Bitter Melon (12 page)

Then I realize that that’s not true. I’ll have to see Collins again. I would have to die a thousand humiliations each time I went to Princeton Review. And I would have to explain my cowardice to Ms. Taylor. She would be so disappointed in me. All that time spent after school would have been a complete waste.

I have no choice but to face the red-haired girl. I close the door, symbolizing my decision. I make my way to my battleground at the front of the room. This is an impossible task. How can I conquer the red-haired girl when two others have failed?

“Now, no need to feel nervous,” says the judge. “Just do your best.”

Easy for you to say
, I want to tell her.
Why don’t you try looking behind you?

I try to recall the first line of my speech, but I only hear my heart pounding. I try to visualize the first line, but all I see is the red-haired girl rolling her eyes. My mind races like a hamster in a wheel, running faster and faster and getting nowhere, unable to escape the redhead and the ticking clock.

My thoughts are interrupted by the brief sound of a chair scraping the floor. It’s Collins. His elbows are resting on his desk and his hands are folded in front of his mouth. He nods at me, so slowly, so subtly, that it is detectible only to me.
Come on. You can do it
, his eyes say. My frantic thoughts quiet down. I take a deep breath and begin.

“Recently, in
Newsweek
, there was an article titled ‘Asian American Whiz Kids,’ ” I recite. I direct my words to Collins. If I can maintain eye contact with him, I won’t have to look at the red-haired girl.

“The article noted the high success rate of Asians in academics,” I continue. “It posed the question of why Asians are so successful. Is it genetics or is it due to social factors? Or are nonimmigrant students merely doing less well than their predecessors? Have they grown complacent? I would argue that the success rate of Asians in academics does not stem from superior genetics, but rather from a set of values that includes education and loyalty to family.”

As I continue reciting, Collins exhales a sigh of relief. He smiles triumphantly, as if to say,
You did it!
I remember Ms. Taylor’s advice to connect with everyone in the room, especially the judge. I peel my gaze away from Collins and direct
it towards the judge, who is smiling and nodding. Eventually, I venture to look at the girl with the black hair, the first speaker.

Several minutes later, in a moment of lapsed concentration, I notice that the red-haired girl is laying on the facial expressions. She even adds a facial tic for good measure. At first, I try pushing her face out of my mind, but I soon discover that thinking
Don’t think about her
is like telling myself not to think about pink elephants. It’s like that old Chinese saying: The more afraid you are of stepping on doggy doo, the more likely you are to step on it.

I look at Collins. His eyes narrow.
Don’t let her win
.

So instead of avoiding the red-haired girl, I decide to step on her. Step on her and twist my foot into her, smooshing her into the ground.

“In the pursuit of individualism and focus on the self, they have lost focus on their families and feel no obligation to reciprocate their parents’ financial and emotional investment,” I say. “As a result, they become complacent.” I pierce the red-haired girl with dagger eyes, emphasizing the word
complacent
.

I walk closer to the red-haired girl and maintain eye contact with her as I continue. “Their energies become diffused, even stagnated. This is true not only of American teens but of American society. We are currently the richest and most powerful country in the world. Meanwhile, Japan is creating better technology, and European countries are planning to consolidate their economies. At the top, where life is comfortable,
where else can America go but down?” I say this to her as if this is all her fault.

Just minutes ago, I was intimidated by this girl. But she was stronger than I was only because I believed her to be. The other two girls confirmed this belief. But now I am towering over her. Her tactics haven’t changed, but they no longer have power over me.

Finally, I conclude my speech. “When President Bush speaks about the thousand points of light, I think about my mother and others like her, who make up the backbone of our families and the foundation of our country. Thanks to them, our future is still bright.”

Before bowing my head, I steal a glance at Collins. He gives me a subtle thumbs-up. I return his gesture with a small smile and go back to my seat.

“Speaker four,” says the judge. She looks relieved that at least one speaker in her group didn’t bomb.

The red-haired girl is speaker number four. How should I pay her back? Should I make faces? I might get caught. Perhaps I don’t need to pay her back. I just did by giving a good performance. So I’m going to do the most powerful thing: nothing, the greatest insult of all. As she speaks, I gaze at her pleasantly. Her speech topic is why prostitution should be legal. I suppress the urge to laugh but only halfheartedly, so I end up grinning and looking like I’m trying not to grin. She tries to stand up tall, as I did, but she keeps her face high, so high that she is literally looking down her nose at us. Her voice is serious and haughty.
I sneak a look at Collins. He smirks.
She’s not that great
, his eyes say. I nod in agreement. As she finishes and walks back to her seat, I smile to myself. He’s right. Her speech wasn’t half as good as mine.

Finally, it is Collins’s turn. His speech is about the pitfalls of compassionate conservatism. To my surprise, he is not the same boy who walked into a doorframe just days ago. He emanates poise and confidence. His voice sounds half formal and half conversational, neither amateurish nor too rehearsed. His hand gestures look natural, perfectly punctuating every point. He navigates the floor like he owns it. He is doing everything Ms. Taylor has taught us to do. His speech is organized and succinct, yet caring and not clinical. Though I have never competed before, I know instinctively that this guy is a champion. I, Frances Ching, first-time competitor, big speech fish in a small school pond, am no threat to his dominance.

After his speech, he walks back to his seat. As he passes, I give a humble thumbs-up. He smiles. After we are dismissed, I hesitate for a moment before leaving. If I linger a bit, maybe he will talk to me. Then I remember my resolve to control my emotions, and I rush out of the room.

I place second in my first round. The confidence I gain from my first round helps me through the subsequent rounds. Diana is cut before the semifinal round, and Salome is cut after semifinals.
Only I among the students in our speech class get to go to the final round. Ms. Taylor is ecstatic. She tells me that this is an amazing feat for a first-timer. Salome and Diana have to sit around and wait until I’m done. Understandably, Salome is less than ecstatic. Strangely, Diana seems perfectly happy to wait. I do not see Collins again until the final round.

He walks quietly behind me as we head to the competition room. As I reach for the doorknob, he reaches over me and opens the door for me. My face flushes hot. I nod, acknowledging his gesture as I step through the doorway. Once again, I pick a seat off to the side. I wait to see how he will react. He picks the seat right next to me. This time, he is speaker two and I am speaker four. As he speaks, I give him nods of encouragement—not that he needs them—and he does the same for me when I speak. As I deliver my speech, I find myself emulating some of his gestures and his tone. My delivery feels more natural and confident. Like Collins, I am assuming a different persona, somebody stronger and more confident. Throughout the round, I feel tingly excitement from my chest all the way to my fingers and toes. All five of us are very good, and fortunately, no one here is a saboteur. I rationalize that I shouldn’t feel bad if I place last, considering my competition.

After the last round, I walk very slowly to the door so that Collins can stay right behind me. I reach for the doorknob in slow motion, waiting for his reaction. He reaches over me to open the door. Our hands brush. His skin is soft and warm. The fine hairs on the back of his hand tickle my skin. A lightning
bolt of excitement runs up my arm. I step in front of him and walk down the hallway in slow, even strides, aware that he is following and watching my every move.

By the time we get outside, the orange sun is low in the sky. I look behind me. He is gone.

I squash my disappointment and cross an outdoor area to join my team. It is then that I see him again. He is standing a few yards away, leaning casually against a wall, smiling and chatting with his teammates. Speakers from other teams greet him as they walk by. If all these other people can just walk right up to him and say hello, then why shouldn’t I? With my heart in my throat, I take a step towards him.

Then Diana approaches him. She stands much closer to him than the others. She leans into him and kisses him on the cheek. Collins returns her affection, giving her a soft peck … on the lips. Slowly, it dawns on me. They know each other. Very well.

Quickly, I turn away and walk towards Salome and Ms. Taylor. My chest hurts, but I don’t know why.

Ms. Taylor, Salome, and I make our way to the gymnasium for the awards ceremony. I haven’t been inside a gymnasium since grade school. In high school, we are required to take one year of PE, but Ms. Costello waived the requirement for me to make room for all the college-prep courses. The shiny floor feels waxy under my soles. The painted lines bring back the old days of
torture in grade-school PE, in which I got hit in the head with many a dodge ball and lost many a basketball while attempting to dribble, sometimes to the wrong basket, because I was so directionally confused. At the center of the gym is a podium next to a long table with the three trophies—large, medium, and small—and several ribbons with medals. The wall behind the trophies sports a painting of the school’s mascot, a roaring tiger with big white fangs. We are sitting among the other teams and their coaches. The chaos of the conversations around us bounces off the walls, enveloping us like a hive of bees.

One of the coaches seated in the bleachers waves at us. “Hey, Shannon,” he calls out. He is a friendly-looking heavyset man with thin strawberry blond hair, a ruddy complexion, and glasses. He wears a polo shirt and khakis.

Ms. Taylor waves back. “Rodger!”

She introduces Salome and me to the coach, whose name is Mr. McCormick.

“I’m missing one of my kids,” says Mr. McCormick. “Have you seen Derek Collins?”

Derek
Collins? All this time, I’ve thought that Collins was his first name.

“No, sorry,” Ms. Taylor says. “In fact, I’m missing one of mine too. Where can they be?”

Salome looks at me and rolls her eyes. “Adults can be so blind,” she mutters. Another pang hits my chest.

“Beats me. I’d hate to see one of my guys miss his own awards ceremony,” Mr. McCormick says. “Hey, I saved you guys some
seats.” He bows and makes a circular gesture with his arm, like a musketeer, at the empty bleacher in front of him.

No, no, no! I don’t want to sit near Derek Collins. I especially don’t want to sit near Derek and Diana together. I look at Ms. Taylor, hoping to sway her response, but she doesn’t notice me at all.

“How chivalrous of you,” Ms. Taylor says, curtsying.

Ms. Taylor climbs up to the bleacher in front of Mr. McCormick and gestures for us to follow. Salome sits next to her. Reluctantly, I follow and sit next to Salome.

Moments later, Derek finally arrives—with Diana. They aren’t touching this time, but they are standing too close to each other to look like acquaintances. I fight to keep a pleasant and casual demeanor as they approach. As Derek climbs up the bleachers, I scoot over to let him pass. He climbs over me, and his coat brushes against my arm. The warm scent of his fabric softener fills my nose. Diana follows him and sits next to me.

Soon after, the ceremony begins. I try to ignore him and pay attention to what’s going on. The emcee announces the honorable mentions. Soon all the ribbons are gone. The emcee pauses, then announces the third-place winner. My breath stops in anticipation.