Our Wayward Fate Read online

  My mother didn’t even look up. Was it improvement or regression that she hadn’t bothered to glare at him? If experience showed anything, it was the latter. The worst step had been when they’d stopped fighting, when they’d chosen to ignore each other instead of trying.

  My dad disappeared into the bedroom and my mother’s shoulders relaxed again. Just like hers, my fingers tackled the egg roll with desperation, as if that were somehow the solution.

  Filling—corner—corner—tuck and roll. Like riding a bike. I stacked my finished egg roll next to hers, and it looked almost identical, only a smidge looser. No longer was I the child making egg rolls that spilled meat and veggies out one or both ends or through an accidental hole made by a clumsy fingernail.

  My hand froze, and for a moment I pretended it was years ago, before we had moved here, before my parents had become the ghosts they were today. I used to be so disappointed that, unlike my mother’s perfectly jǐn and tidy egg rolls, mine were fat and luànqībāzāo, like a drunk, sloppy Santa on December 26. But my mother would always tell child Ali, Patience. One day, if all goes as planned, you’ll do better than me. In everything. Qīng chū yú lán.

  But it hadn’t gone as planned. My father had been denied tenure at Boston University, and then he’d accepted a job against my mother’s wishes at a tiny, “not prestigious” liberal arts school. To my mother, rankings were everything, to the point that she learned how to use the internet just to stay up to date with U.S. News & World Report’s college rankings. She chose to put all her trust in those numbered lists and didn’t care that everyone else in town seemed to be impressed by my father’s job at the “local gem,” Frank College. For the record, I didn’t care either, but it was because, as with everything, there was a sprinkle of racism on top: Of course he’s an intellectual—he’s Asian, so smart.

  After my father moved us here to our own little microaggression hell, the Chu family fell apart faster than shaved ice in hot pot. At the time, I hadn’t understood how something so small could have such a huge ripple, but then—hello cornfields and lower pay—I learned way too young that it’s harder to be happy when you’re ostracized and worried about the roof over your head.

  When I aligned my second egg roll—this one as tight as hers—with the others, I noticed my mother had tears in her downcast eyes.

  Was it because of my egg roll? Or because of what had just happened with my father?

  Seeing a crack in her wall, I reached a hand out and placed it on hers, which was mid-wrap.

  How it played out in my head: she grasps it back, tells me she loves me, then apologizes for being so distant the past eleven years.

  Okay, maybe that was a bit too cheesy and unrealistic, but I definitely didn’t expect it to play out as horribly as it did.

  She startled and yanked her hand away, which then knocked over the stack of papers, books, and folders that perpetually lived on her “off-limits” side of the table, where she cut coupons and pored over our unending bills.

  To hide my face and the possible tears that had pooled (I got some filling in my eye, I swear), I dove to the floor, scooping up the fallen debris.

  “Mā, why do you have a picture of this park?” I asked, pausing on a clipped newspaper article. “ ‘Zhè shì Zhongguó de…,’ ” I started to read, very slowly, but she snatched the paper out of my hands, ripping it in two and giving me a paper cut in the process.

  “I’m surprised you know any Chinese characters,” she said down her nose to me, “given that you barely paid attention and quit after only three years.”

  I was so bewildered I sat there frozen as she crumpled the torn pieces and shoved them into her pockets. But when she rushed for the rest of the scattered papers, my instincts kicked in and I fought with her, nabbing several things, but never having enough time to read the Mandarin characters cluttering the pages. I caught an errant Chu here and there, my eye homing in the way a child recognizes their name in a sea of letters because it’s the only word they know. A few liángs also stuck out because of repetition, but that told me a whole lot of nothing because I couldn’t remember what it meant. Was it also a surname? I had never kicked myself so hard for not putting more effort into my homeschooled Chinese lessons.

  Five paper cuts later, she disappeared into the bathroom (which was her only option, since my dad was in the bedroom). I tried to force myself to call out something—anything—but I merely goldfished a few seconds before retreating to my room, definitely not to cry or anything.

  Affair? Clandestine plot to get us out of here? So, in short, it was either the worst news or the best.

  And during that entire scuffle, my father hadn’t surfaced once.

  THE PARK AS SEEN FROM AFAR

  Liang Zhu Park was born a serene escape, but now, over a century later, it has evolved to serve a higher purpose. At first glance, the wayward pieces of paper resemble litter, out of place next to the manicured grass and decorative rocks.

  Except the scraps at eye level aren’t trash. Aren’t random. They were hung deliberately, strings attaching each flyer to branches overhead. Within the black sea of simplified Chinese characters, patches of color congeal to form a face here, an arm there. Below the pictures, a description: Height. Weight. Animal. The town she calls home.

  Each sheet is almost indistinguishable from the last—dolls cut from a folded piece of paper. Yet to those who pad along the cobblestones, hands behind their backs, heads in serious thought? Each picture, each person is just that—an individual. Different from its neighbor, clearly better or worse, ranked higher or lower based on various standards and traits.

  What kinds of secrets does this garden hold? Perhaps the clutter creates pockets for information to hide. If a secret never sees the light of day, does it exist at all? Of course it does, but once tucked away in a corner of the park, a corner of the mind, it’s easier to forget.

  But the park never forgets.

  CHAPTER 3 NERDS

  I jabbed, beads of sweat flying off my fist in a satisfying spray. The punching bag was slick with perspiration, reminding me how hard I’d already worked.

  Years ago, I had convinced my mother to let me take kung fu by agreeing to first try ballet, probably because it was the more appropriate, ladylike choice that would help me ensnare a winner husband one day. But after I had embarrassed her by punching and kicking my way through the Nutcracker (I was fighting sexism as literally as I could), my mother finally gave in—just kung fu.

  Ali: 1. My mother: everything else.

  With each punch I mentally fought to keep my mother and her secrets out. I’d since confirmed that Liang was indeed a surname, but I couldn’t recall any family friends or acquaintances with that last name. As for the photo, I had searched the internet for “parks in China, Liang, Chu” because I was really that desperate, and, well, no surprise at the millions of hits I got.

  As soon as I successfully booted my mother out of my head, Chase flooded in. With each successive hook, uppercut, and side kick, my mind wandered to a place I normally didn’t let it go. I couldn’t stand the stereotypes this town projected onto my family and me, but what did it mean that a lot of them were true? Not just for me, but now also for Chase?

  I didn’t see him come in, but I felt it. There was a stillness in the room, the kind that happens with fresh meat in shark-filled waters. No doubt everyone was sizing the newbie up, taking in his age and build, worrying whether they would be kicked one rung lower.

  A chuckle bubbled in my throat. When I had first arrived, the rest of the group had barely looked at me, thinking a girl couldn’t be any competition. Ha. Nothing feels better than showing up a group of sexists with a metaphorical and literal kick in the ass. Now they still didn’t pay attention to me, but it wasn’t because I was worthless. The opposite: I was out of their league.

  When his face appeared in my peripheral vision, my fist faltered and met the bag with a pathetic thud. Even though I had to drive twenty minutes to the next
town for a kung fu class, and even though there had never been another Asian student before, of course it had to be him.

  Chase gave the obligatory martial arts salute, left palm meeting right fist, as he entered the expansive practice hall. Clearly experienced, at least somewhat. On my first day, I hadn’t known the rules, and my failure to salute the portraits on the wall had cost me a punishment of twenty push-ups. I did forty. Now, every time I entered, I took the time to acknowledge each kung fu grandmaster in my head: Beardy, Mole Hair, Baldy, Shīfu, the last of which was my teacher’s teacher, and thus called “teacher” by the rest of us. Our grand-shīfu, if you will. But when I had suggested that name to the rest of the class, the raised eyebrows and sudden interest in extra push-ups spoke louder than words. I never made that mistake again.

  I turned back to beating the crappity-crap-crap out of the punching bag, but Chase made a beeline for me. Again, I could just feel it. Something about being in this room heightened my senses.

  I kicked the bag’s proverbial nuts. “Stalking me?” I said when I sensed he was beside me. My skin crawled—had I somehow ended up in one of those sappy rom-coms I hated?

  He rolled his eyes. “You’re the one who already knew my name… though I guess I’m guilty of the same. Well, sort of. Turns out that wasn’t actually your name.”

  Sometimes I wondered if our names defined who we were, like maybe I was destined to be confused about my identity because I was not-quite-Allie—I was this amorphous blob of a name that could apply to either gender and many races.

  Instead of telling me how he knew my name, he grabbed a handheld pad and motioned for me to hit. “Show me what you got.”

  A smile curled on my lips, more sinister than intended. Or maybe not. Maybe it was exactly as sinister as I wanted.

  I wound back, then slammed my right fist into the pad, using my hip turn to power it. He barely flinched. Pissed, I stepped to the side, then roundhoused the pad square in the center.

  This time he took a step back, but instead of being upset or spurred into competition or whatever I thought I was going to get out of him, he said, “Damn, that was quite a kick. Finally mad at yourself for not saying something in calc this morning?”

  Even though the situation wasn’t funny in the least, I laughed. As much as my mother wished she could tell you my laugh sounded like chimes and syrup, I actually sounded like a witch with a wart on her nose. Okay, maybe not that bad, but it was certainly a bit of a cackle, made harsher by my windedness. Chase stared at me like he was flummoxed by my weirdness. (Good.)

  Our instructor, Marcin, entered, and I automatically saluted, partly because it was the rule, but also because I respected him deeply for going against the norm and becoming one of the few (only?) Polish kung fu masters in the world.

  During warm-ups, I kept my eyes on Marcin, the weapons wall, the tumbling mats stacked in the corner—anything but Chase. But after we finished our last set of sit-ups, it was hard not to watch him. Because, much to my dismay, he was a ninja. A graceful, infuriating ninja. His butterfly kicks soared and his extensions were endless, his lines all crisp and straight. I worried he’d think I was beneath him (his jumps raised him two heads higher than me), but he was staring at me with a weird-ass sort of amazement on his face. Which only pushed me harder, because it made me worry he had lower standards for girls. I stretched every muscle, put power behind each move, and strove for perfection. The energy between us crackled, and I wondered if the others could feel it.

  We broke into pairs to practice a Chángquán matching routine. Because we had an odd number and I was the only girl, I usually fought with Marcin. I preferred it that way—I wanted to go up against the best.

  But I didn’t need “Asian genes,” as Racist Robinson would say, to figure out who I’d be sparring with today.

  Gawwd. At least we were fighting, not pairing up to take care of an egg or something. I usually went full-out with Marcin… and that didn’t have to change, right? I was sure Chase wouldn’t want my pity.

  I attacked: fast fists, explosive kicks. Chase sprang into action, blocking, swiping, and ducking, matching me blow for blow. It made me speed up more. A familiar breeze from my swinging limbs enveloped me, the same one that always made me feel powerful, untouchable—the very reason I was so in love with this art form, this room, my canvas Feiyue shoes that gripped the floor perfectly.

  “Whoa, whoa, easy, Allie!” Marcin said, grabbing my cocked fist. “You’re acting like he killed your puppy.”

  No, my mom was the one who gave Cupid away because she thought he was distracting me too much from school.

  Out of breath, I panted, “Sorry, M., you know I like—”

  “It rough, I know.” He turned red—his face never flushed from physical exertion, only embarrassment. He dropped my hand. “I mean, you like to go at it hard.” Then he just backed away. He knew as well as everyone else here that his save attempts became worse—yes, believe it—at tries three, four, and five. He’d once had a fifth attempt involving me in a threesome with a monkey (referring to the monkey style of kung fu, of course, but he never specified).

  Chase stared after Marcin the way everyone did following their first Phil Dunphy moment with him. Then he shifted his gaze to me. “I can get on board with rough and hard.”

  I scoffed. “You couldn’t handle it.”

  “I’m not the one panting right now.”

  “Maybe I’m panting because I’ve resorted to just faking it. Can it be called a ‘matching form’ if I’m doing all the work?” Pineapple cake never tasted so good.

  He laughed. “You win.”

  He smiled at me, and finally I smiled back. No better way to my heart than telling me my favorite words: You win.

  When we rearranged to practice solo forms, I was relieved to have some space from Chase, who joined the newer students (and to answer the obvious question—yes, my chest puffed out that I was in the more advanced group). I used the alone time to clear my mind from lingering bits of banter. (Jesus, what was happening to me?)

  Marcin ended class with a bow and a whistle. “Welcome, Chase. You certainly brought a new energy to class. We’re delighted to have you with us.”

  As soon as Marcin and the other students left the practice hall, Chase and I collapsed into two sweaty heaps. The frayed brown carpet millimeters from my nose smelled (and looked) like years of hard work and perspiration. The musty scent always filled me with a confusing combination of disgust, respect, and comfort.

  The lights flicked off, but I was too tired to move.

  “Come to dinner with me,” Chase’s disembodied voice called out.

  I was so shocked I started coughing.

  His clothes rustled. “Never mind,” he said, his voice bouncing around the empty room. “I shouldn’t have said that. I think… I’m desperate for a friend. So far in Indiana, the only things that have been not crappy are meeting you and the view of the weeping willow from my new bedroom window.”

  Even though the sentiment was supposed to be nice, I could only focus on the bizarre comparison to a goddamn willow tree.

  “I fucking hate it here,” he continued. No shit. “You know how I knew your name? Because the second anyone saw me, they asked if I knew you.”

  I held back a groan. If I made a noise, it could change the course of conversation, and I wanted to hear more. I pictured what I looked like to him—silent, stoic, calm—and almost burst out laughing at how differently the world sometimes sees us versus how we see ourselves.

  Eventually, he said, “I grew up in Flushing, Queens—as in Asians everywhere you look, and plenty of other Taiwanese immigrants. We were completely entrenched in the Chinese community, to the point where I could barely remember all the aunties’ names.”

  I swallowed a chuckle.

  His voice grew small. “My parents just picked everything up and moved us here, of all places—we even live on White fucking Lane. No one asked me—about anything, really, ever. Why does it have to
be so secretive and uncomfortable and hard?” Join the party no one wanted an invite to. “Whenever I try to talk to them, they just always say, ‘Focus on your studies and be a good kid; just—’ ”

  “Tīnghuà,” I finished for him. “Except that phrase is more for little kids and makes me want to punch something every time my mǔqīn says it.”

  “You call your mother ‘mǔqīn’?”

  “Only when she deserves it.” What else was I supposed to call her when she was being distant—too distant to be “Mǎmá”?

  The early fall breeze from the open window carried his laugh into what felt like infinity. Maybe I was being dramatic, but he was the only one to have ever understood my Chinese jokes. This was brand-new territory for me with two languages. Usually those jokes stayed in my head, or I said them out loud to my parents with mild success. Even though my dad used to be goofy before we moved here and I’d never had to call him “fùqīn” (the formal version of “father” akin to “mǔqīn”), he only understood my jokes half the time. And of course, even if my mǔqīn understood, she wouldn’t laugh.

  “How many times have you moved?” I asked.

  “Just this once, why?”

  “Darn. I thought maybe I’d cracked it: that your parents moved three times to follow Mengzi’s advice on how to find the best school. But I guess it’s weird to do that your senior year; wasn’t Mengzi like five when his mother did that?”

  “I dunno,” he said. For some reason, I pictured him shrugging. “I didn’t actually pay attention in Chinese school.”

  “Chinese school? What about life? He’s, like, the second most famous Chinese philosopher.”

  Something nudged my foot and I jumped in surprise. “Nerd,” he said, his voice closer than before.

  I rolled my eyes even though he couldn’t see me. “You’re the one in six AP classes.”