Bitter Melon Read Free Page A

say American, but your blood is Chinese. You inherit my genes. You eat my rice. You will mold to my shape, walk down the right path.”
    She doesn’t mention that my father is Chinese too, but that once he brought us here, he was infected by these bad influences and left. She doesn’t mention that half of my genes are his. As we make our way to the bus stop, I imagine the relentless sheet of wind sweeping me off my feet and carrying me away. Mom tries to hold on, but her brittle fingers break off. I see the look of horror in her eyes, her mouth forming a big ghastly O, her fingerless hand still reaching out to me. I see her disembodied fingers still digging into my arm, nails embedded in my flesh.
    I then wrap my fingers around Mom’s. Fortunately, they are still intact, though icy and purple from the cold. She and I bothhave chronically cold hands and feet. She hates having cold hands and never lets them leave her pockets when she goes out. She only took them out to hold on to me. Though my hands are cold too, I rub hers to warm them up. We rub each other’s hands furiously, cold hands warming cold hands, as we wait for the Clement Street bus.

Chapter One

    It is the first day of school, and my thighs are Jell-O-like and burning from all the stair climbing. That’s what happens when you have first-period religion on the first floor, second-period French on the third floor, third-period AP government on the basement floor, and fourth-period calculus on the third floor. That’s also what happens when you’re tired from being on the second day of your menstrual cycle.
    I step into my calculus classroom. Like all the other classrooms in this building, it has hard and shiny dark green floors, dingy white walls, black chalkboards, and a big clock on the wall, the kind that is in every classroom from kindergarten through high school. There are fewer than ten girls inside. Most students finish off senior year with only precalculus, so this doesn’t surprise me. Everyone is seated in the back of the classroom or off to the sides, leaving a big hole front and center. The most convenient seat is right in front of Theresa Fong, who is sitting back and center. Theresa, the girl who got 1350 on her SAT, is the daughter of Mom’s best friend, Nellie.
    Whenever Mom compares me to Theresa, who is always superior, Auntie Nellie responds in kind, pointing out my goodtraits and describing how Theresa can’t compare. When Mom compares Theresa’s willowy frame to my more heavyset one, Auntie Nellie points out that at five four, I am tall for a Chinese person, unlike Theresa, who is only five feet tall. When Mom praises Theresa’s modesty and obedience, Auntie Nellie praises my social skills and charm. For good measure, she adds that I will attract a husband faster for these reasons, so Mom won’t have to worry. Then Mom argues that it is better to have a daughter who cleaves to your side for life than to put all your effort into one who will cleave to someone else and give you nothing in return. Mom and Auntie Nellie argue about this with the same intensity with which they argue about who gets to pay the dim sum bill.
    The truth is I think that Auntie Nellie is just disagreeing with Mom out of Chinese modesty. Nellie sometimes puts down Theresa as a means of indirectly bragging about her. “Oh, my son is so lazy. Theresa got a five on her AP calculus exam. Ben only got a four. If my dense daughter can get a five, then Ben could have gotten a five if he had put in some effort.” Then Nellie waits for Mom to praise Theresa’s intelligence, which is the same as praising Nellie for being an amazing mother. But Mom never does that for me. The things she criticizes me for in public are the same things she criticizes me for in private.
    If Theresa has already passed her calculus exam, then why is she here? Maybe she’s volunteering as a teacher’s assistant. There was talk about her doing that last year. Great. More ammunition for