It's Not Like It's a Secret

by Misa Sugiura

  “Mm-hm.” This “everyone is a shallow hypocrite but me” act is getting irritating. I wonder if Caleb is just going to follow me around for the rest of lunch period.

  “Anyway,” he continues, “I was with my friends over there—” He gestures across the quad toward a group of kids sitting under a tree, all dressed in black. “—and saw you alone, so I thought I’d ask you if you wanted to sit with us for lunch.”

  “Oh. Um.” That was nice. But . . . “You know, I think I’m just going to walk around and check out the rest of the clubs and stuff. I don’t mind being alone.”

  “Ohhh, okay. You don’t want me around.”

  “No, it’s not that. I mean—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know when I’m not wanted.”

  “No, I just really want to see—”

  “No, whatever. I see how it is.”

  That’s it. I do want him gone. “’Bye.” I wave him off, and his mouth and eyes open wide in mock outrage. I can’t help smiling a little. It’s kind of nice to joke around with someone, even if it’s a dork like Caleb.

  I turn back to my circuit and find that I’m approaching the cross-country table. Fascinating Store Girl—I mean, Jamie Ramirez—was wearing a cross-country T-shirt, wasn’t she? A sport could be a good thing. Clubs typically meet just once a week, like Caleb said, but I feel like I’ll need something to do every day, or I’ll die of boredom.

  Sports teams practice every day. Hanh and Reggie are on the badminton team, but I am not going to play badminton. Especially not after they told me that the entire team is Asian. Plus, how silly would I feel whiffing one of those teeny rackets around? But running is something I could do.

  I get to the cross-country table just in time to see Jamie take off. Darn. I mean, whatever. It’s just, she looks so interesting. She’s headed toward the Latino Student Union table. Maybe I’ll swing over and say hi on my way to see Elaine and Hanh, just to see if she remembers me from—

  “Hi, did you want to sign up for cross-country?” It’s an Indian girl with possibly the longest ponytail I’ve ever seen.

  “What? Oh. Yes.” The girl’s name is Priti, and she’s the girls’ team captain. Priti and Coach Kieran take my name and email, hand me a couple of forms, and tell me to show up after school outside the gym in running clothes as soon as I can get signatures on the parent permission slip and the physician-release form certifying that I won’t drop dead of a heart attack during practice.

  On my way to the Vietnamese Student Association table, I see that Jamie’s still at the Latino Student Union table, in animated conversation with a girl wearing a Niners jersey and lipstick that’s about three shades darker than I would have chosen; the kind of dark red that’s named after a fancy wine, like Pinot Noir. Maybe the lipstick is making her lips look pouty, but she looks like she’s in a very bad mood. I almost change my mind about detouring in their direction.

  Almost.

  And now here I am, directly in front of Jamie and Pinot Noir, clearing my throat to get their attention, and now they’re looking at me like, “Yeah?” Pinot Noir, in particular, looks annoyed at the interruption. Here goes nothing. Fake it till you make it.

  I smile at Jamie. “Hi.”

  “Hey.” She looks at me curiously. “You need something?”

  “No, I just, um. I just recognized you. From Bed Bath and Beyond. I came in a couple of weeks ago and I was going to get that duvet cover with the blue coral design on it—you said it was your favorite? But my mom ended up making me get something else.”

  Her head tilts, her forehead wrinkles. . . . Omigod. She doesn’t remember.

  “Sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “We get a ton of customers toward the end of summer. . . .”

  “No—no, it’s okay. I uh . . . just thought I’d say hi. You know, just in case.” Oh, God. I feel like such a loser.

  Pinot Noir throws her head back and cackles. “Ha! Like she’d remember you. You’re funny.” Then she folds her arms, clearly ready to wrap this up and get back to whatever it was she was all upset about before. “All right. Say hi, Jamie.” Pinot Noir tilts her head at me.

  “Hi,” says Jamie. “Nice to meet you—what’s your name?”

  “Sana.”

  “I’m Jamie.”

  Still incredibly awkward, but better. At least she’s smiling at me. But Pinot Noir ruins it. “I’m Christina. Did you want to sign up for LSU?”

  “LSU?”

  “Uh, Latino Student Union?” she says, pointing to the banner hanging from the table next to us.

  “Oh. Uh, no.”

  “Okay, then.” She raises her eyebrows at me. “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  “Bye,” says Jamie, and she’s still smiling but I can see the pity in her eyes. How could I have been so thick? Pinot—I mean, Christina—is right. I went into that store two weeks ago and I thought Jamie would recognize me? Like I was something special? What was I thinking? Who was I kidding? If I had a wall I’d be banging my head against it right now. Note to self: No more faking it till I make it.

  Also: Stay away from Christina. She’s mean.

  7

  “TADAIMA,” I CALL AS I WALK IN THE DOOR. I kick my shoes off and arrange them neatly in the shoe cabinet in the foyer.

  “Okairi,” Mom calls back. I drop my backpack in my room and head to the kitchen for a snack. “How was school?” she asks in Japanese. She’s just prepared some green tea, and she pours me a cup to go with the cookies I’ve pulled out of the cupboard.

  “Okay.”

  “Do you have homework?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  I shrug. “An hour. It’s only the first day.”

  “Did you make any nice friends?”

  “A couple of people. They’re Asian, actually.”

  “Japanese?” She perks up a little.

  “No. Vietnamese and I think maybe Chinese.”

  “Hmm,” she says, sipping her tea. “Be careful. Chinese people can be untrustworthy.”

  “Mom!”

  “It’s true. I know what you think. You always point your finger and say, ‘You’re wrong. That’s a stereotype!’ but you don’t know the world. If enough people act a certain way, others will name what they see. If those people don’t like it, they shouldn’t act the way they do.”

  Time to change the subject. “I’m thinking of joining the cross-country team.”

  “Crossing country?” she repeats in English.

  “Long-distance running.”

  She frowns. “You aren’t a fast runner.”

  “You don’t have to be. It’s about endurance. You know, slow and steady wins the race. Anyway, I’m faster than you think.” I have no idea if this is true—the fact is, I’m worried that I’m not fast enough, too. But someone has to stand up for me.

  “I know how fast you are. I’ve seen you run.”

  “Mom. I just want to try. Can’t I just try?” I can feel my neck tightening, hear my voice rising to a petulant whine.

  Mom heaves a sigh. “There will be girls who are natural runners on that team, not like you. You’ll have to work harder than everyone else to keep up.”

  “I know, Mom. Of course I’ll work hard.”

  She sighs again. “Okay, then. Do your best. Work hard.” She holds her hand out, and I put the permission slip and doctor’s form in it. “Maybe it will make your legs more shapely,” she muses.

  This is too much. “God,” I snap. “Would it kill you to be a little supportive?”

  “I’m just being honest,” she says with a huff. “You and I have the same legs—short and thick-kneed. Not good for running. And I am very supportive—I let you join the team, I encouraged you to work hard, and I said that crossing-country will make your legs look good. What else should I say?”

  “How about, ‘You’re going to be great?’ That’s what an American mom would say.”

  Mom looks stung. “Too bad for you, then. I am not American. I am Jap
anese. I don’t know if you’re going to be great—how can I say that? I can want all kinds of things for you, but I only know that you can do your best. I am teaching you to see the world the way it is, not the way you want it to be. That’s my job.”

  I’m on my bed reading when Dad gets home at nine o’clock. He’s working later than ever with this start-up. He walks in the door, and from my room I can hear the evening routine, same as always:

  He says, “Tadaima!”

  Mom answers, “Okairi!”

  He says, “Aaahh, I’m exhausted. I’m going to take a bath.”

  Mom says, “What about dinner?”

  Dad says, “After my bath.”

  And three . . . two . . . one . . . He sticks his head in my doorway and says, “Oi, Sana-chan.”

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Did you have a good day? First day of school, right?”

  “It was okay.”

  “Lots of homework?”

  “Not too much. I finished it before dinner.”

  “Ah, good girl.” He comes in and pats me on the head like a puppy, and walks out. After his bath, he’ll eat dinner and work until he goes to bed, probably without saying another word to me except “good night.”

  It wasn’t always this way. When I was little, Dad used to tell me stories at night. His favorite—and mine, even though it was sad—was the story of Yama-sachi, who went to the bottom of the sea and married Toyo-tama-himé, the Dragon King’s lovely daughter. The Dragon King gave him two huge jewels—one to bring the tides in, and one to send them out again—and sent him back to live with Toyo-tama-himé on land. They lived happily together in their home by the sea until she gave birth to their son. She told him to let her do it alone, but he peeked in on her, and was horrified to see her in her true form, as a sea dragon. Heartbroken, the dragon princess fled back to her father’s kingdom and never returned.

  “She should have told him right away, so he wouldn’t be surprised,” I said the first time I heard the story.

  “I think she was afraid. Maybe she thought he wouldn’t love her if he knew.”

  “Then he shouldn’t have peeked.”

  “No, perhaps not. Sometimes it’s better not to know everything about a person.”

  “But when he found out, she should have stayed! I bet he still loved her.”

  “Yes, I think he did. But she didn’t want him to be ashamed of her.”

  “If you found out I was a sea dragon, would you still love me?”

  “Of course. I would keep you as a pet and feed you lots of seaweed.”

  “Sea dragons like frozen custard, actually.”

  “Seaweed flavored?”

  “No!” I made a face. “Chocolate!”

  The next night, Dad arrived home just before bedtime. “Sana-chan!” he called as he came in the door. “Oidé!” I jumped up from my bed, where I’d been reading, and flew to meet him, knowing this would buy me a sizable chunk of before-bed playtime, and maybe a repeat telling of Yama-sachi and Toyo-tama-himé. Dad had a conspiratorial grin on his face and a white paper bag in his hands. I recognized the logo right away—it was from LeDuc’s Frozen Custard, my favorite dessert place of all time. “I went after work with friends,” he said, holding the bag up like a prize. “I told them I had a dragon to feed at home. Do you want some?”

  “Yes!” I shrieked, jumping up and down. “Yes! Can I have some now?”

  “Jiro-chan!” Mom protested from the kitchen. “It’s her bedtime!”

  “Eh-yan. It’s okay. Let her have some fun,” he replied, and led me—skipping and making my best dragon noises—into the kitchen, where I devoured a bowl of cold, creamy, custardy goodness under Mom’s disapproving gaze.

  When I was twelve, shortly after I discovered the strange text on Dad’s phone, Dad brought home a different surprise present: pearl earrings, the ones I keep in my box. “They’re like the two Tide Jewels,” Dad said when I opened the box, “from the story of Yama-sachi and Toyo-tama-himé.” They were beautiful—smooth and white, with a luminous pink sheen. “Everyone—even an ugly oyster—has power and beauty inside. But sometimes they keep it a secret. And sometimes it takes patience to find it.”

  The best part, though, was that they had posts for pierced ears. I thought this meant that I was going to be allowed to get my ears pierced—like getting a set of keys in a gift box before being led to the new car waiting in the driveway with a big bow on top.

  “Akan.” Of course Mom would forbid it. Apparently the earrings were not Mom-approved, and no amount of wailing and whining on my part could change her mind. “Not while you live with us.”

  I thought very seriously about running away. Dad smiled at me. “Mom’s right—I should have checked. I know you’re angry, but you should remember what I said about the pearls. Your mother, especially, has great strength and beauty inside her.” I was not so sure.

  “Keep them for when you do get pierced ears,” he said to me later. “They are very special pearls, and I want you to wear them one day.” So into my lacquer box they went, these beautiful jewels that grew around grains of sand, so powerful they could control the tides, hidden away and waiting for a future free from Mom’s old Japanese ways.

  8

  ELAINE AND HANH MEET ME IN FRONT OF campus before school. While we wait for Reggie to arrive, Hanh fishes a mirror out of her bag and starts applying makeup. Elaine keeps an eye out for Jimmy. We’re talking about what clubs I should join, and I’m telling them about cross-country as Reggie walks up to us.

  “Holy pain and suffering, Batman,” she says. “Why? You get hot and sweaty and tired, and what—your races are going to be much more fun? No, just more hot, sweaty running. Plus no one cares about cross-country—no offense—so you just have to like, toil in obscurity for nothing.”

  “Yeah, but I can’t do any of the other sports. Anyway, I got my mom to let me do it,” I say. “But first we had to have this whole argument about whether I was good enough, and how everyone else is probably better than me, so I’m going to have to work extra hard. . . . Not one word of support. She’s the worst.” The words are barely out of my mouth before I regret saying them. I feel like I’ve shared an ugly secret.

  Hanh puts on the last touches of lip gloss, examines her reflection, and says, “She’s not the worst. It’s just Asian Mom Syndrome.”

  “Wha—huh? Is that, like, a thing?”

  “What? Yeah, it’s a thing! What’s wrong with you? Did you think you had a white mom?” says Reggie, smiling.

  I just stare at her. “No.”

  “Maybe there weren’t any Asian moms where she’s from,” Elaine offers.

  I nod.

  “Oh, right. Seriously?”

  I nod again.

  “God, wow. That is so weird,” says Hanh. “Okay, so Asian moms. Ask any Asian with an immigrant mom. They’ll tell you. There’s like a million videos about it on YouTube.”

  “Get good grades is better than have friends,” says Elaine in an exaggerated Vietnamese accent, shaking her finger.

  “No tampon. Tampon makes you lose virginity,” says Reggie firmly.

  Hanh puts her hand on her hip, scowls, and says, “Why you want boyfriend? No boyfriend until graduate from college.”

  Wow. Mom’s not that extreme, but still, it all rings true. I try out something weird Mom said once: “Pair of socks is good Christmas present for teacher,” and Reggie high-fives me.

  “Total Asian mom!” cries Hanh, and then she squawks in that heavy Vietnamese accent, “Cut the toenail at night is bad luck! Don’t eat too much, you get fat! Only A minus? Why you not work harder? Teenager wear makeup is for prostitute!”

  I look around at Hanh, Reggie, and Elaine, and feel something I’ve never felt before. I’ve only just met them, but they get me like none of my Midwestern friends ever did. They don’t think I’m weird or feel sorry for me. They make me feel normal. And special at the same time, somehow, like we’re all part of an exclusive club with a secret ha
ndshake and everything.

  I hadn’t realized how much of my life—of myself—I’d been trying to keep hidden in Wisconsin. In Wisconsin, I was constantly trying to escape the fact that I was Asian, and hoping that people either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Now, I feel like it’s springtime and my new friends have just peeled off a hot, heavy jacket. I can be openly Asian. For the first time in my life, I feel like I belong.

  Hanh says, “You’re lucky you got your mom to say yes. I wanted to do cross-country when I was a freshman, but my mom wouldn’t let me.”

  I’m a little surprised to hear this from Hanh. I mean, I don’t really know her yet, but she doesn’t seem the type. The girls who ran cross-country at my old school were typically Plain Janes who didn’t mind toiling in obscurity and getting hot and sweaty for nothing, as Reggie puts it. But Hanh is fashion-model pretty, and I get the feeling she knows it, the way she’s always flipping her hair and checking out guys. Not only that, but here she is in full makeup. And she doesn’t dress like she has an Asian mom, either. Today she has on a spaghetti-strap cami covered up with a cute crocheted shrug.

  “Why wouldn’t your mom let you do cross-country?” I ask.

  “Well, it was actually my grandmother.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, she didn’t want me running around in shorts and a tank top where you could see the bra underneath. She said it was ‘immodest.’” Hanh puts air quotes around “immodest” and rolls her eyes. “She was like, ‘I’m not going to let you run all over town looking like a prostitute.’”

  “Whoa. For real?”

  “The old ones are the worst,” says Elaine. “They want everything to be like it was when they grew up, so it’s like, old-fashioned even for being Asian.”

  “And she’s my dad’s mom,” says Hanh, “and my mom pretty much just does whatever she says. It sucks.”

  “Your grandma’s the worst, for sure. Even my mom feels sorry for you,” Reggie says, shaking her head. “Thank God my grandparents are still in Hong Kong.”