Girl in Translation

by Jean Kwok

  Mrs. Avery kissed me on the cheek. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

  I smiled. She was one of my favorite people, even though I hardly ever saw her.

  Annette lent me an old outfit of hers that she’d outgrown. Although the cream-colored dress fit me well, it was shorter than anything I’d ever worn. It felt quite daring to have it swish above my bare knees. Luckily we were the same shoe size, so I could borrow a pair of her pumps. Then Annette did my makeup, but she’d practiced a lot since the movie theater. After she put gloss in my hair, I hardly recognized myself in the mirror.

  “You’re gorgeous,” she said.

  I turned around and hugged her. “You’re a great friend.”

  Annette was wearing a hip dress with a multicolored print and a leather handbag of her mom’s.

  I braided the front part of her hair back off her face. “You look beautiful too.”

  Mrs. Avery drove us to Curt’s apartment, which was in the city, all the way east in the Seventies. A doorman came and opened our car door so Annette and I could get out. The air was warm, but a cool breeze swept in off the river. We waved good-bye to Mrs. Avery as we went into the revolving door. The doorman stood outside and pushed it for us so we didn’t have to do anything ourselves. Another doorman, behind the counter, told us how to get to Curt’s apartment when we were inside.

  I tried not to gawk but Annette strode with her head held high, swinging her handbag on her arm like a lady. The elevators were next to an enormous display of flowers. I reached out a hand to feel a petal and realized they were all real.

  “What do they do when the flowers fade?” I asked Annette.

  “They get new ones, of course.”

  What an expense that must be. When we got to Curt’s apartment and rang the doorbell, Curt opened the door. A blast of throbbing music filled the hallway.

  “Hey, you made it.” His eyes stopped on me. “Wow.” It was different from his usual flirtatious look. He was staring at me as intensely as if I were a piece of sculpture.

  I looked down at the rust-colored carpet, pleased. “Thanks. Annette helped.”

  Behind me, Annette giggled.

  “Come in. Throw anything you don’t want to carry in my parents’ bedroom.” Curt disappeared through a doorway.

  So this was a party. All of the regular lights were out. I peered into the living room, where Curt had gone. Even in the darkness, I could tell their apartment was enormous, because the windows were so far away from where we were standing in the hallway. I could see the illumination from the city and lights on the East River in the distance.

  There were already a lot of kids there. In one corner of the living room, a disco ball was spinning from the ceiling and some people were dancing, but everywhere else, it was dark except for small clusters of tea lights scattered around the room. I’d thought his parents might give a little speech about Curt, but there was no sign of them or any other adults.

  “I think that’s someone from theater club,” Annette said, pointing at one of the dancing figures.

  “Go ahead,” I said to Annette, speaking loudly to be heard over the music. “Give me your bag, I’ll put it away for you.”

  She passed me her handbag, then went over to her friend. I felt my way down the hallway and opened the bedroom door. I flicked on the light. There was a pile of clothing and handbags on the mahogany bed. Suddenly, something shifted. I almost screamed, then realized that it was a boy from my year making out with some girl. He had his hands up her shirt and she was pulling on his hair.

  He dragged his lips from hers and glared at me. “Do you mind?”

  “Sorry!” I quickly shut off the light, threw Annette’s handbag onto the bed and left.

  In the disco room, I found Annette chatting with a boy from the school newspaper. They were standing by a long counter that must have been a minibar. Annette made me a gin and tonic from the bottles on the bar, heavy on the tonic. The music was as loud as the machines at the factory. Annette pulled me onto the floor and we started to dance. It was my first time dancing to this kind of music, but I found I had a natural feel for it. A circle of people joined us, and after a while, Annette drifted off somewhere. Spinning around under the disco ball, I felt like a real American teenager.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder. Curt. I wondered if he’d been watching me for a while. He took me by the hand and pulled me into the hallway.

  “I want to show you something,” he said.

  He led me to what must have been his bedroom. When he opened the door, a cloud of sweet smoke met us. A group of people were sitting in a circle on the floor around a large cluster of candles. It was much quieter here.

  “You guys need to open the window,” he said.

  “It is open,” Sheryl said, from her seat on the floor. I thought she looked surprised to see me, as did a few other people, but no one said anything.

  Curt led me to a gap in the circle where we could sit down. One of the boys sitting there was someone I’d kissed a while back. The boy’s face lit up when he saw me, but Curt noticed as well and he seemed to deliberately place himself in between the two of us.

  They were passing around a huge Chinese water pipe. It was about two feet high and I could see I’d need both hands to wrap around the diameter of the shaft. From the smell, I knew they weren’t smoking tobacco.

  Annette popped her head in the door. “Kimberly, are you in here?”

  “Hey,” I said.

  Annette realized what was going on. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. You want to come in?” I was filled with curiosity and recklessness this evening. Other kids had the choice of giving in to temptation in the moment or waiting for the next opportunity. For me, there was no later. If I didn’t try this now, I might never get the chance again.

  Annette made a face. “Yuck. No, thanks. I’ll see you.” And she closed the door again.

  “That water pipe’s Chinese,” I whispered to Curt.

  “I know.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “I swiped it from my dad’s office. One of his authors in China sent it to him as a gift. Poor guy probably didn’t know what we use bons for here. My dad’s got so much stuff in there, I don’t think he ever missed it.”

  When the water pipe came to me, I ran my finger over its intricate carvings. Everyone was looking at me from under their eyelashes, probably to watch the newcomer cough and not know how to take a hit. But I had seen plenty of men smoking water pipes in cafés in Hong Kong.

  I put my mouth inside the wide shaft, so tightly that I created an airtight seal, held a lighter to the small metal bowl attached to the main shaft and inhaled through my mouth. I could hear the water bubbling as the smoke was pulled through it and then up into my mouth. I was prepared for the burn of the smoke and I held it in my lungs while I passed the pipe to Curt.

  He was laughing. “You’re a natural. You should give up being a brain and become a pothead, like me.”

  The pipe came around several times and I smoked and exhaled until I felt I had blown the memory of Matt into the distance. I lay back across the floor, my head spinning. I didn’t know where everyone else had gone, or perhaps they were still in the room. The prickle of the carpet against the back of my hair was extremely pleasant.

  “You’ve never had a real kiss until you’ve been kissed stoned,” Curt said.

  “All right,” I said, already having a great deal of fun turning my head from side to side.

  Slowly, I felt Curt lean over me and capture my head in between his large hands. I felt his hair brush my face. Instead of giving me a quick kiss on the lips as I’d expected, he started by kissing my neck, the tender places underneath the jaw and behind the ear. My world was filled with the touch of his mouth, the scent of his hair. He started gently sucking on my earlobe.

  “Mmmmm,” I murmured. “Does this still fall under ‘kissing’?”

  In answer, he kissed me full on the lips, leisurely, as if he
were savoring every moment. His kiss was soft and full: like a butterfly, it fluttered against the closed door of my heart and then was still.

  Over the years, Uncle Bob’s leg had started bothering him more, and we saw him at the factory only now and then. Aunt Paula had taken over most of his duties. To keep up face, because it is so important for the man to appear to be the breadwinner, Aunt Paula told everyone he was working from home. At the factory, though, his office had become in practice Aunt Paula’s office.

  All of our mail still went through Aunt Paula since that was the official address the school had for me. The first time she brought me one of my score reports, I knew she was hoping my scores would be low.

  “I’m sure you did well, such a clever girl,” she said with seeming kindness. “Why don’t you open it?”

  Fortunately, Ma happened to be in the bathroom then and I said, “I want to wait for Ma. I’ll do it later.”

  Even though I was dying to open the envelope too, I turned and busied myself with some blouses until Aunt Paula reluctantly walked away. When Ma finally returned, I tore the envelope open and removed the thin piece of paper inside.

  “Well, what did you get?” Ma asked.

  Strangely enough, I couldn’t find my results. I held the small square of paper up to the light. “I don’t know. They must have made a mistake. There isn’t anything here. It just has the scores that are possible on the test.”

  Suddenly, I heard Aunt Paula’s voice. She must have followed Ma back to our work area. “That’s ridiculous. Give it to me.”

  She snatched the sheet of paper from my hand and stared at it. Slowly, a rash of red rose up her neck. “Stupid girl, those ARE your scores!”

  “Oh.” I took the letter from her. I slowly realized I must have gotten perfect scores on the test. I hadn’t been able to find my results because my scores were a duplicate of the top scores possible.

  I was still confused by the whole thing, and I said honestly, “I’m sorry I made your eyes red, Aunt Paula.”

  Both she and Ma breathed in sharply.

  “What!” Aunt Paula gave a shrill laugh. “Why would I be jealous because my niece does so well? What type of human being do you think I am?”

  “No, I didn’t mean that. I, um . . .” I had made such a blunder I had to anesthetize my face.

  “You crazy girl! I’m very proud of you!” She clasped her arm around my shoulders so hard it hurt.

  “We’re both very proud,” Ma said, her eyes aglow.

  TWELVE

  When senior year began, Curt and I fooled around more, much more. People began to whisper we were going out. The more we told them we were just friends, the more convinced they were that something was going on. Although I knew it wasn’t true, I enjoyed having other people think this.

  Once, I heard Sheryl hiss behind me: “What in the world can he possibly see in her? Look at her clothes!”

  With my newfound confidence, I turned around and smiled. She stopped short, startled I had overheard her.

  “Brains are beautiful,” I said.

  For me, Curt was a regular inoculation against Matt. With the physical delights Curt was teaching me, I could harden my heart against the daily hurt of seeing Matt with Vivian.

  It was a brilliant autumn day, cold for that time of year, and Curt and I were sitting huddled together under the bleachers of the stadium. After the first time, I didn’t get stoned with him again, because I didn’t like being so dazed in my normal life. My cheap jacket was much thinner than his and he’d wrapped his long cashmere coat around the both of us like a tent. I was rubbing my finger against his bottom lip.

  In between little kisses placed on my fingertip, he asked, as casually as always, “How come you’re not in love with me?”

  I didn’t want to hurt him. “Curt, just about every girl in school’s in love with you.”

  He held my finger still and started sucking on it. In contrast to the chilly air, the warmth of his mouth was incredible. “Except you.”

  “True,” I sighed, closing my eyes with pleasure.

  “Is it because of before?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Because I went along with Greg teasing you. In seventh grade. You remember.”

  I opened my eyes and looked at him then. “That wasn’t very nice.”

  “I know. I was a little shit. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s been a long time. People change.”

  “So you’re not still holding that against me?”

  “No. And you stood up for me with that Tammy incident.”

  “So, what is it, then?”

  An image of Matt drifted into my head but I pushed it away. “I guess I’m only in love with your body.”

  Curt burst out laughing. “Well, I guess that’ll have to be good enough.”

  And we left it at that.

  Dr. Weston, the guidance counselor and psychiatrist for the school, called me into her office.

  “Where would you like to go for college?” she asked.

  I responded without hesitation. “Yale.” Annette and I had talked about colleges. Unlike me, she had ordered dozens of catalogs and read thick books of college guides. In the end, she’d chosen Wesleyan as her top choice. My selection was much more random. I knew Yale was a top school and I loved the photos of Yale in her catalog.

  “Good. Let me see your application before you send it in and I’ll give you my comments.”

  “Do you think I really have a chance?”

  Dr. Weston stared at me with her little eyes. “Kimberly Chang, if you’re not the type of student who gets into Yale, then who is?”

  I typed out my application on the typewriter at the library, and Dr. Weston hardly made any changes to it. I asked her if it would be possible to waive the application fee. She wanted to see a copy of our tax return to see if I qualified, and when she took a quick glance at it, her face became still. Then she’d immediately given me the waiver.

  When I told Ma what I had done, she was appalled. “Why didn’t you pay the fee?”

  “It’s a lot of money.” This was the same month that we had finally managed to pay off our old debts to Aunt Paula. Our financial situation was much better than it’d ever been, especially since I was still working extra hours at the library. But if we were ever going to move, ever going to change our lives, we needed to continue to save every cent we could. I understood this. Even without debt payments, our income was paltry.

  “But maybe they won’t consider your application. Why would they read it when you didn’t give them money for it?”

  The next day, Ma brought home a stack of cheap china plates she’d bought.

  “Here, throw these on the floor,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Breaking china brings good luck. It will help you get into college.”

  I didn’t believe in these superstitions but I broke them anyway. If I didn’t get into a college with a need-blind financial aid policy, I wouldn’t be able to go at all. We couldn’t even afford a state school.

  I began to worry even more when I heard about what other students had put in their applications. Julia Williams’s family kept a Steinway in a soundproof practice room for her. Julia practiced five hours a day and had competed in international piano competitions since she turned sixteen. Chelsea Brown sang in the Metropolitan Opera Children’s Chorus.

  The jocks were a group unto themselves. “Speedy Spenser,” as he was called, won every race with his long spider legs, and Harrison’s field hockey team took the title in our region. Alicia Collins qualified for the Junior Olympics in gymnastics. Once, when a few of the football guys challenged her, she’d dropped to the floor and matched them in one-handed push-ups until the guys fell off in exhaustion. The jocks were just as serious as I was.

  Most of the kids had had lessons in something, like dance or violin, since they were seven. If their standardized test scores needed a bit of boosting, they received private tutoring. They could write
their college essays about picking grapes in Italy, bike tours of Holland, sketching in the Louvre. Often, their parents were also alumni of the schools they were applying to.

  What were my chances? I was just a poor girl whose main practical skill was bagging skirts faster than normal. Dr. Weston’s confidence in me gave me some hope but not much. I was good at school but so were many of the other kids, most of whom had been groomed since birth to get into the right college. No matter how well I did in my classes or how well I managed to fake belonging to the cool circle, I knew I was not one of them. A part of me believed the colleges would sense this and shut me out.

  Mr. Jamali thought Annette had learned enough to be cast as Emily, the lead in Our Town.

  “I can’t believe it!” Annette couldn’t seem to stop jumping up and down. “You have to come see the play the day it opens.”

  “I will!” I clasped her hands in mine.

  “You swear?”

  “I do. No matter what, I will be there.”

  But later, when she told me the date of the opening and I checked my schedule, I saw there was a problem.

  I told her in the cafeteria. “Annette, I have my naturalization exam that afternoon.”

  She bit her lip. “No. But you promised.”

  “I know. I’m so sorry. I can’t do anything about this. If I don’t get U.S. citizenship, I won’t qualify for most financial aid.”

  “Why can’t you take it on another date?”

  “This is the first time I can take it after I turn eighteen. So I can’t take it any earlier. And if I take it later, I won’t be able to say I’m an American citizen on the financial aid forms for colleges. I’ll come see your play the very next show.”

  “I know.” Annette’s eyes were still downcast.

  “What’s the matter, then?”

  Now she looked at me. “Kimberly, I don’t mind if this is really true, but is it just another one of your excuses?”

  I’d given her so many false explanations over the years, I couldn’t blame her for doubting me. “Of course it’s true.”