Bitter Melon Read Free Page B

Mom.
    Fortunately, I have my own defense system. In grade school I learned how to smile at Auntie Nellie but ignore Theresa whenever Mom bragged about Theresa’s accomplishments. I learned to point out Theresa’s small mistakes to send Nellie into a tirade criticizing her. By freshman year I learned how to pretend that I had plans with other friends so I couldn’t hang out with Theresa. That only provided Nellie with more ammunition to point out that I had better social skills than Theresa.
    Theresa sits with perfect, good-girl posture. Her long, thick black hair is pulled up with a ponytail holder, the kind with two transparent red cubes. My hair, in contrast, is so thin that those ponytail holders would slip right off. Mom has threatened to dye my brownish hair black so it can look more like Theresa’s. Theresa doesn’t look anything like Nellie, who is short but plump, even more so than Mom. Nellie’s thin hair is frizz-permed to add volume. Another difference between Theresa and her mother is their fashion sense. Theresa wears quiet colors, like pastels, camel, and light gray. Nellie, on the other hand, wears neon jogging suits. You’d never lose her in a crowd. Theresa must take after her dad, who is often out of town on business.
    As I approach my desk, Theresa moves her book bag so I can sit down without having to step over it.
    See, Fei Ting, how thoughtful Theresa is, not like you, always thinking only of yourself. See how she steadies her grandmother as she walks, how she opens the door for her mother? You never do these things unless you’re told
.
    I mentally swat at my mother’s buzzing words and sit downin a huff, keeping my back to Theresa. Theresa is nice only for show. No one can really be that good.
    Then the teacher walks in. She’s petite but she has a large presence. She’s wearing a crinkled velvet royal blue top and black pants. As she approaches me, I hear the
cluck, cluck
of her heels and notice that she’s wearing big high-heeled black platform boots. Her clothes look like they’re straight out of the Haight Ashbury area. I start to feel nervous. This is the first teacher I’ve ever had who wears neither a habit nor khakis and a button-down shirt. This is also the first teacher I’ve ever had who looks under thirty. The royal blue of her top makes her blue eyes electric. They sparkle behind her black cat-eye glasses, which have small rhinestones embedded in the corners. Her long, straight black hair contrasts sharply with the radiant paleness of her skin. As she passes me, she leaves behind the faint fragrance of perfume and cigarettes.
    The new teacher turns quickly and writes her name on the chalkboard: Ms. Taylor. Then she faces us. The school bell rings, accenting her turn.
    “This is my name,” she says, pointing towards the chalkboard. “Now let’s get to know you. Starting with you,” she says, gesturing to the student in the far corner. “Please state your name and what your goals are after you graduate from high school.”
    My mouth goes dry. I’m used to being invisible in class and standing out through my papers and exams. Frantically, I rehearse my own response. Most of the girls state the party line, that they want to go to college. A few know exactly whatcollege they want to attend. One girl picks Mills College, a private women’s college in Oakland. Another mentions Stanford. A few know what they want to major in and what careers they wish to pursue.
    What astounds me is Ms. Taylor’s ability to remember people. Each time we finish a row, Ms. Taylor repeats the names of everyone who has spoken. When someone mentions a specific field, she offers encouragement and suggestions for schools or internships. She seems to know everything.
    Then it’s my turn. “My name is Frances Ching, and my goal is to go to UC Berkeley and pursue a career in medicine.” I make my voice calm, to mask my pounding heart and sweating hands.
    “Excellent, Frances. Have you ever