Parachutes Page 4

  When Ming finishes, the room erupts in thunderous applause. Ming bows and walks over to the mic with her violin. Slowly, she begins her speech, one that I’ve heard many times before, describing how she was a poor girl in a Chinese village with a love for violin, an instrument her parents neither understood nor knew how to support, when Mrs. Mandalay offered her the opportunity to come to America.

  Ming looks to our headmistress. “Thank you, Mrs. Mandalay. You gave me the chance to be who I am,” she says with a smile. She delivers the line with the perfect combination of emotion, and the crowd eats it up. Mrs. Mandalay puts a hand over her heart. I make a mental note to ask Ming later, does she really mean it? Or is it just part of the performance?

  Afterward, Mrs. Mandalay moves on to the live auction, and Ming and I walk offstage as parents happily drunk bid on useless items like a personalized walking tour of the city led by a high school student. I fight the urge to slump down on one of the chairs and kick off my heels, but I know I can’t. We all have our roles. Mine is to smile and say thank you.

  Mr. Connelly walks over and gives me a hug. “You were great,” he says to me. I introduce him to Ming, and he congratulates her as well, telling her how proud and honored the faculty is to have her at the school. Before he leaves, he leans in and whispers into my ear, “Get used to it. You’re going to have to do a lot of these when you get into Yale.”

  I smile. I turn to Ming after he’s gone and ask her if she’s seen Zach. Ming rolls up the long sleeves of her formal velvet dress and shakes her head.

  “Hey, did you mean what you said about Mrs. Mandalay changing your life?” I ask her.

  She nods.

  “Because your parents didn’t understand why you play the violin?”

  She shakes her head. She leans over, as if to tell me a secret, then hesitates. I furrow my eyebrows, What is it?

  “No, because I’m gay,” she finally says.

  Five

  Claire

  I glare at my Chinese teacher in class. Her lack of ethics has doomed me to a lifetime of American burgers.

  At lunch, my friends crowd around me, analyzing the pros and cons of going, while I look over at Teddy. He’s sitting at the senior table with his friends, but he’s not talking to them. His rice sits untouched while he scrolls on his phone.

  What are you thinking? I text.

  He looks up at me but doesn’t text back, instead he puts his phone away. He’s mad. He hasn’t said a word to me since I told him the news this morning.

  I wait for him after school, and we walk the long way home, where the Old Northern Gate was. Shanghai used to have many gates. The gates separated the concessions in Old Shanghai. There’s the former French concession, where the French dignitaries used to live. There’s the British and American enclaves, ceded as a result of the Opium War.

  I think about that, about all the concessions I’ve made over the years, pieces of me carved out to please my parents. Maybe this is just another one. I’d like to think that, like Shanghai, eventually I’ll get it all back.

  I look over at Teddy. Say something. We cut through People’s Park. He stares at the umbrellas on the ground, fingers squeezed into his pockets. It’s a marriage market day. The sidewalks are lined with umbrellas. On each umbrella, there’s a piece of paper taped to it advertising an unmarried girl. They call them “leftover women,” meaning women over thirty who have not yet married, a fate considered worse than death. Desperate mothers crowd the parks trying to marry off their girls by umbrella—no doubt, my mother’s worst nightmare.

  “You’re gonna go and fall in love with one of those big-nose Americans,” Teddy finally says.

  His voice is raw and vulnerable. I had no idea he was hurting this bad.

  “I won’t!” I promise.

  “And it’ll be so unfair because they won’t even appreciate how pretty you are,” he continues. “All Chinese girls look the same to them! They’d be just as happy with ugly Yan!”

  Yan’s a girl in our school who has tiny eyes and single eyelids. I have double eyelids and long lashes, the source of envy from my classmates. What my classmates don’t know is I used to have single eyelids too, until my mother took me to Korea, at my grandmother’s suggestion, to have my eyes done when I was ten. I bet Yan could look cute too if she went to Korea.

  “Nothing’s going to change,” I assure him. “We’ll Skype every day. Six a.m. California time, nine p.m. China time.”

  He shakes his head like he doesn’t believe me. He parts his lips, and I think he’s going to tell me to try harder to stand up to my parents, but instead he kisses me hard on the mouth. His lips are hungry, his hands traveling fast down my cheek to my neck.

  “Whoa,” I say, pushing away from him. I try to catch my breath. The umbrella mothers give Teddy a dirty look.

  “C’mon, I want you to remember me,” he says.

  I shake my head at Teddy. “No,” I say. Not like this. “And what do you mean remember you? I’m still going to be with you!”

  “You say that, but you won’t,” he says. “You’ll meet some other guy and you’ll . . .”

  I take a step toward him. Our hands touch.

  “I won’t,” I say.

  A man selling roses on a tricycle squeezes by us. Teddy looks down at the umbrellas and mutters, “Maybe we should just break up.”

  “What?”

  “Well, you’re going away and I’ve got the gaokao coming up,” he says.

  I can’t believe it. And to use the gaokao of all things to break up with me.

  “Fine. You want to break up? Let’s break up.” I let go of his hand and start running.

  Teddy calls out for me. “Claire, wait—”

  But it’s too late. I race across the street and hail a taxi, the tears pooling in my eyes.

  Two days later, there’s a big black box waiting for me on the dining room table. I’m hoping it’s from Teddy, apologizing. We haven’t spoken since the day at the park, though I’ve spent hours glued to his WeChat, going through old pictures of us.

  “It arrived this afternoon,” Tressy says, setting down a plate of fried chicken.

  I pop a piece of chicken in my mouth. “You preparing me for American food?” I ask. Tressy’s been my nanny and our housekeeper since I was five. She’s from the Philippines and is the only reason I speak good English.

  The deliciousness of the chicken wing—golden, fried to perfection—catches me off guard. Another reason I can’t go—Tressy’s too good a cook.

  “You can’t tell my mom I ate this,” I say to her. “Tell her I’m so upset I haven’t eaten a thing.”

  Tressy promises she won’t. She’s good like that, always has been. Excitedly, she points to the box. “Are you going to open it?”

  I wipe my fingers on a napkin and open the box. It’s a baby-pink Prada bag inside. Calfskin leather. I stroke the soft pillowy leather, mind going to what outfits would go best with it, and close my eyes as I pick up the card. Please let it be from Teddy.

  Dear Claire,

  Hope you like the bag. You can wear it in America!

  Love,

  Daddy

  I toss the card and the bag back in the box.

  Tressy looks confused. “What’s wrong?”

  My mother walks in through the door as we’re talking. “Oh, Claire, good, you’re home. I just had lunch with your nai nai. She thinks you going to America is wonderful!” My mom points to the box. “Is that—?” she asks excitedly.

  “I’m not keeping it,” I say.

  “What do you mean you’re not keeping it?” She frowns. “Do you not like it?” She inspects the bag. “It is rather pink. You can always return it and get something else.”

  My mom is the queen of returning gifts and pocketing the money. This, in fact, is how she first started dating my dad. He’d buy her stuff, which she’d accept so she could return it and send the money back to her mother. Even now, she jokes about the hypothetical scenario in which if my da
d ever leaves her, she’d sell all her Birkin bags, which can fetch anywhere from HKD$80,000 to $800,000 in Hong Kong, and invest the money in a nice apartment.

  She walks over to me and puts her hands on my shoulders. “This is a good opportunity,” she says. “Do you know, when I was your age, I would’ve died for the chance to go to America. . . .”

  She glances out the window at the artificial lake in front of our house, and I catch her reflection in the window.

  “Why didn’t you?” I ask. Sure, returning gifts is a nice cushy gig, but why didn’t she go for her own dreams?

  “It would have been different if I had been a boy. . . .” She sighs. “Or if I had had one.” She adds the last part so quietly that I almost don’t hear it. But then I do, and it grinds into me.

  “I can’t help it if I’m all you guys got,” I say.

  According to Tressy, after my mom had me, she tried to get pregnant again, but each time it always ended in miscarriage. I was too little to understand, but I remember once hearing my grandmother talking about it, how it was such a pity my mom couldn’t give my father a son. My mom dropped the teacup she was holding onto the ground. It was the only time I’d ever seen her publicly get mad at my grandmother.

  Watching my mom grimace now, I know the pain has not entirely left.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” I say. “I just . . . I don’t want to go to America.”

  “I know,” she says. “I don’t want you to go either. You’re all I have.” She reaches and touches my cheek with her hand. When she speaks again, her voice is full of resolve. “Which is why you have to go.”

  I shake my head. “What if something goes wrong?” I ask.

  She takes her iPhone out from her purse. “I’m one phone call away. If something goes wrong, I’ll be right over,” she promises.

  I glance at her phone, trying not to think about the fact that half the time when I’m here and I call her, I can’t find her because she’s getting a massage.

  “Who am I even going to be living with?” I ask.

  My mother smiles. “The De La Cruzes,” she says. “They have a daughter just your age. Her name is Dani.”

  Six

  Dani

  At lunch the next day, I grab me and Ming some seats in the back. I can’t believe she never told me she’s gay. Does she have a girlfriend? Does anyone else know? But before I can ask her any of these questions, Zach walks over. It takes me a moment to process he’s here, standing in front of me.

  “Hey,” he says, setting down his tray of food.

  My mouth’s full of sandwich, so I can’t say hey back. I search the cafeteria for Ming and see her over by the sushi corner, pocketing soy sauce packets.

  “You were great last night,” he says.

  My cheeks preheat like a Thanksgiving oven. So he was there!

  “Did you mean all that stuff you said?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “About how it’s wrong to track people. Just because someone’s dumb at one point doesn’t mean they’re always dumb. Do you really believe that?” He peers at me with wide blue eyes.

  “It’s just not . . . like . . . ideal . . . is . . . I don’t know,” I say. Why is it that when I’m in front of a podium, I can come up with these eloquent lines and when I’m off the stage, I can’t seem to find the words and end up sounding like a frog?

  Zach pops a potato chip in his mouth.

  “Me too,” he says, nodding as he chews. “What you said.”

  I smile. Now we’re two frogs.

  “Hey, would you like to tutor me sometime?” he asks.

  My face crumbles like my mom’s puto seko that’s been left out.

  “It’s just you’re really smart. You’re always reading when Mr. Rufus isn’t looking,” he says.

  Victory! He’s been watching me too in band!

  “And I need to maintain a 3.0 for my sports scholarship.”

  “I’m on a scholarship too,” I say.

  “But you’re like brilliant. And I’m . . .” He laughs nervously. “I guess you could say I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer. I’m more like a spoon.” He looks down at the plastic utensils on my tray. “I just thought because of what you said in your speech, maybe you’ll want to help me . . . but if you don’t want to . . . you know what, forget it!”

  “No, no, no,” I say. My fingers reach for his tray. Stay. “I’d love to help you.”

  “Really?” he asks.

  “Yeah, of course.” I ask him what subjects he needs help with as Ming starts walking over to us. She sees us talking, stops walking, and turns and goes back to the sushi corner.

  “Everything,” he confesses.

  “That’s fine,” I tell him. I pull out my phone so we can exchange numbers. “We’ll make a schedule.”

  “Thank you so much,” he says. He flashes me his dimpled smile, and I feel my dopamine pathways flood. “I can’t believe you’re being so nice.”

  I want to tell him that’s not it. It’s because I like you. That’s why I look forward to band even though I hate band, just so I can sit next to you for forty-five minutes every other day. That I’ve been deliberately trying to get worse at flute just so I stay last chair and get to sit next to you. But I don’t tell him any of that today. Instead, I smile and say, “Of course.”

  Later that day, I’m kneeling in a house in North Hills, blotting up the spilled wine from a dinner party, when I look up and see Heather, my teammate from debate. She’s standing in the living room, opening the door for an older guy. Is this her house? I pull up the surgical mask that Rosa makes me wear.

  “Thanks so much for coming,” she tells the guy, letting him in. “I just need you to draft my speech. We’re debating on ‘this house will tax inheritance at one hundred percent.’”

  My jaw drops. Who is this guy? She wants him to draft her speech? That’s the motion we’re debating on Wednesday.

  “No problem,” he says. “I just did that one with my team last week. We beat UCLA at El Camino.”

  “Well, try to tone it down, Coach Evans.” She laughs as she guides him over to the couch and coffee table. “Remember, I’m only in high school.”

  Oh my God. Is Heather buying speeches from a college debate coach?

  For the next half hour, I listen as Coach Evans feeds Heather line by line, exactly what she needs to say to win the debate. As they’re wrapping up, Heather’s mom walks down the stairs with her wallet. She pays him $500 cash.

  “There’s a bonus if she makes it to Snider,” she says. “And of course the ten thousand dollars we talked about for the recommendation letter.”

  Coach Evans nods as he puts the money into the pocket of his faculty jacket. The whole time, I’m sitting eight feet away, completely invisible to them, scrubbing at their ivory wool carpet until my finger is rubbed raw and the burgundy stain seeps deep into my nails.

  Seven

  Claire

  In the weeks leading up to my departure date, my dad is home every night, my parents reunited by the happy news that I’m leaving for America. They take me to the agent, this guy who grins at me with yellow jigsaw teeth. He tells me everything’s all set for my arrival, and my host family’s so excited. My parents picked the De La Cruzes, figuring I’d be more comfortable living with a Filipino family, since Tressy has been taking care of me all my life. They take me to the consulate to get my visa. To the health insurance broker to get me international health insurance. My father gives me a platinum American Express credit card with an outrageously high limit and tells me to use it in emergencies. My mother tells me to use it whenever.

  My grandmother throws me a goodbye party, which all my aunts and uncles come to. Nai Nai congratulates me on being the first of her grandkids to be educated abroad, while my parents stand by proudly and my cousins roll their eyes. I glance down at my phone. Teddy and I still haven’t talked since the day at the park. I can’t believe it’s really over.

  My girlfriends and I go to sing kar
aoke one last time while my mom runs around town doing last-minute shopping. She gets me a new backpack from MCM, makeup from Shu Uemura, beauty products from Dior, and a Moncler jacket, which I put back in the bag.

  “Mom, I told you, it’s always warm in LA,” I say.

  She takes the jacket, adds it to my mountain of clothes and says, “You never know.” Then she dumps about a pound of pollution masks from Taobao on my bed.

  I pick up one of the masks, confused.

  “What are these for?” I ask. There are black and gray masks of varying thickness. I take the thickest one and put it on. It makes an uuufff sound when I breath in, like something out of Star Wars. “We don’t even wear these here!”

  My mom rolls her eyes. “That’s because the pollution here covers up the UV. But in America, it’s sunny all the time.” She points a finger at me. “I won’t have you coming back brown!”

  I close my eyes, feeling the fury and frustration building inside. It brings me back to when I was twelve and my mom made me quit the swim team.

  She had told me the coach said I didn’t have what it takes. Swimming was my passion. I loved the way the water cocooned me from the outside world. It was the one activity that I did for me. Tearfully, I went to say goodbye to my coach and thanked him for all the years of training. I apologized for having wasted so much of his time. That’s when I learned that he never said those words. My mother just didn’t want me to keep swimming because she was concerned I was gaining too much muscle.

  I blew up at her when I got home, and she’d blamed it on my grandmother. But I was mad at my mom. When you’re always going along with a seventy-four-year-old madwoman, how are you any better than her?

  I squeeze the pollution masks in my hand. Maybe it’s not such a bad thing I’m leaving. I can finally take back control of my life.

  On the car ride to the airport, I stare at my WeChat. Still no message from Teddy. He must know I’m leaving today. My friends made such a big deal about it at school yesterday, getting me flowers and balloons. I tap on his name to compose a message.