Bitter Melon (33 page)

I look to Ms. Taylor for feedback. She nods. Her stained-glass eyes glisten.

“Well,” she says quietly, “I guess I accomplished my mission.”

The following Saturday, I deliver this speech in a cathedral to a congregation of classmates, teachers, and family members of the graduates. The congregation is large and far away. I must speak into a microphone to be heard. I cannot see where my mother is, much less what her reaction to my speech is. Sometimes I wonder if she is even listening to my words, if she understands them. I will probably never know. And perhaps that is okay.

Though Theresa is the one who got into the coveted school of all Chinese families in San Francisco, for the first time, I don’t begrudge her for it. I don’t even mind when Mom rubs my face in Theresa’s success. I just agree that Theresa is great, even when Mom says that she is better than I am. The first time I do this, Mom does a double take, and I pretend not to notice. Over the next several weeks, Mom’s comparisons of Theresa and me become less and less frequent. Eventually, they stop altogether.

A few days after graduation, I get a card in the mail from Ms. Taylor. On the cover is a large white crane with its wings spread out. Inside, it says,
Congratulations, Frances, on all your achievements, both inside and out
. Underneath her signature are her current phone number and her future address in North Carolina.

The following week, I go to my first job interview and get my first job, at Derek’s dad’s law firm, which is is located in a high-rise building in the financial district of Downtown. The job is pretty boring. All I do is shelve books, file, pick up lunch, deliver interoffice memos, and look up and photocopy articles. Nonetheless, I look forward to going to work every morning, because Derek is there. Every day, we exchange glances and smiles between bookshelves when no one is looking. During lunch, we walk to the nearby sandwich stand and eat sandwiches and frozen yogurts.

Every Saturday, while Mom is at work, Derek and I pick a different place in the city to visit. On the first Saturday, we visit the Sutro Baths and the caves nearby. The following Saturday, we hike Lincoln Park and visit the Legion of Honor. The following Saturday, I ride the cable car for the first time. Then we visit Golden Gate Park, then the Exploratorium, then Alcatraz,
and the list goes on. By the end of July, we are venturing across the Golden Gate Bridge to Sausalito and Tiburon. The more places I go with Derek, the more the Richmond District seems to shrink in comparison, until my spirit in Mom’s apartment feels like my body in the girdle Mom bought me for Christmas.

The whole time, Mom thinks that I am staying at home, doing nothing. I leave the apartment after Mom leaves for work and get home before she does. For the first two pay cycles, I hide the checks in my backpack, along with my bank statements, unsure of what to do with them. By the fourth paycheck, I know I have to do something. The most obvious option would be to go to the bank and ask a teller. I picture myself entering the bank timidly, asking Minnie for guidance. Very likely, the next time Mom visits, Minnie will mention that I came by. Then Mom will be on to my scent.

So instead, I consider asking Theresa. Then I remember that I never did tell Theresa that I had applied to Scripps. Initially, I figured that if I didn’t get in, it wouldn’t matter. Then, when I did get in, I was so caught up in the roller coaster of state championship, prom, and graduation that I didn’t have time to figure out when and how to tell her. Strangely, Theresa hasn’t brought up the subject of college either. And now that I am working on weekdays and seeing Derek on Saturdays, and Theresa is taking summer school and seeing Alfred, we rarely talk on the phone, much less see each other. Consequently, the opportunity to discuss my Scripps acceptance—and my subsequent escape plan—never arises.

Despite our busy schedules, Theresa and I finally make a date to hang out at her place in late July. In her kitchen, I help myself to custard tarts while Theresa makes Ovaltine, which tastes like malted hot cocoa. As Theresa stirs the Ovaltine powder, hot water, and condensed milk, I stare at Nellie’s corkboard, which still displays the articles about my CAA speech win in November. The paper is already starting to yellow. I stare at the round-faced girl holding the first-place trophy. My eyes lose focus, causing the articles to blur, until the CAA winner in the photo fades and disappears.

Theresa sets down two mugs. My cold fingers absorb the heat emanating from one of the ceramic mugs.

“So, are you excited about Berkeley?” I ask.

Theresa hesitates. She seems to be studying my face. Then a big smile erupts. “Yeah, actually I am! Alfred is going too. Isn’t that lucky?”

“That’s great!” I say. I hide my own sadness about not being able to go to the same college as Derek.
I applied to Scripps, but they rejected me
, Derek said when I commented on this to him.
Which is too bad, because if I did get in, I’d be the envy of every freshman guy!

Theresa goes on to tell me about the Berkeley campus, orientation, and possible majors.

“You know, I’m so happy that you’re happy for me,” Theresa adds.

“I’m happy that I’m happy too,” I say. “I’m also happy that you’re happy that I’m happy. But most of all, I’m happy that you’re happy.”

We both double over laughing.

“When I heard from Mom that you didn’t get into Berkeley, I was afraid to bring up Berkeley at all,” Theresa says. “I didn’t want you to feel bad.”

“You shouldn’t feel that way,” I say. “I mean, look at what happened when you thought that way about the prom.”

Theresa laughs again. “Yeah, you’re right,” she says. “I’m bummed out that we can’t go to the same school. On the bright side, Berkeley isn’t far from State, so we can still see each other on the weekends.”

Suddenly, my laughter stops. I forgot that Theresa, like Mom and Nellie, would assume that I would be going to State.

“State has a good journalism program,” Theresa adds. “But if you don’t like it, after a year or two, you can transfer to Berkeley. I hear that your chances of getting in are stronger as a transfer student.”

For a moment, my jaw almost drops in shock. That’s almost exactly what Mom said!

I realize then why I haven’t shared my Scripps plan with Theresa. Underneath her skin, Theresa is like me, but in the marrow of her bones, she is more like Mom and Nellie. By helping me with speech, Theresa has already swum against her conscience. She probably rationalized that speech would help me get into Berkeley. But to expect her to help me with Scripps would be like expecting her to paddle up a waterfall.

I think about how things went when I asked Theresa to hide my first speech trophy. Maybe I could get Theresa to help me
get to Scripps if I applied enough pressure, but I would once again be causing her to suffer more so that I could suffer less.

“Yeah, I guess I could transfer in a year or two,” I say. I take a quick gulp of my Ovaltine. It scalds my tongue, but instead of spitting it out and making a mess, I swallow it, sending a streak of fiery burn down my throat.

Because I am desperate, I end up explaining my situation to Derek the following Monday.

“I thought about asking Theresa,” I explain, “but she doesn’t need the stress of having dim sum with my mom while knowing that she’s an accomplice in my mother’s demise.”

“That’s okay,” Derek replies. “I’m definitely the better candidate for the job. I’m not planning to have dim sum with your mom anytime soon.”

Derek shows me how to endorse my checks and deposit them using my ATM card. When the ATM spits out my receipt, I feel a dizzying excitement at seeing how much money I’ve accumulated. I’m rich!

In mid-August, Derek must leave for Harvard. We agree that he should wait until I settle down at Scripps and give him my address and phone number before he gives me his. If he were to
send me his contact information any sooner, it would likely end up in Mom’s hands. As with my Scripps package, it is not likely that she would pass it on to me.

For the last several months, I have been like a sleeper agent. Orientation at Scripps will be starting in less than a week. Now is the time to strike.

I find a travel agency close to where I work, and book a one-way flight to Ontario, which is east of Los Angeles, for one p.m. the next day. I hide my plane ticket in my wallet. That evening, after Mom has gone to bed, I write a letter telling her that I am leaving for Scripps. I will place the letter on the dining table tomorrow morning, right before I leave. But for now, I hide it in my backpack, next to my wallet.

Before going to bed, I review my secret itinerary. My flight is at one p.m., so I need to be at the airport by eleven a.m. I should leave the apartment by nine thirty, which means I should start packing at eight at the latest. Mom leaves for work at four thirty. So that gives me plenty of time in the morning.

I wish I could say good-bye to Theresa before leaving. Mom and I are supposed to spend this Sunday with her and Nellie, but I will be gone by then. I’m not sure when I will see Theresa again.

Once in bed, I am unable to sleep. I make myself unnaturally still, fearful that any tossing and turning will give me away. I close my eyes and pretend to sleep as Mom wakes and gets ready for work. As soon as she leaves, my exhaustion settles in, weighing down my head and my eyelids. When my alarm goes
off, I nearly jump out of bed, as if hearing a fire alarm. I quickly climb down from the bunk bed and get dressed.

Fortunately, I don’t own a lot of things, so I am able to fit my clothes and toiletries into Mom’s old suitcase. Giddy with excitement, I drag the suitcase to the front door. Then I search my backpack for my letter to Mom. To my surprise, it is not there. Could I have forgotten to put it away? With a pounding heart, I search my desk, but it isn’t there either. Where could it be? Instinctively, I search my wallet for my plane ticket.

My plane ticket is gone. So is the cash in my wallet.

Images from the past school year flash before my eyes. My mother forbidding me to get a job, claiming that it would interfere with my studies. My mother’s eyes as they look me up and down before she asks me if any boys asked me to dance. Derek asking me why I gave him the wrong phone number. My Scripps package and my scholarships rotting in the garbage can under a pile of kitchen trash. My mother cornering Derek and me in the apartment after the prom. The crane on Ms. Taylor’s card.