The Year of the Fortune Cookie

by Andrea Cheng

  It’s hard to believe that two hours have gone by when Andee’s mom calls to say that she is in front of the house to pick Andee up.

  “Thanks for having me,” she says. “I had a great time.”

  I look at our hats. “Two down, forty-eight to go.”

  “Wednesday at noon we’ll have knitting lessons.”

  “I’ll make a flyer,” I say.

  We go downstairs and I walk Andee out to the car the way Mom does when her friends come over.

  It’s after ten but I still can’t sleep. First I’m hot, then I’m cold, then Maow Maow curls up on my neck. My stomach churns every time I think of getting on an airplane with the Sylvesters. I wish Camille or Andee or Laura could go with me. What if I can’t even go to the orphanage? What will I do with the money from our bake sale, and fifty baby hats?

  After school, I make the flyer:

  Got Yarn?

  Knit baby hats, for an orphanage.

  No experience necessary.

  Come to CAT Wed at noon.

  Room 203

  There are seven people at our lunchtime CAT meeting, and we give everyone a short knitting lesson.

  Sam tries to cast on the stitches, but the yarn is too limp in his hands. “This is harder than baking fortune cookies,” he says.

  I show him how to hold the yarn tighter, and after a while he starts to get the hang of it.

  Mrs. Smith shows up with ten small, very evenly knitted hats. “I saw the flyers and thought I’d better get busy. I should be able to make a few more by the end of the week. I’ll get my nieces going too.” As usual, she seems in a hurry to leave.

  When she’s gone, Simone says, “I know most kids don’t like Mrs. Smith very much, but I think she’s just really shy.”

  “That’s what I think,” Hideat says. “Sometimes she seems kind of unfriendly, the way she’s always rushing, but once you get to know her, she’s nice.”

  Sam holds up his hat, which is three rows long. “I think I’m getting it.” He turns to me. “Hey, when you go to China, can you take a picture of one of the babies with this hat on?”

  I nod. “I’ll try to remember.”

  Hideat asks me if I was born in China. Usually when people ask me that, I feel embarrassed, as if someone with a Chinese face could not possibly be born in Cincinnati. But for some reason, this time the question doesn’t bother me. I shake my head. “Cincinnati University Hospital.”

  “I was born in Eritrea,” she says. “My family came here when I was a baby.”

  I am not sure where Eritrea is or what language is spoken there, but I ask, “Do you speak Eritrean?”

  She smiles. “Actually, the language is called Tigrinya. I can understand it, but I don’t speak it very well.”

  Right before the bell rings, Andee hands me a blue envelope with my name on the front. “I made something for your trip,” she says. “You can open it when you get to China.”

  I put the envelope into my notebook, and Andee, Hideat, and I walk out of the room together.

  Chapter Nine

  Packing

  I make a packing list:

  Two sweaters

  My warmest corduroy pants

  2 pairs of jeans

  4–5 shirts

  Long underwear

  Pajamas

  Underwear and socks (fourteen pairs of each)

  Extra pair of shoes

  I assemble everything on my bed and try to fit it into my suitcase. I roll up all the little knitted hats and stuff them around the edges and inside my extra pair of shoes, even though I probably won’t be able to visit Kaylee’s orphanage. I wrote a letter to the government agency that helped us get my sister, but they didn’t write back. I can’t send an email to the orphanage because there is nothing on the website except the picture of the building. Maybe the Lucky Family Orphanage doesn’t even exist anymore. So then why am I going? Maybe I should have waited until Mom could go with me and we could visit her family.

  It’s too late to change my mind now. I put three books in my backpack: Homesick from Ms. Remick, Chains from Laura, and The Call of the Wild from Mom and Dad. I put the blue envelope from Andee in the inside pocket with our camera. Ms. Sylvester will keep my passport and the fortune cookie money, which Mom changed into Chinese currency at the bank.

  On a piece of paper I write Laura’s, Camille’s, and Andee’s addresses so I can send them postcards. Who else? Maybe Ms. Remick, Mrs. Smith, and of course Ken and Kaylee and Mom and Dad, and Grandma. I fold the paper and put it into the backpack.

  Kaylee sees one of the little hats on the bed. “Mine,” she says.

  “I already told you, these are for babies, remember? The babies in China.” I pull Kaylee to my lap. “You can draw a picture for the babies.”

  She takes a marker and draws something that she says is our house. Then she tries to make circles for Mom and Dad and me and Ken and herself, but it just looks like scribbling. She hands the marker to me and says “Kaylee,” so I write her name on the bottom.

  I put the drawing into my backpack. Then I go downstairs, look through the pictures in our computer file, and pick out the best ones of our family. In my favorite one, Mom and Dad are laughing in the background while Kaylee is glaring at Maow Maow and holding her sock mouse. I pick another where I am pushing Ken on a swing at the playground. Then there’s one with Ken giving Kaylee a piggyback ride. The last one is Kaylee “reading” to Grandma. I print the pictures on glossy photo paper, cut them apart, and put them into a small album I’ve had in my desk drawer forever. When all the photos are neatly arranged, I show them to Kaylee.

  “Again,” she says, even after we’ve looked through the album three times.

  The doorbell rings, and there are Camille and her mom. “I have something for you,” Camille says. She hands me a small package wrapped in red paper. “For your trip.”

  “Should I open it now or on the plane?”

  Camille considers. “Now.”

  I unwrap it, and inside is a journal full of blank white paper. “Perfect!” I say, running my hand over the cover, which is solid green with the word JOURNAL printed in small black letters.

  “Write down what happens—so you don’t forget,” Camille says.

  “Thank you so, so much.” I hug Camille.

  We go up to my room and I show her my suitcase. “It looks like it’s stuffed full of hats.” She holds up a yellow one.

  “I wish you were coming with me to China,” I say, feeling a lump grow in my throat.

  Camille looks at me. “I haven’t been back since we left. Sometimes when I can’t sleep I try to remember living in China and I can’t. Then I try to think in Chinese, and I can’t do that either.”

  “I can’t even imagine thinking in Chinese,” I say. I roll up the yellow hat and stuff it into the corner of the suitcase. Even when I swallow hard, the lump in my throat is still there. “I wish I could stay home.”

  “Two weeks isn’t that long.” Camille touches the journal. “I’ll keep a diary too, and then we can swap.”

  Camille always knows just what to say.

  Chapter Ten

  The Trip

  At the airport, Kaylee doesn’t want to hug me, and when I try to kiss her cheek, she turns away. Ken is in a hurry to get back home so he can open the new Lego kit Grandma sent him.

  Dad puts his arm around my shoulders. “Make sure to stay with the Sylvesters so you don’t get lost.”

  When I turn to hug Mom, there are tears in her eyes.

  “We’ll take good care of her,” Mr. Sylvester says, looking at me.

  “And she’ll take good care of us,” Ms. Sylvester adds.

  I try to swallow so I can say goodbye, but the words are stuck in my throat. Then it’s time to give the lady our tickets and walk down the jetway.

  The plane is full, and about half of the people are Chinese. I hear words that I understand, like lai lai, “come here,” and mei wen ti, “no problem,” but there is a lot of bac
kground noise and most people are talking too fast.

  Six couples are going to China together to adopt their baby girls, but there are no other kids in the group except me. The Sylvesters and I have three seats in a row, and mine is the one by the window.

  “Would you like a snack?” Mr. Sylvester asks, handing me a bag of trail mix.

  I thank him, but the plane has not even taken off and my stomach is already churning.

  “Keep it for later,” he says.

  A lady in the seat behind us taps me on the shoulder. “Are you going to see the place where you were adopted?” she asks.

  “I’m not adopted,” I say quickly. I’ve never been asked that before, and if I were adopted, I probably would not want to talk about it with a stranger.

  The lady looks confused. “I’m sorry. I assumed you were going to see your first home.”

  “I’m going with my teacher and her husband. They’re adopting a baby,” I explain.

  “Oh, how nice.”

  I lean back in my seat. What if I really were the Sylvesters’ adopted daughter? Ms. Sylvester’s hair is fine and curly, and her skin is tan. I think she might be part African American and part white, but she never said anything to me about her race. Mr. Sylvester looks very white, with pinkish skin and a big nose. What will people think when they see the two of them with a Chinese baby? Then I remember what my mother says: Don’t worry about what other people think or what race they are. People are people.

  Mr. Sylvester is reading a book called Lucky Girl about a baby who was adopted from China. Lucky Family Orphanage. Lucky Girl. Funny how things associated with adoption are called lucky. But nobody talks about the unlucky families who gave their baby girls away.

  I open the journal Camille gave me, and on the first page in her perfect handwriting she wrote:

  To my best friend, Anna. Love, Camille

  I write the date:

  Dec. 12

  I hope my suitcase is on this plane. What if fifty hats get lost?

  I draw little hats all around the border of the page and then close my journal. I want to open the blue envelope from Andee, but she said to wait until I’m actually in China. I feel tired and jittery at the same time, and my legs are numb. It is dark outside. Soon Mr. Sylvester is snoring and I wish I were home in my bed with Maow Maow.

  All night people are coming and going. A flight attendant brings a hot meal, but I’m not hungry and the smell turns my stomach. Later she brings orange juice. People are laughing and playing cards. I close my eyes.

  Our plane lands in Japan and we have to hurry to catch our next flight. I follow Ms. Sylvester’s green sweater through the crowded airport, where I see more people with black hair than I’ve ever seen before. We get to the gate just in time, and finally we are on the plane to Beijing.

  “I’m getting butterflies in my stomach,” Ms. Sylvester says.

  Mr. Sylvester puts his arm around her. “Everything will be fine. You’ll see.”

  She takes out the itinerary that was given to her by the adoption agency. First we will go to the hotel and get settled in. The next day, we have a tour of the Great Wall. The second day is the Forbidden City. “I wish we didn’t have to do so much sightseeing before we get Jing,” she says.

  “You know what the lady told us. They want us to get an appreciation for China before we get our babies,” Mr. Sylvester says.

  She sighs and leans back on his arm. “How are you doing, Anna?”

  “Fine.”

  “Another couple of hours and we’ll be there,” she says.

  I close my eyes for a minute and listen to the voices of the people on the plane. Most people are talking in Chinese, but I hear English, too. I cannot imagine hearing only Chinese all around me. What if I can’t understand a thing in Beijing?

  “What do you think were the biggest challenges for your family when you got Kaylee?” Mr. Sylvester asks.

  “She cried a lot, and she had an eating problem,” I say. “But now she eats just fine.” I think about my sister eating Cheerios and laughing, and suddenly I am so homesick that I can hardly stand it.

  “That must have been so hard for all of you,” Ms. Sylvester says.

  “But look at her now,” Mr. Sylvester says. “Not a thing wrong with her.” He opens his wallet and takes out a picture of Jing. “And not a thing wrong with her, either.”

  “We don’t know yet, Roy,” Ms. Sylvester says. “Every baby is different.”

  When we get off the plane, a thin lady in a blue suit meets our group. “Follow me,” she says in English. We pile into a van. “Welcome to Beijing.” She has to shout over the noise of the engine. “We hope you will enjoy China.” The sun is just setting and it’s hard to see anything except the outline of the skyscrapers. She points out sights as we cross the city, and talks about the way the roads are organized in rings from the center out. “Now we are at the third ring road,” she says.

  I am so tired that I can’t pay attention. When we get to the hotel, I stumble into the lobby and we make our way to our room on the second floor.

  The last thing I think of as I am falling asleep is the gold carpet.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sightseeing

  Where is Maow Maow and where is my desk? I hear Mr. Sylvester snoring and I realize that I am not at home. The clock says 1:04 a.m.

  My stomach is growling, so I reach for the trail mix in the pocket of my backpack. I eat the raisins first, then the peanuts and the M&M’s. If I were at home, I would be having Cheerios and milk. No, China is thirteen hours ahead, so at home it is two in the afternoon. I would be in math class. I wish I had something cold and juicy, like an apple. I want to read but the light might wake up the Sylvesters. I tiptoe into the bathroom, turn on the light, and start reading Homesick. The author was born in China but she is American. I never really thought of what it would be like to be a white American kid who grew up in China speaking Chinese better than English. Like me, only in reverse. I read half of the book before the sky becomes light.

  Finally a little bit of pink sunshine comes in through the small window. I can’t believe I am more than six thousand miles from Cincinnati. At home, Ken and Kaylee and Mom and Dad are probably finishing dinner. Laura and Camille are doing their homework. Maybe Andee is in her art cove, making earrings. Tears come to my eyes. I miss home so much already. How will I last for twelve whole days? Then I remember the blue envelope.

  Inside is a card:

  Dear Anna, I wanted to make you fortune cookies, but knew they’d get crushed, so here are twelve paper ones. Open one each day that you are in China. Love, Andee.

  P.S. I hope my fortunes make more sense than the ones in real fortune cookies!

  Inside the card are twelve different-colored folded circles of paper held together with a purple paper clip. Each paper cookie has a number on it. I open the first one and find this fortune inside:

  In the corner, Andee has written the Chinese characters for Ni hao. I refold the paper fortune cookie and put everything back into the envelope. Andee thought of the perfect gift.

  When the Sylvesters wake up, we take showers and get dressed. I put on a sweater and a jacket because it is cold even in the hotel. The guide who met us yesterday is waiting in the lobby. She speaks English, but sometimes it’s hard to understand because her voice rises and falls at the wrong times. I think she’s explaining that breakfast is included with our hotel fee. We go into the other room, where we each get a bowl of rice cooked in broth with salty pickles. It feels good on my dry throat.

  After breakfast, Ms. Sylvester explains to the guide that before the babies arrive, we would like to visit the Lucky Family Orphanage.

  “I don’t understand,” she says.

  Ms. Sylvester puts her arm around me. “This is Anna. She has a sister who was adopted from the Lucky Family Orphanage, the same orphanage as our daughter, Jing. We would like to visit.”

  “I don’t think that is possible,” she says. “We have a schedul
e for every day.”

  “It is very important,” Ms. Sylvester says.

  The guide says she understands, but she doesn’t say that she will try to arrange something. Outside it is cold and gray and the air smells like gasoline and smoke. I wind my scarf around my neck and pull my hat down over my ears. The lady calls the van, and we are on our way to the Great Wall. Through the dirty van windows, I see lots of billboards with huge red Chinese characters on them, and more cranes than I’ve ever seen in one place. The lady is pointing out some sights, but I’m too tired to concentrate and the ride is long and bumpy. I close my eyes.

  When we stop, I see big groups of tourists talking in different languages. There are Chinese tour groups too, and when they are speaking Mandarin, I can understand some of the words. We join the crowds all bundled up against the wind and start walking up the hill on top of the wall, which is wide, like a road made of stones and bricks. It’s hard to imagine how anyone could have built something this big and this long without machinery. At home we have a picture book with paintings that show strong men carrying huge stones to form the base of the wall. Many people died while carrying these heavy stones. But the guide doesn’t say anything about that. She explains that the Chinese were very advanced in their knowledge of construction. The Great Wall was built as a fortress to protect from invaders, and it was meant to last forever.