Crossing (12 page)

“Well, that’s obvious,” I said contemptuously.

She flinched a little at that. “No. No,” she said, shaking her head from side to side. “It’s just that I…” Her fingers wrangled one another as she spoke. “I care for you, Kris. I really, really want to be with you. I see something in you that others don’t. Even on that first day in class when I looked at you, I knew. That you’re special and…and…I care for you a lot. I think I even lo—”

“No!”

“I said that I—”

“Are you crazy?”

“No, I—”

“You don’t even know me!”

And then it hit me. In choosing to kiss me—out of all the other guys in school—she was basically picking the one person she had the best chance with. She looked to the very bottom of the totem pole of born-losers at school and saw me. The Chinese kid with badly matching clothes and a dorky haircut. In my mind, I spat on her.

“I do know you, Kris,” she said meekly. “Don’t you like me even a little?”

“Why would I like you? What’s there to like about you?” Her face didn’t register any surprise or shock. She took it in, deadpan. “Why did you kiss me back, then?” she asked with quiet resignation.

I acted as if I hadn’t heard her. “You’re fugly. You’re stupid,” I went on. I was relentless. “I don’t know what I’m doing here with you. Don’t ever talk to me again, you stupid slut.”

I had never said such words to anyone before, nor even imagined the possibility of it. But I’ve learned a few things about life since then, and one of them is that everyone must have someone to feel superior to. It is a necessity of life. Even bottom-dwellers must find a roach to step on.

She stepped back, aghast. I sensed something inside her reeling backwards. I should have felt shame, but instead I found release, a purging of that embarrassing kissing incident I’d had with her.

Then a meanness in her eyes suddenly lashed at me, wet and glinting. “But I do know you, Kris. Better than you think!” she said with surprising force. “Better than you might possibly think!”

“You know nothing about me!”

“You’re just like everyone else,” she retorted. “You’re just as bad as them—”

“Shut up!” I yelled.

“I thought you were different from the rest—”

“I
am
different,” I spat back at her, my voice filled with venom. “Just look at me—look at my hair, look at my eyes, look at my face. I
am
different.”

We glared at each other.

“I take back what I said,” she said, her chest heaving up and down.

“What?”

“I take it all back. Everything. Everything I said to you.” I backpedaled two or three steps, turned, and began to walk away.

“Kris!” she shouted, her voice hotly urgent.

I hated it when she said my name; it implied a level of intimacy we didn’t share. I thought she was going to rail on about something or follow me, but she didn’t say another word. By the time I turned the bike around and hoisted myself onto the seat, she had vanished. When I twisted around one last time before careening around a bend, my bike dangerously wavering, I saw nothing but a vacant clearing in front of her home blighted in the tombstone-gray light of the crescent moon.

DECEMBER 19

I
nto an ever-deepening mystery that has tormented the town of Ashland comes further tragedy: yet another Slackenkill High School student has mysteriously disappeared.

The circumstances surrounding this particular disappearance are even more harrowing due to the level of violence so evidently—and some would say tauntingly—displayed. Police were led by teachers to a girls’ bathroom in the east wing of the school early yesterday where freshman Trey Logan’s severed right hand was discovered in a trashcan.

Shock and panic spread quickly through the hallways and classrooms of the school just as morning classes were beginning. In the mayhem and bedlam that ensued, local city police failed to effectively cordon off the area and may have lost valuable evidence—if not suspects—from right under their noses.

Officials, who confirmed late yesterday afternoon that fingerprints taken from the hand were indeed Mr. Logan’s, have been quick to add that they are still holding out hope for the victim. He was last seen yesterday evening at a local bowling alley with some friends. He was wearing a green North Face jacket, Gap blue jeans, and brown boots—generic fare, acknowledged the police spokes-person, but he added that Mr. Logan regularly wore a very distinctive gold chain around his neck with his initials emblazoned on it. Anyone with any information is urged to contact the police hotline number immediately. The FBI, which has admitted to clandestine investigations over the past few weeks, had no comment to make except that they were working “in conjunction with local law enforcement,” doing everything they could. They added that the latest disappearance, while tragic, might nevertheless help officials solve the serial abductions by clues perhaps inadvertently left behind.

F
resh mozzarella with prosciutto, tomatoes, and basil oil. Minestrone soup with a sprinkling of basil leaves. Lasagna layered with meat ragu, béchamel, and roasted garlic. And to top it all off, a decadent hot fudge sundae.

“That was pretty fantastic,” I said to Miss Durgenhoff. She was sitting at the end of the bed, an apron tied around her waist. “I’ve never had dinner in bed.”

“Well, when I saw you come home, you looked beat,” she said cheerily. “Figured you crashed on your bed when you didn’t come down for the longest. So…well, voila.”

“You’re definitely spoiling me.”

“Consider it a thank you. For all the ways you’ve been kind to me.”

“Hardly.”

“And as extra fuel for the coming few days. With the musical and all, you’ll need it. It’s so close now—just a few more days.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “Four more days. Hard to imagine.”

She smiled whimsically. “You’ll be fine. Great, in fact.”

“Next two days are crucial. Mr. Matthewman hates the fact that I still haven’t practiced with the chorus yet. So we have rehearsals with the chorus, dress rehearsals with the orchestra, he whole works, from morning to night. He’s really packed it in.”

“Well, it couldn’t be helped, right? You were an eleventh-hour replacement. And there were exigent circumstances.”

“I suppose. Anyway, the next couple of days are key. Pretty nervous, I have to tell you.”

She smiled at me with those winsome eyes of hers. For a few moments we sat in an easy silence.

“It’s actually me who has to thank you, Miss Durgenhoff.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Well, I don’t know.”

Miss Durgenhoff laughed a little. “That’s OK.” She smiled wider. “You don’t have to say anything.”

I propped myself up higher. “No, I should. You encouraged me. About my singing.”

“Oh, it was nothing. Hard not to praise natural talent, after all. You’re going to be great. Amazing.”

I tugged on my blanket. “Sometimes I don’t know if I’ve really got it in me,” I said after a while. “It still feels so unreal to me. I keep imagining the worst that could happen. Like catching a cold or something, and my voice just goes kaput overnight.”

Miss Durgenhoff smoothed the front of her apron. “I seriously doubt that’s going to happen,” she said. “I’ve been hearing you sing, and you have such a commanding voice, strong. A voice with some real backbone and muscle. I don’t see it petering out.”

“I hope not.” I took another scoop of the sundae. “Mr. Matthewman says I emotionally check out of my songs way too much. He wants me to find passion every time.” I stared down at my plate, shaking my head slightly. “I don’t know how to do that. Like, how can you be passionate
every
time?”

“Oh, that you most certainly can do,” she said. The sudden seriousness in her tone surprised me.

“How’s that?”

“You just need to plug into yourself more. Find that thing in you which
moves
you. For some, it’s fear; for others, it’s love. But just tap into that, and you’ll inject passion into your singing.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t think I have that. I’m just an ordinary guy, nothing deep down.”

She snapped up her head and gave me a strange look. “Mind if I go on a mild spiel for a bit?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said warily.

“Something about you has always concerned me. It’s not obvious, it’s below the surface, but…” She smoothed her apron again. “But there’s anger in you. Huge amounts. Behind all your timidity, there’s something really teeming deep inside. I can’t quite pin it down, but you’re like this plush, well-made bed with something hidden underneath. Withdrawn, quiet on the outside, but inside…it’s quite unsettling sometimes.”

“Yeah, like that secret painting thing of yours,” I laughed, but then I stopped. She was being serious.

“Just saying that if you really want to sing with passion, just tap into that.” She looked like she wanted to say more, but then she stopped, shaking her head. “OK, that was weird,” she said,
tsk tsking
herself. “Don’t know what got a hold of me.”

“No, it’s OK. Thanks for dinner.”

“No need to thank me, Kris,” she said gently, smiling. She stood up, lifting the tray off my lap. Her kneecaps popped a little, and she tittered to herself. “Sitting too long again, I’m afraid.” She walked to the door, favoring her right leg as she hobbled away, then she turned back and smiled reassuringly. “You’ll be wonderful.” She turned to leave.

“Miss Durgenhoff?”

“Yes?”

“If you’re free, it’d be great if you could come to the performance. I have a few seats allotted to me—choice seats, mind you.”

“The perks of being a lead,” she said with a grin.

“Can you come? It’ll be great to have you there.”

“I’d love to. It would be nice to see you with a full orchestral accompaniment. In your costume and all that.”

I nodded quickly. “I’ll get you a ticket.”

She smiled at that. “That’s very thoughtful. But truthfully, I’ll have to see how my legs hold up. Weather’s doing them no favors, let me tell you. But thank you.” She winked at me as she hobbled out.

The room seemed very empty and very quiet after that. I thought to get out of bed and maybe help her with the dishes, but I soon found myself drowsy again. I drifted off to sleep.

Bad things always seem to happen in the middle of the night.

Miss Durgenhoff shook me awake. “It’s your mother” was all she said.

We drove to the hospital where my mother worked. The roads were deserted that time of night, as if holding a respectful silence. Miss Durgenhoff—driving as fast as she dared—told me what they’d told her on the phone. My mother had been carting away some laundry and collapsed. She’d lost consciousness.

My mother was sedated when we walked into her room, lit only by a dim, beeping monitor. Even with her eyes closed, her face was wrought with strain. “A very minor stroke,” the doctor informed us in a quiet voice. “The CAT scan shows no significant damage. She’ll make a full recovery.” He stared down at his notepad. “Staff here said she’s seemed tired of late. The stroke was probably brought on by physical and mental exhaustion. She needs her rest and…” I stopped listening.

They let me stay. Even after the sedation ran its course, she slept without stirring for twenty-four hours. I sat by her the whole time, melding my body into the unyielding corners of the plastic chair. It was mostly quiet. Occasionally the other patient in the room, a fragile woman as wrinkled as the bedsheets she tousled, would cry out with frightened, irrational words. But she’d always quickly fall back to sleep.

Mr. Matthewman was understanding on the phone. “Musical, schmusical,” he said. He told me to stay with my mother, to not worry about the rehearsals. “I’ll keep the dogs at bay,” he said. But I could sense uncertainty in his voice.

It was on the second night, while I was sitting half-asleep next to her, that my mother finally came to.

“He always wanted to come to America,” she suddenly said as if in mid-conversation, her voice surprisingly clear and strong in the opaque dark. “Even on our first date, chatting in the teahouse, he spoke of it. America. America. America. It was his dream. You should have seen him back then, the way his eyes would shine, the way he’d talk so excitedly, spit would fly out.” She stared at the ceiling, her eyes moist.

“It was all he talked about,” she continued. “America. I bought into it, eventually, of course. That kind of passion, it’s contagious, especially to an adoring wife. And on the day you were born, Xing, he made me two promises. First, he promised he would do everything humanly possible to take care of his family. And then, his second promise: he would bring us to America. Right there in the delivery room, you not even an hour old, he bent down and looked me in the eye and promised me. He was so serious, I laughed, tired as I was.” She smiled faintly, lost in the memories.

“It did not seem possible…it did not seem right that he would die here, and so soon.” She paused for a long time, as if catching her breath. “With him gone, I realized something I always knew deep down but never admitted: America was never my dream. It was never something I wanted for myself. And I realized how much I hated being here. America.” She spat out the last word. Her eyes fell down and met mine for just a moment, then they flicked back up as if she were repulsed. “He would never have thought that after so many years…this would be all we have to show for it.”

“It’s not so bad,” I lied.

She fell quiet as if done in. A line of tears fell from the corners of her eyelids, streaking down to her pillow. She thought I did not understand the level of her shame. She thought I did not know what she did at the massage parlor during the day. The men who came, the places she touched. She believed she held a secret too bitter, too shameful for me to ever know. But I did know.

“Why didn’t we go back to China after Father died?” I asked. “Why have we stayed here?”

Her voice, when it came, was sharp. “Do you remember the night we left China? When we swam to the ship?” She went on, not seeing my head nodding. “That night, once safely aboard, he made me promise. Made me. That we would never leave America. Ever.” She shook her head. “Maybe he sensed some hesitancy in me, even back then. He was so persistent. Gripped my hands until I promised.” She dried her tears with her wrist.

She was exhausted. I saw it in her motionless body, dead weight on gray bedsheets, weariness pressing upon her face. She would drift off now; I sensed that. She would retreat into her shell, the same way she had cocooned herself from me after his death.

“We should have gone back to China,” I said. “It would have been better for us.”

After a long moment, her mouth opened and she spoke words I have never forgotten.

“Your father believed you had a gift.”

I stared at her.

“And that America would give you the best chance to develop it,” she said. “I think that’s what made him so determined to stay here, mostly anyway. For your gift.”

“What gift?” I asked, my heart suddenly beating hard. She turned to look at me, surprise on her face. “Have you forgotten so quickly, Xing?” She shook her head slowly. “You once could really sing. You once had an amazing voice.” A sadness entered her eyes, but there was a hint of anger in her voice. “Your father thought puberty robbed you of your voice. But it wasn’t puberty, was it? It was America.”

I sat stunned. My father had never told me this. There were times when I had sensed his encouragement for me to sing and, in the latter years, his disappointment when I refused to. But I did not know my father had believed in me so. And this knowledge nearly overwhelmed me.

“I guess I have something to tell you,” I whispered. When she didn’t respond, I told her. As simply as I could, my voice trembling at times with excitement, and with not a little fear. I could still sing. I had won the lead in the school musical. That the musical was in two nights, and I wanted her to be there.

For an agonizing, drawn-out moment, she did not say anything. Her face remained passive, unresponsive. “You said it was the lead?” she asked at last.

“Yes. It’s the lead. I have five solos. They’re beautiful songs, and my voice is getting better every day. My voice coach is terrific. I can really sing again.”

She nodded, then closed her eyes, pulling the blanket over her chest. She nodded again, softer this time, approvingly. “That is good,” she said. “Your father would be proud.” And then she gave in to fatigue. Sleep consumed her within seconds.

I did not sleep that night. I sat all night, my mind racing, my heart pounding. Something like hope stirred in me; something like joy kept me awake.

I sang softly to myself, my songs, until the dawn sun trimmed the dark drapes with light.