Girl Overboard Read Free

the off-limit, avalanche-prone backcountry.
    No one has ever asked me why I went where I wasn’t supposed to go and ended up where I shouldn’t have been. No one reported about how the avalanche may have missed my body but iced over my heart. No one knows how the avalanche dog “found” me and ski patrol “rescued” me. But the Real Me, the fearless one? She’s still buried under an avalanche of one man’s making. I breathe in as deeply as my body shaper allows, refusing to be sucked down into the memory of Jared Johanson, snowboarding camp counselor who wanted me to be his free pass to paradise.
    The sounds of Baba’s party, muffled conversations and clear laughter, cross the pond, almost camouflaging the crackle of interference on the garden path. Before I can duck into the shadows, Meghan, Mama’s favorite event planner, strides swiftly to me, announcing victoriously into her walkie-talkie: “Eaglet captured.” Without missing a beat, she nods her head toward the main hall. “Syrah, you’re late.”

3
    J ust as the lights dim, I reach the family table, nestled inside the innermost circle of Baba’s premier business associates within the bigger pool of his wine-collecting aficionados, his corporate minions, and the Ethan-Wife Number One friends, all gray-haired enough to serve as my grandparents. I swear, Darth Vader is narrating a Hollywood homage to Baba’s life, large-screen movie, swelling music, and all.
    While Darth extols Baba’s humble beginnings, starting with my great-grandfather who moved to
Gam Saan,
Gold Mountain, the Chinese name for America, Wayne makes a big deal of looking pointedly at his watch. “Nice of you to show up,” he says.
    Give me a break,
I want to tell him. But it’s safer to ignore Wayne, so I slide next to Grace, who, naturally, keeps focused on the movie.
    Another surge of music follows Darth’s words: “Like his grandfather before him who helped build America’s transcontinental railroad a hundred and fifty years ago, Ethan created Europe’s first transcontinental telecommunications superhighway.”
    A small growl gets my attention. Grace’s dog is, as usual, perched on his lap of honor, only now he’s trying to wriggle out from under her heavy hand.
    “Hey, Mochi,” I whisper.
    The dog barks, sharp and high.
    “It’s okay, Mr. Mochi,” coos Grace, soothing her little yippy dog with gentle strokes while glowering at me accusingly. I swear, that glorified rat gets more attention than a baby. While the movie credits roll, Wayne stands up in the still-darkened room, Grace following suit. She murmurs to Mochi, “Come on, sweetie, we’ve got a speech to make.”
    On the dais, Wayne and Grace give off the same unmistakable vibe of success that Baba does. The Cheng power gene obviously skipped over me, or, more likely, ran out because so much success got concentrated in my half-siblings. Wayne is Mr. I-Graduated-Cum-Laude-from-Princeton. You can’t pick up a newspaper without reading about some new deal his venture capital company in San Francisco is brokering in Asia. And Grace’s hop, skip, and a jump from Princeton landed her in New York, where she found out she could brag and get paid for it. So now she’s the head of her own public relations agency.
    Naturally, Wayne takes the microphone first, establishing himself as The Eldest Son, a chip off the gold block. “It’s hard to believe that my father is seventy tonight, when he’s got the energy of a man half his age. I’m sure all of you know what I’m talking about. His midnight phone calls. Three a.m. e-mails. And multi-tasking abilities.” Wayne waits a beat for the next photograph, this one of Baba sitting on an exercise ball in his office, instead of a chair. “The Ethan Cheng Way: why not work and work out at the same time?”
    The businesspeople laugh appreciatively. I sweat profusely. I can’t remember a single word of my toast. Call me the ultimate case study for the should have, would have,