Girl Overboard (34 page)

“Grom duty. My dad’s working on a deadline.”

“Cool, then you can bring your brothers over for lunch. I’ve got in my hot little hands that new Mack Dawg video we can watch afterward.”

Without losing a second, Age says, “Noon, your studio.”

“Noon, the main house,” I correct him.

“You sure?”

“Dude, you’re part of the Syrah Cheng package.” I bite my lip, remembering how Age responded so caustically and honestly the last time I said this.

But Age answers right away: “Good, because, dude, you’re part of
mine.
”

“Good,” I say.

“Good,” he repeats.

“Then you won’t mind if I get that in writing?”

Age starts laughing again. And I press the phone closer to my ear, because I was way off on how much I missed his chuckle, the way it builds and then recedes, a wave I can count on, day in and day out.

“You Chengs,” he says.

“What?” I ask, all innocent. “So some guy gave me this great new manga-journal yesterday that I need to fill with something.” Next to my pillow is the notebook Age handed me after the event. On the first page, he’s inscribed a poem I’ve read and reread so many times that I could quote it with my eyes closed.

“Some guy, huh?” says Age.

I open the journal to run my fingers over Age’s slanting scrawl, all angular ascenders and descenders, the ridgeline of a beloved mountain. “Yup, just some guy who I really missed.”

He’s silent for a moment before shooting my words right back at me: “I know.”

“You are so…”

“Intelligent? Insightful? Unbelievable?” he prompts.

All of the above, I want to say, but settle on the truth: “Welcome.” And then I grin when Age um-er-uhs his way through a simple see-ya, so I know he’s feeling just as jittery as I am—in that good and oh-so-wonderful, I-am-aware-of-you way.

Hanging up, I place the phone next to the manga-journal and gaze out to the garden, still smiling. Like Mama’s peonies that bloom every year, I survived despite the snow, despite the falling snow. With one leg outstretched, I hug the other, the scarred one, to my chest. My friendship with Age may or may not become something more, but I know that it, too, will survive the winter of other boyfriends and girlfriends and Hong Kong.

I reach to my bedside table, where I’ve stashed my original manga-journal. After my manga marathon at Children’s Hospital, there aren’t many empty pages left, but I only need a few for my final drawings of Shiraz. The thing is, I can’t leave my girl unfinished.

The big question in
The Ethan Cheng Way,
the one you have to answer before you can begin to formulate a plan is this: what do you want? The only way I know how to answer that is with more questions of my own, which may not be what Baba intended. But it’s what feels right to me.

So propping my journal on both knees now, I draw a hall with door after door, each an open-ended invitation, a possibility. Manga author? Columnist? Snowboard gear designer? Publicist? That’s how I want Shiraz’s future to be. And mine. Endless questions. Infinite possibilities. In the center door, I finally write,
Ex-pat in Hong Kong?

That’s all we can do: be prepared to spring on all the opportunities life presents us—on powder days, in business, and especially, in love.

When no more doors can fit on the page, I add the three tiny scars on Shiraz’s kneecap, a constellation tattooed on her, forever reminding her of what she lost—and found—on her mountains. I close my journal, rest my hand on the cover, giving it a benediction. As far as crutches go, Shiraz was an excellent one. But I like me better.

I pick up my gift from Age, my new notebook, the perfect container and mirror and psychoanalyst for my thoughts, dreams, and fears. On the cover is a bottle of (what else?) syrah, the best varietal, don’t we all think? I flip the book over, ready to begin once again in authentic manga style. Isn’t it funny that what the Japanese authors consider their first page is our happily-ever-after last one? When you think about it, it’s not a bad way to approach life. What appears to be an ending—heartbreaking wounds that you can and cannot see—may just be a beginning, a start of a brand-new adventure.

I take a breath and begin to draw my new beginning, my new adventure, starring me, Syrah, on this page as white and unblemished as newly fallen snow.

A few days later,
I wake to the scent of soy sauce eggs and remember that it is my birthday, sweet savory sixteen. I trace my fingers around the dragons in my alcove bed, the ones swallowing their tails. And finally I understand what Bao-mu has been trying to tell me all along. You have to swallow your past and learn from it before you can move on. It’s too late for me to get to know Po-Po, but I can learn everything I can about her, my parents, Grace, all the rest of my family, and Bao-mu, who is waiting for me downstairs.

Without wasting another moment, I fling out of my bed and race down the steps so fast my orthopedic surgeon would cringe… or rub his hands in glee that I might be a repeat customer. At last, I reach the kitchen, and there, in front of the stovetop, stirring a pot like she has never left The House of Cheng, is Bao-mu. Her hair may be dyed black and permed curly now, but she is my Bao-mu, all dressed up in the tangerine-colored cashmere sweater she’s saved for special occasions. Like our reunion now.

I swallow my first instinct to cry,
You’re home,
but Bao-mu’s home is down in California in the house my mother bought for her to be near her own family. So instead, I call out, “You’re here!”

“See-raah,” Bao-mu says, remorse on her face as she turns to me. “I too late for you snowboard!”

“No,” I assure her, and wrap my arms around her. “You’re never too late. I have a video of it.”

She tried her best to come, and in my book, that says it all.

“How go? You do okay? Your mommy said you okay snowboard now. That true?” asks Bao-mu.

Instead of answering, I take her hand, so little in mine, and lead her toward the kitchen table. After I pull out a chair for her, I go to the stovetop and spoon two fragrant eggs into tiny bowls, one for her and one for me.

As I set the bowls on the table, I notice that it’s snowing outside, twice in this miracle season that was so slow to start.

“Look!” I point out the window as the gathering flakes skim and settle on the ground.

“So beautiful,” she says, beaming. “For your birthday.”

Bao-mu doesn’t have to tell me that these are a sign. The most gorgeous snowflakes, the ones with all the intricate shapes and patterns, drop the farthest from the sky. They don’t just survive their 40,000-foot descent. They revel in their fall, that harrowing, sweeping adventure that shapes them. Literally.

What’s the point of reducing life to a question of survival, as if our time on Earth is some ordeal to be endured? We all deserve more than that, me included.

Sitting across from Bao-mu so that I can look her square in the face, I tell her, “Bao-mu, you were wrong. Life is adventure, not just survival.”

I pick up her hands, mine cupped underneath hers like a safety net. With my thumbs, I rub her dry knuckles, hands that are swollen with arthritis but would still pull me up if I fall. In Mandarin, I say,
“Wo jiang, ni ting.”
Let me talk so you listen.

I challenge any writer to claim a better editor than mine, Alvina Ling, the “dear genius” and guardian angel in our relationship. She wields her mighty blue pencil with an insightfulness that humbles me, and then bubble wraps me with such strong belief that I can tackle the tough questions she poses. As well, heartfelt gratitude goes to my Little, Brown family: Gail Doobinin (creative art goddess), Megan Tingley, Connie Hsu, Rebekah McKay, Tina McIntyre, Elizabeth Eulberg, Andrew Smith, Christine Cuccio, and David Ford.

This book would be languishing on my hard drive if it weren’t for Steven Malk, my beloved agent-therapist-buddy, and the wonderful Dana West and Lindsay Davis.

If my first novel was one for the girls, this is for all the men I’ve been blessed to call friends: Drew Guevara, who has always made me feel like his cherished buddy; David Hornik and Ben Golub, who taught me about loyalty; and the incomparable Sanjay Sarabhai and Kennell Jackson, both of whom I miss dearly.

This is the book that Seattle’s telecommunications giants, the yes-but-no guys at Ignition, and my management team at Microsoft built. Special thanks go to Coach John (Stanton) for brilliantly constructing Ethan’s life and the history of the cellular industry, Steve Hooper for his exemplary leadership, and Adrian Smith for explaining how these cell phones work in the first place. Pete Higgins, you are my hero of heroes for your unfailing support spanning continents and career changes. Between you, Robbie Bach, Hank Vigil, Liz Welch, Melinda French, Patty Stonesifer, and Alex Loeb, I received a far better education than any MBA program could have given me about business, integrity, passion, perseverance, and generosity—plus, we had a rocking good time at Microsoft.

Blessings to the divine Diviners—Peggy King Anderson, Judy Bodmer, Katherine Grace Bond, Janet Lee Carey, Holly Cupala, and Dawn Knight—who have sustained me throughout the telling of Syrah’s story with chai tea, kettle corn, and pom-poms. Janet S. Wong, you are truly your namesake, a treasure and leader among friends. My dearest Kelly Sheiner, without that day in San Francisco with me in my leg brace and you burgeoning with baby, both of us watching runners wistfully, I’d never have had the idea for this book.

Props to the snowboarding community who’ve been generous with their time so that I would tell this story right: Deb Friedman, Alexis Waite, Suzi Riggins Boone, Rhami Marshall, Susan Waite, Whistler ski patrol, the Canadian Snowboard Federation, and most especially Sam Shin, who lives the difference between passion and calling. I hope I did you proud. A shout out to Dr. Neena Kapoor who answered all my questions about biracial bone marrow transplants, the caring staff at Children’s Hospital & Regional Medical Center in Seattle who showed me real life on the
third floor,
Linda and Cameron Myhrvold for hosting me at Whistler, Bei Guan for sharing her family story with me, and Dr. Lawrence Holland for fixing my knee.

Family is everything, as Mama (my real-life one) always says. So I am thankful for all of mine—the most wonderful mother in the world, Ann Chin-Hong Chen; my Baba, Bob Teh-Nan Chen, who is integrity personified; my way talented siblings, Sue Lim, Will Chen, and Dave Chen; my smart and spunky aunties Lillian and Janet; and the most supportive in-laws you will ever find, Bill and Robbie Headley. No wonder Robert turned out to be such an amazing man. Most of all, to my kiddielinks, Tyler and Sofia, may your lives always burst with a billion pieces of good fortune.

Justina Chen grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area, moved to Australia for a year, and currently resides in the Pacific Northwest. No matter where she is, she can usually be found lost in a book.

Girl Overboard
won praise from Olympic gold medalist and fellow snowboarder Hannah Teter.
North of Beautiful
was called “A finely crafted, artfully written journey of self-discovery, self-actualization, and love” by
Booklist
in a starred review.
Nothing but the Truth (and a few white lies)
won the 2007 Asian/Pacific American Award for Youth Literature. Justina is also a cofounder of
readergirlz
, an award-winning online book community for teens. Her website is
www.justinachen.com
.

Keep reading for a sneak peek at
Return to Me
.

I
f you believed my so-called psychic of a grandmother, she predicted that I would almost die. Her eerie, creepy forewarning made no difference at all. I was seven. I still jumped into the murky lake. I still dropped to its mossy bottom. I still almost drowned. Moments before Dad saved me, my arms had become blurry fronds far, far in front of me, as if I had already faded into a ghost.

Ever since that brush with death, I’ve hated fairy tales where spindles could be murder weapons, a bride could be killed for opening a locked door, and women in my family supposedly could see the future. What good was a sixth sense if life itself could derail your best-laid plans? Like after spring break in my senior year. That’s when I almost drowned again—only this time, in disbelief.

“We’re moving with you,” Mom had announced without looking up from her massive, post-vacation to-do list at the kitchen table.

“You mean moving me, right?” I gulped, breathing hard as I tried desperately to safeguard my future.

Why bother? Once Mom made up her mind, not one miracle or oracle could change it.

Case in point: her answer, “No,
we’re
moving, too.” She tucked a strand of flat-ironed hair back into its designated spot behind her ear, then drew an emphatic tick on her list. No doubt Mom was checking off yet another item: Destroy daughter’s college experience.

“You can’t come with me to Columbia!”

“Rebecca Kaye Muir, this move is great for your dad’s career.” Mom’s voice had shot over mine, bullet to bull’s-eye, in a tone designed to quell any teenage uprising. Her blue-eyed glare included my younger brother, Reid. He had dared to groan when it registered that Dad was quitting what must be every boy’s dream job: head honcho of a new game company. For about three weeks, Reid and I limped around our house like the living dead, my brother too listless to read a single one of his fantasy novels, and me too disappointed to enjoy the final laid-back weeks of high school.

None of this alarmed or deterred Mom, though. Life according to my mother’s accounting followed a simple principle: A bigger opportunity was a better opportunity. And Dad’s deliciously high-powered job offer represented a welcome end to his start-up-business nonsense.