American Panda Page 3

  At my first class, as soon as the beat hit, I fell in love. Dance was the one place I truly belonged, where age, race, looks, and intelligence didn’t matter. I had pretended to continue dancing for my parents’ sakes—partly to earn brownie points but mostly because I was scared if they knew just how much I loved it, they would take it away. Dancers don’t make money, Mei.

  But they took it away anyway. Once MIT notified me on March 14th (Pi Day!) that I had been accepted, my parents cut me off from my only mode of expression. Dance has served its purpose, my mother had said. Why you need expensive shoes and classes? Just dòng yi dòng—move here, more there—around the house. Walking in place costs no money and is also exercise (said by the person who was chopstick-thin without trying).

  I had to sneak dance in from then on, just like so many other things. Non-Chinese food. Romance books. Even now, away from home, I felt the need to hide. Because I couldn’t escape them. They were always with me, overhead, scolding me and trying to steer me onto the one right track for my life.

  And right now I was sneaking in one more thing: teaching dance. The local dance studio’s ad had popped up all over campus, greeting me everywhere I turned, asking me if I knew of a Chinese dance instructor for their workshop sponsored by China Adoption Agency, the nonprofit organization whose mission was to help adoptive, non-Asian parents educate their Chinese children about their heritage.

  Even though a sliver of me felt that these children should be kept in the dark about their often-harsh culture, every time I saw the flyer, I couldn’t help thinking, Yes, I know a Chinese dance instructor who just miiight be interested. I pictured what styles I would teach. Picked out music. Choreographed combinations. And then, two days before the workshop, I finally called. I had reasoned that by then they had probably already found someone, so I wasn’t really disobeying my parents. And the fact that they hadn’t and begged me to help . . . well, I was being a good person by offering my assistance. So how could my parents be mad about that?

  A little Chinese girl age five or six dressed in a pale-pink leotard and matching tights walked into the studio. Her steps were shy and she was holding her mother’s hand, but she was eager enough to lead the way. With each step, her leather ballet shoes crinkled with newness.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. The studio owner had told me over the phone that she wasn’t sure anyone would show up given the late notice.

  “Sweetie, can you introduce yourself?” the mother said.

  “I’m Rose. Like the flower.” She pointed to a plastic rose charm on her bracelet.

  “I’m Mei,” I said, but she wasn’t paying attention.

  She reached out a hesitant finger and touched my purple ballet skirt as if it were Cinderella’s slipper. As she gazed up at me with huge watery eyes, she asked, “Are you a princess?”

  I’d never felt like a princess before—just the ugly stepsister. I shook my head no.

  She touched my skirt again. “You look like a princess.”

  “If I’m a princess, you’re a princess.” I grabbed an extra skirt from my bag, made a mental note to wash it as soon as I returned home, then wrapped it around Rose’s waist, five times instead of the usual three.

  Rose twirled right, then left, watching with unbelieving eyes as the billowy fabric danced with her. Her mother took this as a sign to leave.

  I lowered myself to the floor and extended my legs to both sides. “We have to warm up so we don’t get hurt.”

  Rose joined me, her flexible young legs shooting into a perfect split. She lay forward on her belly, her head toward me, and said, “You’re Chinese, like me.” She pointed a stubby finger at herself.

  Except you’re really American, I couldn’t help but think. I hated the touch of envy that shot into my throat like bile. She would never have to deal with child-of-immigrant guilt.

  I managed a smile. “We’re going to learn some Chinese dance today. Are you ready?”

  Rose sat up and bobbed her head. A hair loosened from her bun.

  I started my playlist, and the studio exploded with the crashing of cymbals and the twanging of the Chinese lute. Something inside me shifted, and my fingertips tingled with the need to dance. It was as if a key had been turned, and my alter ego switched off.

  This was home.

  I grinned at Rose genuinely and lost myself in the music, timing my head shakes and wrist turns to each bell chime and drum beat. The Dunhuang style was my favorite because of the rich history, the movements originating from paintings of gods discovered in ancient caves in the Gansu province.

  I raised my arms in a U shape, my hands forming tails like a serif font. Rose imitated, keeping pace with me as I quickened my head bobbles to match the beat. As the music crescendoed to its climax, I spun and Rose followed, twirling in a tornado of giggles.

  Next a Dai song flowed from the speakers: smooth, sultry, and slow. I started to show Rose the peacock hands that the Yùe Nán aboriginal tribe was known for, but she was too busy galloping around the studio to notice me. Her Dunhuang head shakes were accompanied by a few creations of her own—kung-fu kicks, jelly legs, even some air slaps—and my instinct was to rein her in. But why? Wasn’t she just being creative?

  My old dance teacher popped into my head. That old flamingo—all legs, pointy mouth, and always too much pink rouge. I hated her and the castanets that would click her disapproval, just like my mother’s tongue. I used to try to add hip-hop to Chinese dance until she clacked it out of me.

  I held back and watched Rose stomp, clap, and sway, only periodically following the music. My innocent little rule breaker. She wasn’t straddling two cultures, stuck; she was a smooth blend.

  I joined her, dancing Dai, Xinjiang, hip-hop, whatever I was inspired to do. And for that brief stretch of time, I felt as carefree as Rose looked. I already knew that from then on I would forever be mixing styles and music in the Porter Room—only smooth blends.

  When class ended, Rose’s mother ran in from her seat by the window, clapping frantically. With tears in her eyes, she covered her daughter in hugs and kisses.

  “Thank you, Mei,” she said between pecks.

  “Thanks, Mei!” Rose echoed from underneath her mother’s arms.

  She pulled at her bow until the skirt came loose, but I held my hand out in protest. “No, Rose. You keep it. You’re a princess, remember?”

  Her mother pushed it into my hand. “Oh no, we really couldn’t. Rose, sweetie, we’ll get you one for your birthday. Any color you want!”

  “Red! Like a rose! Like me!”

  She ran to me and wrapped her chubby little arms halfway around my waist, and I let her. I wanted to scoop her up and waltz her around the room. Swing her in the air and hear her laugh. When she danced, I didn’t care what germs she harbored.

  With one last squeal, she was out the door.

  Oblivious to the balloon of glee in my chest, Donna, the studio owner, apologized for attracting only one student. I shook my head, and even though the words did my feelings no justice, I thanked her for this opportunity.

  When she asked if I was interested in teaching a regular class, I answered “absolutely” without thinking, continuing to nod as she launched into possible class times and dance styles. And my head just kept going and going until I was committed to teaching adult hip-hop and children’s Chinese dance on Sundays, to start in a few weeks.

  Donna left, offering me the studio space to prepare choreography for my upcoming classes, but I was too overwhelmed to do anything but sprawl on the floor, faceup, like I was about to make a snow angel. All I could think was how Rose would love the ribbons and fans I had at home. I chuckled, picturing all the creative ways she would use the props.

  Owning a dance studio had been my fantasy when I was young, naive, and full of dreams. Ever since I was one of Miss Daisy’s pre-prima ballerinas. My imagination took off—a dance school offering styles from all cultures, demand so high there was a waiting list, money in my bank account, my pare
nts beaming proudly nearby.

  The image of them brought me back to reality. I sat up, the excitement draining out my pointed toes. Even if my business was wildly successful and featured Chinese dance, they still wouldn’t be proud.

  Suddenly I realized the weight of my earlier blunder—if my mom found out I was teaching dance instead of devoting every second to studying, I might as well move into Ying-Na’s refrigerator box now. I had to back out. What had I been thinking? My insides felt cold, not because of the impending embarrassment at reneging (which yes, sucked), but more because I wouldn’t get to teach dance. No more Rose. No more pre-prima-ballerina dreams.

  As I stared at the cracks on the wall, I tried to imagine a Harvard Medical School acceptance letter. Instead of feeling excited like I should have been, dread washed over me. How could someone like me be happy in that life? But I had to make it work.

  My two options were clear. And they both ended in misery.

  I eventually managed to drag myself off the floor.

  Five missed calls.

  When I heard the voicemails, I almost dropped my water bottle.

  Then I ran the entire way back to Burton Conner.

  Flashing lights, an MIT campus police officer, and a tiny Asian woman crying out front.

  Oh. My. God.

  My jog turned into a sprint despite my fatigued muscles from my workout.

  I could hear my mother telling the officer between sobs that I was so young, only seventeen, and he should have kept a better eye on me. She was so distraught that only half her words were audible.

  Despite wanting to crawl into a hole, I yelled, “Mǎmá! I’m here! Everything’s okay!”

  My mother ran up to me and I started to wrap my arms around her, but she shook me instead. “Where’ve you been? You gave me a heart attack! I paid sixty dollars to take a cab here!” She didn’t drive in the city, too scared of Boston’s traffic, one-way streets, and aggressive drivers.

  The officer’s eyes darted back and forth between my mom and me. “Miss, your mother here said you’ve been unaccounted for. For the past forty-eight hours.”

  Before I could respond—not that I knew how—my mother bowed and said, “Thank you, Officer. You found her. So smart, so skilled. I’ll be sure to call and tell your boss what a great job you’re doing.” She bowed every few steps as we scrambled into Burton Conner.

  Once we were inside, my mother swatted my arm. “Don’t scare me like that again!”

  “I’m sorry!” I paused for a moment before saying, “Maybe now, in retrospect, you can see that you overreacted a tad?”

  “Mei, I worry about you because I’m your muqīn. It’s been . . . hard.” Her voice trailed off, but I could see in her face that she had been worrying about me since I left home. In fact, now that I was looking more carefully, she had a few new lines around her eyes and mouth. She couldn’t be happy about that.

  The exasperation that had been swimming through my system evaporated. I dug through my bag and handed her a printed copy of my schedule. “I’m sorry it’s been hard. Thanks for worrying about me, but next time try to wait a little longer before freaking out and calling the police, okay? I’m careful and you don’t have to worry so much. It’s not good for you.” I wished I could say more—tell her I loved her and worried about her too, that I thought her high blood pressure was a result of her constant panicking and that I wished I could take it away—but the words merely bubbled in my throat before dying.

  She studied the piece of paper like it was a cheat sheet for an upcoming exam. “Where were you just now?” Her eyes raked over my spandex pants and gym bag.

  Cue the guilt sweat. “I was at my PE class,” I lied, a little too smoothly for my own comfort. “We have to take physical education as part of our curriculum.” At least that part was true, but there were no dance classes. I had signed up for yoga, and MIT’s version was basically napping with strangers.

  She pointed to my schedule. “That’s not on here.”

  “Well, I’ll put it on there for you, but you can’t know where I am every second. . . . I mean, I have other things that come up too, without warning. Like my study group.” The lies came out easily, and the shame rained down. Would the heavens open so my ancestors could smite me?

  “Okay, you’re right. Study group is important. I’ll be better. Well . . . I’ll try.” She squeezed her tiny pìgu onto the ledge by the entrance and clutched her giant purse in front of her. “You go study now. I’ll wait for Bǎbá to pick me up. Save money.”

  I glanced at my watch. He wouldn’t be done with work for hours. “Why don’t we go do something? I don’t have any more lectures today. And I’m all caught up with assignments and readings,” I added quickly.

  My mother glanced back at my paper schedule and nodded as if confirming she had indeed memorized it correctly. “Okay. What do you have in mind?”

  I racked my brain. We couldn’t spend any money. Couldn’t do anything adventurous or dangerous or weird. “Can I show you around MIT?”

  Her face lit up. She had wanted to attend some of the parents’ events during orientation week, but my father couldn’t get off work and I knew she had held back because she was insecure about her English and rarely talked to strangers in the foreign tongue (the exception being when she thought I was kidnapped, apparently).

  With the rare flicker of excitement in my mother’s eyes, my grin grew so wide my lips felt strained against my gums, and they remained this way as we walked past the dome-shaped Kresge Auditorium and into the Student Center.

  “This is—” I started, but my mother left my side to inspect the students making ice cream at a table in the lobby. She clutched her purse in front of her as she leaned toward them, peering curiously at the thick gloves on the boy’s hands. Her eyes ping-ponged between the gloves and me as she silently asked me what was going on.

  “They’re making ice cream with liquid nitrogen,” I said.

  The boy grabbed the liquid nitrogen canister and poured carefully into the metal bowl. Fog bubbled up and flowed out like dry ice contacting water. Double, double toil and trouble. Was there anything cooler than seeing molecules shift before your eyes?

  My mother took a step closer, but I reached out and gently pulled her back by the elbow. “Be careful,” I whispered. “The vapor coming off is so cold it could burn you. Don’t touch the table either.”

  Her eyes crinkled, pride dancing with curiosity in the folds of her crow’s feet. My heart soared into my throat, making my breath hitch.

  “Did you learn that in your classes?” she whispered to me.

  I managed a nod even though I wasn’t sure where I’d learned it. High school? 5.111? Deductive reasoning? I didn’t care. I just stared at my mom’s face.

  The boy dished some creamy goodness out and pushed the paper bowls across the table to us. “It’s strawberry.” He turned to my mother. “It should be creamier than normal ice cream because the liquid nitrogen freezes it so much faster than conventional methods. Fewer ice crystals this way.”

  I hesitated before grabbing mine, but my mother’s tongue didn’t cluck before she coated it in ice cream. In fact, she wasn’t even looking at me. Her mouth still full, she nodded at the boy to signal her appreciation. “Mmm.” She retrieved a tissue from the giant stack in her purse and dabbed, then flashed him a thumbs-up. Was I hallucinating?

  Ice cream in hand, we resumed touring the campus. We walked through MIT’s iconic Killian Court and, as usual, a horde of East Asian tourists milled about, squatting into kung-fu horse stances here and there to capture the perfect photo. I had learned within my first week that they were as much a fixture on campus as the courtyard itself.

  My mother chuckled. “Look at their mabù—pretty good, right? And all for a photo.” She thought for a second. “Well, I guess if it makes you look better it’s worth it.”

  I wanted a photo of this moment. So badly I would mabù to get it, just to have proof of my mother giggling with me over des
sert, no criticisms spilling out between sentences—only strawberry liquid nitrogen ice cream.

  I wanted to come up with something witty to knock her socks off, make her laugh in that genuine, high-pitched way that was as rare as imperial green jade. But . . . there was nothing. Nothing she would understand anyway. I poked around my brain for some Chinese chéngyu, an idiom or cautionary tale that somehow related, but . . . nothing.

  “Do you like the ice cream?” I asked instead.

  “It’s like bàobīng but softer. And sweeter.”

  I had no idea if that was a good thing or not. Chinese desserts were typically not very sweet—all red beans, mung beans, or the rare fruit. “So you like it?”

  “It’s like cake, but liquid.” I wondered if my mom didn’t want to admit it was delicious because she was scared I’d eat it all the time, or if this was yet another instance of us being on different wavelengths. We were usually on opposite ends—radio waves and gamma rays.

  She barely paused before diving into her next thought, which was related only to her. “You know, Mrs. Ahn is the worst chef. She tried to make bàobīng at home once. It was all ice pebbles drowning in milk soup. Disgusting.”

  I chuckled, picturing the gross red bean Popsicles Mrs. Ahn used to force on me. I always had to thank her profusely, then find a way to flush them down the toilet. She probably thought I had irritable bowel syndrome. And that I loved her Popsicles so much I couldn’t stop eating them even while doing my business.

  “I tell her, stop trying to make such hard things. Even her dànchaofàn is bad. Who can’t make egg fried rice?”

  Me, I thought, but I didn’t want to remind my mother that I would be a bad wife for Eugene Huang because I couldn’t cook.

  At the MIT Coop, my mother tried on twenty different MIT MOM shirts until she found The One that accentuated her figure. I snapped a photo (no mabù needed), just managing to catch the hint of pride at the edge of her eyes.