Bitter Melon (29 page)

As soon as I arrive home, I open the closet door. I sift through my side of the closet, only to find a uniform blouse and the button-down shirt and skirt that I wear to speech competitions. I also see the dress I wore to my eighth-grade graduation. It is off-white and pink and very lacy and frilly. Desperate, I take it off the hanger and try it on. I can barely pull the dress past my hips, much less pull up the zipper. I suck in my belly as hard as I can as I force the zipper up. Then I look in the mirror.

I look like I’m ten years old. All I’m missing are the Shirley Temple sausage curls.

I squirm my way out of the outfit and hang it in the closet. Desperate and irrational, I start sorting through Mom’s half of the closet. At first, I find Mom’s work clothes, a series of drab but inoffensive blouses and slacks. Then I find casual clothes that she must have brought over from Hong Kong in the sixties, polyester button-down shirts and bell-bottom pants with paisley patterns and elastic waistbands—definitely not prom material. I almost give up hope.

It is then that I notice a chest sitting under Mom’s clothes. It is made of lacquered wood and has an intricate carving of women in a landscape. The women are dressed in traditional attire, the kind imperial women wore during the dynasties. I open the chest, releasing the strong scent of mothballs. The first thing I see is a sleeveless navy blue dress with large round collars made of white lace. I decide to try it on.

It doesn’t look quite like the dresses at Macy’s. The material is thick and coarse, and the collars are distracting. Nonetheless, it
does mimic the sleek form-fitting shapes of the Macy’s dresses, and the dark color is slimming and formal looking. I put on my black flats and scrutinize myself in the mirror. Not great, but not bad. I turn to examine my back side. Unfortunately, the dress is short, barely covering my behind. The slit in the back makes the problem even worse. I guess that makes sense. This was Mom’s dress, and she is six inches shorter.

It occurs to me that my mother used to fit into this dress when she was young. If she was my width but shorter, then technically, she was actually fatter! What right has she to be so critical of my weight?

I fold the dress carefully and place it in my backpack. Then I close the chest and arrange Mom’s clothes to look exactly as they were before. In the evening, I ask Mom if I can spend the night at Theresa’s tomorrow. As usual, she hassles me about it before giving her consent. Then I add my casual clothes and my toothbrush to my backpack to keep my actions consistent with my story.

My plan, though clever, isn’t perfect. If Mom isn’t expecting me home tomorrow, where will I spend the night? I hope that if I remain calm and resourceful, all other obstacles will be easy to overcome.

The next morning, I shower and style my hair. Though I still have the makeup Theresa and I used at the fall dance, I decide not to put it on. After all, I used it at the fall dance and got nowhere. In contrast, I didn’t wear makeup at any of my speech competitions, but I still got Derek to like me. So what’s the point? Instead, I wear a tinted lip gloss to give my face a little color. Before leaving home, I double-check my wallet to make sure I have enough change for the pay phone.

During the school day, I move slowly, so as not to sweat, which would necessitate another shower. After school, I hang out in the library until all the students have left campus. Then I change into the navy dress in the bathroom. Because I didn’t have the chance to air out the dress, it still smells like mothballs. I fan the dress with my hands to diffuse the smell. Afterwards, I call Derek on the school pay phone and ask him to pick me up at school. Then I wait outside. Though it isn’t warm, at least it’s not too cold. The sunshine helps make up for the occasional wind.

About a half hour later, Derek’s car pulls up in front of me. He looks handsome in his black tux and crisp white shirt. I climb in and he pulls away.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“You’ll see.”

We continue west until we reach Ocean Beach. At the Great Highway, Derek turns right and drives us up the hill, which eventually veers to the right. At the top of the cliff, he turns left into a parking area. He pulls into a spot facing the ocean and parks. There is a forest and a hiking trail to our right. In front of us, giant rocks jut out of the ocean. Every violent wave that slaps these rocks sends a fan of white spray in all directions.

“Wow,” I say. “Nice view.”

“Yeah.”

Derek leans towards me. As his face gets closer to mine, I stiffen, my heart racing, but he ends up reaching behind my seat for something on the floor. It’s a corsage made of tiny bloodred roses and baby’s breath.

It occurs to me that amid the drama of getting a dress, I forgot to get him his boutonniere.

“May I?” Derek asks.

I nod. Derek pins the corsage onto my dress.

“I forgot to get you one,” I say. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” he replies. “I’d look silly wearing a corsage.”

I chuckle. We stare awkwardly out the window, unsure of how to pass the time.

“Are you hungry?” Derek asks me.

“Sure.” Actually, I’m so nervous that I can’t imagine eating anything.

Derek climbs out of the car, walks to the passenger side, and
opens the door for me. I take his arm and we begin walking down the steep hill.

We reach a boxy two- or three-story building at the bottom of the hill. It seems to be jutting out over the ocean. “The Seacliffe. We talked about it when I drove you home, remember?”

Though I’m excited about going to this restaurant, I’m also nervous. Are there special rules or rituals we should follow that only I don’t know about? Automatically, I stand up taller, as if preparing to deliver a speech. If I present myself with poise, maybe Derek won’t notice that I’ve never been to a classy restaurant.

When we enter the restaurant, we are greeted by a woman standing behind a podium. A man wearing a long white half apron leads us upstairs and into the dining area, which has large windows revealing the big white waves. Usually when I enter a restaurant, I am bombarded with bright lights, the sounds of people shouting and food sizzling, and the smells of grease and all things savory. In contrast, this room is quiet, cool, dark, and completely void of smells. The server guides us to a small round table next to a window. Simultaneously, the server pulls out the chair closest to the window and Derek pulls out the chair facing the window. I sit down on Derek’s chair. Awkwardly, Derek sits on the chair that the server pulled out for me.

The server then hands us our menus. Another server fills our glasses with ice water and lays down a basket of bread. The menu is heavy, firm, and bound in leather, not flimsy and laminated like the menus I am used to. I marvel at the plates and
silverware in front of me. The plates are bright white, matching the tablecloth. Three forks lie on the left side of the plates, while a knife and two spoons lie on the right. Why so many pieces of silverware? At home, we either use just a pair of chopsticks or a fork and a knife.

Derek opens his menu, and I copy him. Some of the items I am familiar with, such as steak and chicken. But what is filet mignon, confit, or hollandaise?

“What looks good to you?” Derek asks me.

“Uh … what looks good to you?” I say, hoping to glean a cue from him.

“I always like steak, so I think I’ll get the filet mignon and lobster tail.”

“But if you like steak, why are you getting filet mignon?” I ask.

Derek looks at me strangely. “Filet mignon is a kind of steak,” he says.

“Oh.” There’s more than one kind? “Then … I guess I’ll get the same.”

Derek scrutinizes me with a piercing expression. Suddenly, I feel naked, humiliated. I look down, ashamed. We are silent for what feels like several minutes.

Finally, Derek says, “My friend David’s family took me to a Chinese restaurant once. We were all perusing the menu, which, fortunately, was bilingual. Otherwise, I would have been lost. Anyway, Dave’s dad started rattling off to the waiter a list of menu items in Chinese. I asked Dave what he was saying and Dave translated. I went through the menu, furiously trying to
find these items, but I couldn’t find them. I asked Dave where he found those items, and Dave pointed at the wall. Turns out there were all these pieces of paper taped to the wall with dishes written entirely in Chinese.”

I smile. I know exactly what he’s talking about. “Don’t feel bad,” I say. “My mom and her friend order from them all the time, but I can’t read them either.”

“Unfortunately, it gets worse,” Derek says. “Everyone started eating except for me. I just sat there staring at my food. Finally, Dave’s mom asked me what was wrong. I had to explain to her that I didn’t know how to use chopsticks. They had to order a fork especially for me.”

Poor Derek!

“Once I got my fork, I ate everything in sight,” Derek says. “Everything was so good that even though I was full, I couldn’t stop eating. I was so enthusiastic that when the next dish arrived, I began helping myself. It looked like some kind of brown broth with lemon slices. So I spooned it into my bowl and began drinking. Then I noticed David’s family and the waiter staring at me with eyes wide as saucers. Turns out that the soup was actually tea and lemon—for washing our hands.”

I burst out laughing. “I’m so sorry,” I say.

“It’s okay. It wasn’t as bad as the time when I went to a sushi restaurant and mistook the wasabi for green tea ice cream.”

I laugh even harder. Maybe he’s not looking for a Princess Grace or a Princess Di. Maybe I don’t need to pretend to be like him, because in some ways, he is like me.

A waitress comes to take our order. Derek orders his filet mignon, and I do the same. Derek adds two salads to our order. As we wait for our food, he encourages me to enjoy the view. I stare past him at the crashing waves going in, out, and in again, the foam forming lace patterns along the water. When I snap out of my trance, I notice Derek gazing at me with a tender and serious expression. As soon as he catches me watching, he shifts back to his comic grin.

Our food arrives, and Derek gently points out which utensils to use for each course. Halfway through the main course, Derek says, “There’s something I’ve been dying to ask you. Why did you change your speech?”

I cringe at the memory of my last competition. “In my old speech, I said that I wanted to attend UC Berkeley and go to med school so I could—”

“Become a doctor and take care of your mother,” Derek says. “When your hard work pays off, so will hers.”

I am stunned. I think back to the pain I felt when I delivered this speech to my mother at the Chinese American Association only to find out that she hadn’t heard a single sentence. In contrast, Derek remembers and understands every word.

“Well, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I didn’t really want to go to UCB or med school. That’s what my mother wanted,” I say.

Derek nods. His piercing gaze is unblinking.

“When I won the Chinese American Association competition, my mom was starstruck by the judges, who were all TV journalists,”
I say. “Now she wants me to be the next Connie Chung.”

Derek grimaces. “I can’t see you wearing all that makeup,” he says.

“She tried to make me beautiful and glamorous so I could look good on TV,” I say. “But it wasn’t what I wanted.”

“So, what do
you
want?”

“I want to go to Scripps College.”

“And how about your career?”

“I don’t know. But not medicine and not TV journalism.” I groan. “But instead of making the speech better, I just made it worse.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” I insist. “At the end, everyone just gave me this horrible blank stare. The only reason anyone applauded was because you did it first. I didn’t even make the first cut.” My face burns with humiliation at this admission of defeat.

“It wasn’t a bad speech,” Derek says. “It just felt … unfinished. People didn’t applaud because they were still waiting for the ending.”

I give Derek a quizzical look.

“People like certainty,” Derek explains. “People like answers. In your speech, you started asking a lot of difficult questions and then you just ended the speech without answering any of them.”

“That’s because I don’t have the answers!” I say defensively. “What was I supposed to do, lie?”

Derek stares at me for a long while. His expression morphs through many shades of thought. It is like watching a flower blossom on fast-speed video.

“Maybe you’re the real winner here,” he says.

“How so?”

“Do you remember what my speech is about?” he asks.

“Compassionate conservatism. Corporate greed.”

“Guess what my dad does?”

I shrug. “CEO?”

“He’s a corporate lawyer. He runs his dad’s law firm. Guess what they want me to do?”

“Be a lawyer in their firm.”

“Bingo. My grandpa went to Harvard. My dad went to Harvard. Guess where they want me to go?”

“Harvard.”

“Right again.”

“So … what are you going to do about it?”