred says. He turns his back to us and continues slow dancing with Theresa. Derek puts his arms around me, and we start swaying again. But I’m unable to melt back into my previous happy state.

  “What’s the matter?” Derek asks.

  “Can we take a break?” I say.

  Derek guides me off the dance floor to one of the round tables. We both sit down. I turn my seat so my back is facing the dance floor.

  “What’s wrong?” Derek asks again.

  “Nothing,” I say. Then I ask if we can leave.

  “Now? Don’t you want to stay for the last dance?”

  “I don’t feel too well.”

  Derek looks disappointed, but he goes along with my request. On the way home, my heart is fraught with worry. How will I repair my friendship with Theresa? Will she squeal on me to my mom? A couple of times, Derek asks me if I’m feeling okay. I tell him that I just have a bad headache but it’s getting better.

  When Derek turns onto Balboa, I ask him to stop a couple of blocks away from my apartment. Derek turns off the engine and gazes at me. He is expecting me to get out of the car and go home. Mom is expecting me not to come home. What to do now?

  “Derek, I have a confession to make,” I say.

  “Don’t tell me you have another boyfriend.”

  I smile. “No. My mom doesn’t know that I’m at the prom with you. She thinks that I’m spending the night with a friend.” I conveniently leave out that the friend is Theresa.

  “So she would wonder why you were coming home when you’re supposed to be at your friend’s house,” Derek says.

  I nod. Derek rubs his chin and frowns.

  “How about this?” he says. “Let’s just hang out for the night and I’ll drop you off in the morning.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask. “You won’t get in trouble with your parents?”

  “I can just tell them that I was hanging out with friends,” he replies. “That’s what I did last year and they didn’t mind.”

  Last year? Who did he take to the prom last year? I suppress my jealousy and force myself to think of something else.

  “What will we do all night?”

  “Let’s play it by ear. I’ll surprise you.”

  Derek drives me towards Downtown. He then makes a turn into the tunnel leading to Chinatown. Derek keeps driving until I no longer recognize my surroundings. I see a tall, skinny, loud blinking sign showing a scantily clad blond woman. She has two red blinking lights where her nipples would be. I look away and blush. There are a lot of Western restaurants and cafés brimming with people. They remind me of Paris, though I’ve never been to Paris.

  “Where are we?” I ask.

  “North Beach,” he replies. “You’ve never been?” He sounds surprised. I shake my head, embarrassed by my ignorance. Though I’ve heard of North Beach, I’ve never thought of San Francisco as consisting of more than Richmond, Sunset, Downtown, and Chinatown.

  As we pass certain restaurants and landmarks, Derek tells me stories about them. Some stories are personal, like the one about where his dad proposed to his mom. Other stories are historic or legendary.

  Derek manages to find parking, and he takes me to a café for a cappuccino and a dessert called tiramisu. I’ve never had coffee before. I feel deliciously naughty, like I’m having a beer or a cigarette.

  Afterwards, we get back in the car, and Derek drives me to the top of a very steep hill. As I look down, I notice that the street is composed of a series of hairpin turns. As Derek drives down slowly, it dawns on me that we are going down Lombard Street, the famous “crookedest street in the world.” Until now, I’ve seen it only on postcards. I can hardly believe that this street is lined with houses. I try to imagine what it is like for the residents to bring their groceries home every week. Once we reach the bottom of the hill, we continue north until we get to the water. Derek points out Ghirardelli Square, Fisherman’s Wharf, Pier 39, and the Bay Bridge. Everything glitters with yellow lights that sparkle like jewelry. He finds a place to park and we walk along Pier 39, even though it’s closed and deserted, even though it’s cold. Derek lets me wear his jacket. He puts his arm around me to help me keep warm. We stay at the pier, where the sea lions hang out, and watch the sun rise.

  Derek drives me back to the Richmond District. We have breakfast at Mel’s Diner. I order pancakes. Derek orders bacon and eggs. We both order coffee. My eyelids are heavy, but my heart is still giving off fireworks. I can’t tell if it’s from the coffee or from being with Derek.

  After breakfast, Derek drives me home. We park along 32nd Avenue between Balboa and Cabrillo.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  Derek grabs my hand. “Is your mom home?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “She’s working,” I reply. “Why?”

  “I want to see your place,” he says.

  On one hand, I’m excited that he is curious about where I live. On the other hand, I’m worried about what he’ll think. He drives a BMW. He probably doesn’t live in a dilapidated one-bedroom apartment.

  As we approach my building, I check the second-story window to make sure that Mom is indeed at work. We climb the dark painted-green concrete stairway. I open the door to the apartment, and we step inside. The horizontal blinds hang crooked. Some of the pieces are bent from years of use and abuse by previous tenants. I wonder what Derek thinks about our linoleum floors and our saggy green love seat.

  “It’s not that impressive,” I say.

  “It’s not that bad,” Derek says, choking on the words. We stand there in silence for several awkward moments.

  Finally, he asks, “Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”

  I show him the way. As he relieves himself, I imagine what he must be thinking about our cracked pink and maroon tiles, our worn and stained yellow bath towels, and the rust running down our tub underneath the faucet. Derek emerges a minute later. His hands smell like the sandalwood soap we buy from Chinatown.

  “Where’s your room?” he asks.

  I guide him to our narrow trapezoid-shaped room. Both mattresses in the bunk bed are covered with orange and pink blankets.

  “Do you sleep on the top or the bottom?” he asks.

  “The top.”

  “Does your sister sleep on the bottom?”

  “I don’t have a sister.”

  “Then who sleeps on the bottom?”

  “My mom. This is a one-bedroom apartment.”

  Derek says nothing. His expression seems sad.

  At that moment, the door begins to jiggle. There is no place for Derek to run or hide. The door opens. Mom is carrying a box of pastries, which emit a sweet, buttery aroma. Her eyes zero in on me and Derek. Then she focuses on me, her bottom lip quivering. This confuses me, until I realize that she is staring at my dress. But it doesn’t last long. Soon her expression becomes cool again. She takes slow deliberate steps towards us, like a stalking predator.

  “So, who is this?” she asks, her voice silky and dangerous.

  Derek puts on his most charming speech-persona smile. “Hi, Mrs. Ching,” he says, extending his hand. “I’m Derek.”

  Mom’s eyes travel down to Derek’s hand and back up to his face. Her look is withering. Derek’s smile wilts. His hand falls limply to his side.

  “You don’t deserve a friend like Theresa,” Mom says to me, completely in English so that Derek can understand. “You’re so absentminded. You left your pajamas on your bed. I called Nellie’s house. Theresa answered. When I told her about your pajamas, she was quiet for a long time. Poor Theresa. She didn’t know what to say. When I told her to tell you to come back and get them, she said that she could lend you a pair.” Mom sniggers. “Imagine, Theresa lending you a pair, when she is so thin and you are so fat.”

  I wince, wishing that I could just disappear.

  “I called in sick today,” Mom continues. “I wanted to s
ee for myself.” She shakes her head and clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Poor Theresa. She is such a bad liar, not like you.”

  I burn with humiliation. Will Derek make the connection between the Theresa Mom is referring to and the Theresa we met at the prom? I don’t dare look at his face. I am too scared to see his reaction.

  “Not only do you lie,” Mom says, “you lie to sleep over at a boy’s house. How about all the other times you ‘slept over at Theresa’s’? Were you sneaking off to sleep with boys all those other times too?” She emphasizes the s in “boys,” to make it unequivocally plural, while turning to stare at Derek. Derek shrinks as Mom hovers over him, even though Derek is probably six feet tall, whereas Mom is only four foot ten. “Is that why you invited him over,” Mom continues, talking to me while staring at Derek, “so that you can sleep together here too?”

  “I should go,” Derek says, slowly walking sideways towards the bedroom door while giving Mom wide berth.

  “Yes, perhaps you should,” Mom says. “It was nice meeting you.” She smiles at him, eyes wide and unblinking like spotlights, lips parting to show all her teeth.

  Derek darts out of the apartment and down the stairs. I hear his footsteps, which end in a loud trip at the bottom.

  Then Mom turns to me.

  “Nothing happened,” I say.

  “Funny. He did not defend you. In fact, he abandoned you,” Mom says, switching back to half Chinese, half English. “Why is that? He must not care much about you or your reputation.”

  “That’s not true,” I say.

  “Is it not? Has he introduced you to his parents yet, or is he sneaking you around like he’s ashamed of you?”

  How can I answer that question without making him look bad?

  “Hm. I see,” Mom says. “I can understand his point of view. After all, he is high class, not like you. I can tell by his clothes and his manners. Where is he going to college, Harvard, Princeton?”

  “Harvard.”

  “Ah, yes. Why would he want to bring home someone like you, some poor Chinese girl who only got into State? Why not have his fun with you right before leaving for Harvard to meet someone proper?” Then Mom sighs, adding dramatic effect. “I wonder what he thought as he looked at this apartment. Did he feel pity, disgust?”