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  I found BANH MI OP LA on the wall in big block text, then looked at the tiny sandwich pictured beside it. “What? No way. I want my own.”

  “Sorry, force of habit,” he replied quickly. When I tilted my head to ask for more details, he hesitated before explaining, “When I’m on the job, I try to eat as little as I can when the parents aren’t present so I can stuff myself to the brim in front of them.”

  “Ah. Especially if they cooked, right?”

  He nodded, then said with a grin, “For mooncake points. You know how it is.”

  “I do.” I really do.

  Maybe he was bending his sharing rule because he’d meant it earlier when he said he was just a friend right now. Or maybe my Hongbo situation was so pathetic that these were pity details and consolation jokes.

  He added, “If you don’t eat enough, you get in trouble, and two seconds later they turn around and tell you you’re too fat, right? You just can’t win! With… anything.” His gaze shot to the floor, but only for a second before it returned to me. “I mean, I’m sorry about your situation. Seems like you’re between a shítóu and a hard place, no?”

  The Mandarin kept throwing me off. Why would he use it when he didn’t need to? I’d understand if it was a word that didn’t have an English equivalent, but, come on, “rock”? I had relayed to Andrew my mom’s frequent complaints of Why can’t you embrace where you come from?, so was this part of the job and he was Method operative-ing, staying in character even though it was just us? Or was he actually that in tune with his Chinese side?

  “Do you want me to stop using Mandarin around you?” Andrew asked.

  Damn, had he always been this perceptive, or did he learn it on the job?

  “Nah, it’s cool.” Maybe I’d pick up the habit and get my mom off my back for a minute. But probably not. Especially when I didn’t really want to start melding my two sides.

  I pointed to the banh mi picture. “Let’s get two. If you don’t finish all of yours, I’ll have the rest.”

  He smiled at me, genuinely, and I wondered for a second what he would say if I let him in. If I told him the mess of thoughts I never shared with anyone because I was too scared how they would respond.

  But I didn’t have a chance, because he was already ordering for us.

  * * *

  We sat across from each other in a four-person booth.

  “What do you like about economics?” Andrew asked as he fiddled with his straw.

  I stirred my matcha latte to make sure there were no undissolved pieces at the bottom. “I didn’t give you enough information in my application? This isn’t a real date; you don’t have to bother.”

  He choked on his iced matcha. “Sorry, I was just curious,” he said a little sheepishly. “Forget I asked.”

  I sighed. The more he knows, the better our mission will go, I reminded myself, though I much preferred typing out my answers to telling him face-to-face.

  “I like thinking about how the world works and trying to find ways to make it better. When I interned at a genetics lab in high school and realized you could answer hard questions and think about problems for a living, I knew that’s what I wanted to do. Finding the right subject took a little time and a lot of reading and taking different classes, but…” I shrugged. “When I knew, I knew.” I just wish everything else in life were as easy.

  He nodded, and his faint smile and hooded eyes told me he understood what I was talking about. He had a dream, and I was pretty sure it wasn’t doing this. But instead of asking—I didn’t want to push his friend side too far—I just nodded back at him. It made sense why our interaction was so one-sided, but it was beginning to feel more like an interrogation than a conversation.

  “Thanks for talking up economics to them,” I said.

  He looked at me like he couldn’t wrap his head around my parents having a problem with that, but luckily, he kept those thoughts to himself. Though he did say, “You feel a lot of pressure from them, huh? That must be hard. I’m sorry.”

  I shrugged.

  “So they named you Jing as in…” He broke off and wrote the character in the air with perfect stroke order. Quite elegantly, I might add, forming each of the three “sun” characters that comprised “Jing” like he was painting.

  “Yes, that’s me. Three suns. Shiny, bright, and so successful others can’t open their eyes.”

  “Yikes.”

  “I know.”

  He pressed his lips together, hesitating, before saying, “Is that… why you always seem to be someone else? The shiny person you think your parents want?”

  I wanted a fake boyfriend, not a deep dive into all the things I wasn’t ready to face. I shrugged again, hoping he’d get the hint.

  He leaned closer to me. “For the record, I like the version of you from the application, the one who stands up to gross Lamborghini-loving douchebags, not the one who feels like she has to be nice and smile for the world just because they said so.”

  You’re the only one.

  Our banh mis arrived and we dug in. Fried egg + crispy baguette + chili sauce = delicious enough to make me momentarily forget Hongbo, my parents, and Frankenbāo.

  I had devoured mine, the yolk running every which way, and had just grabbed a piece of Andrew’s when the flurry of texts arrived from my mother.

  Jing-Jing where are you?

  Jing-Jing don’t be ridiculous.

  Jing-Jing come home.

  I need to talk to you right now!

  I tried not to look at my phone each time it buzzed, but I couldn’t not read her messages either, like she had some spell on me—which, I guess, would actually make me feel better if it were true, because then I’d have an excuse for my masochistic behavior.

  “We should go soon,” I said, licking the yolk dribbling down the side of my hand.

  He nodded. “When you’re ready.”

  Then we would never leave.

  Even though I felt safe here, even though leaving was the last thing I wanted to do, I shoved the rest of the banh mi in my mouth and stood.

  Chloe CHAPTER 8

  BÀI TUŌ

  My mother dragged me into the den the second I arrived home without even a hello to Andrew, who was not that far away and could probably hear us.

  “Tiān āh, Jing-Jing! Bài tuō!”

  I ignored her wailing as best as I could. She wasn’t really saying anything—just exasperated mutterings sprinkled with drama.

  By her third “bài tuō,” Jing-Jing was sent back to the box I kept her in when I was outside this house. “Aiyah, Mǎmá, bài tuō yourself!”

  She crossed her arms. “That Chinglish phrase doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Just like you.” Her eyes glinted ominously. “I meant your logic, not your language,” I added quickly. Why was I always taking such care of her ego when she never returned the favor?

  “How could you treat Hongbo like that, Jing-Jing? You might’ve ruined your chances!”

  “His family just wants me because of my reputation,” I argued. “A reputation I didn’t ask for.”

  “You’re the purest of them all!” she exclaimed, which both made me want to laugh and cry. It was one of her favorite things to say to me. “You should be honored! Don’t you know who he is, who his family is? Did I raise a fool? Beggars shouldn’t be choosing.”

  My fists clenched and I shoved down my urge to throw some English mutterings her way. “I’m not a beggar—I have Andrew.”

  She raised one eyebrow. Then the other.

  “And unlike Hongbo, Andrew sees me. Didn’t you hear what he said about how he loves my organization, my neuroses that you claim aren’t attractive?”

  Her lips pursed to one side. “That’s just one thing.”

  “One thing you claimed was a problem. It’s not a problem for him—it’s a plus.” And there it was: the fracture in her wall, visible from the fact that she was now chewing on her upper lip even though it would remove some lipstick. I had to barge t
hrough and topple the walls now, freeing her—and subsequently me—from Hongbo’s hold. “It’s just one thing, but Hongbo doesn’t even know that about me, let alone have an opinion on it. He doesn’t know anything about me.”

  “But you went on that date—”

  “No, you tricked me into going on that date.”

  She made a disapproving tsk. “I tricked you because you were too naive to see the golden opportunity in front of you. What’s that English saying? Something about a golden duck laying money nuggets?”

  “Yup,” I said, even though Aesop was turning in his grave.

  “You let that gold duck run away without even reaching a hand out to catch it!”

  I sighed.

  A mix of sadness and anger clouded my mother’s eyes.

  “Hongbo didn’t learn a single thing about me that night,” I told her. Again. “He brought me to a strip club!”

  “Boys will be boys.”

  “Andrew doesn’t go to strip clubs.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because he’s not a disgusting douchebag.”

  She shook her head. “All boys do that. Some just hide it better than others.”

  “So Bǎbá goes to the strip club?”

  “I’m sure he does, but as long as he provides for our family, I don’t need to know about it.”

  Jesus.

  I tried another tactic. “Don’t you see the way Andrew looks at me? How much he cares?” I was paying a hefty sum for those professional glances.

  “You still have a young person’s view on relationships. Sometimes financial stability is more important than other things, which can fade.”

  “Well, Andrew’s family is well-off too. I’ve seen their house.” Man, was I desperate.

  “They can’t be as well-off as the Kuos—their company went public.”

  “If you would stop kissing Hongbo’s trust-fund ass for one second, you’d realize what a huge mistake you’re making discounting Andrew. His parents have family money too, in addition to their surgeon salaries.” This is all part of the plan, to get Hongbo out of the picture, I told myself. But I was still ashamed of what I’d resorted to, playing into my mother’s shallow standards and acting as if family money were an essential part of a relationship.

  I hated who I became with my parents.

  My mother turned my words over in her head, frowning as she deliberated.

  Finally she nodded. “Good for you, Jing-Jing. I hope you can keep him interested. Won’t be an easy task if he’s as eligible as you say.”

  She whisked into the next room, and through the doors I heard a muffled “Andrew, would you like to join us for a game of mahjong?”

  Which I—and thus Andrew—knew translated to I’m going to interrogate you using the ruse of a friendly game. Phase two had begun: my mother was starting to give him a chance. I was so relieved I almost started crying, but I had some tiles to shuffle.

  Drew CHAPTER 9

  PÒNG!

  After Jing-Jing and I declined lunch with a strategically timed “The delicious breakfast filled us up—we couldn’t possibly eat another bite!” the Wangs brought out a collapsible square table. (Was it specifically bought for mahjong?)

  We settled in, shuffled, and stacked the tiles in silence. Five minutes later, we’d each had a few turns, there was a growing discard pile of directional tiles in the center, and it was still deathly quiet. Like this was the World Series of Mahjong, golden bracelets at stake. Jing-Jing had warned me via application that it would be intense and her mother would try to learn things about me from my strategy, but I wasn’t completely sure what that meant. So I stayed on guard (on the inside, while acting relaxed on the outside).

  “Who taught you to play?” Mrs. Wang asked me, breaking the silence but not looking up from the tiles.

  It was part of my training—rounds and rounds against other operatives so we could become good enough to impress Category 1–3 parents, and to throw games for Category 5–7s. “My wàipó,” I answered, because Category 1a hearts melted at the thought of grandmas passing knowledge (especially Chinese culture–related knowledge) down to their grandsons. “She was tough to beat,” I added with a chuckle. “I have so many wonderful memories of playing with her.”

  My real wàipó was stone cold and hated my love of art because it reminded her of her penniless husband. Huàidàn, she used to call me. Rotten egg. Which was better than what she used to call my paintings (lèsè, for “garbage”).

  I discarded a red middle tile. “And she used it to teach me lessons about critical thinking, planning two steps ahead, stuff like that.”

  “Oh?” Mrs. Wang raised an eyebrow.

  Maybe I was flying too close to the sun, drawing too many parallels to her. “But mostly she just wanted to spend time with me doing what she loved. We’d play with my older brother and one of his friends,” I added, hoping for a distraction and another mooncake point. (That term still made me smile so much.)

  She clicked her fingernails on the table. “Ah, you have an older brother. I’m surprised he didn’t come up sooner.”

  He had (I’d mentioned him yesterday). I was sure of it because I’d been waiting for the usual questions to come, but Mr. and Mrs. Wang had been too focused on my parents. Instead of pointing that out (and contradicting Mrs. Wang unnecessarily), I just told them about my fake brother: “His name is Peter and he’s a computer scientist at IBM.” Big enough company that it wouldn’t invite potential truth-revealing conflicts, and a cushy, money-making job to ensure that he wouldn’t become a financial burden and would be able to support my parents as dictated by firstborn-son expectations (which I knew from Jing-Jing’s form was something the Wangs worried about).

  Both her parents nodded. Sometimes I wondered—if my words were too perfectly curated, would they seem too good to be true? So far, that hadn’t been a problem on any of my jobs, but what if several instances plus time led one of the parents to figure out the truth down the road? Well, I guess I wouldn’t know if that happened. I had no idea what the clients did after my time with them. (Was there a horrific breakup? Did they continue telling their parents we were together but I was otherwise occupied?) But that wasn’t my prerogative, so much so that it was a company rule. Not your prerogative, Operative.

  I dropped a seven bamboo tile.

  Mrs. Wang raised her eyebrows. “Either you have a fabulous hand or you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  Or I just don’t have any other bamboo tiles and it doesn’t make sense to hold on to it.

  Jing-Jing rolled her eyes. “That’s not a Nash equilibrium,” she mumbled.

  “What’s that?” her mother said.

  “Nothing,” Jing-Jing said even quieter.

  “No, go ahead and tell me. I’d love to know what you think I’m missing when I’ve been playing mahjong for twice as long as you’ve been alive.”

  A switch flipped in Jing-Jing. “It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been playing when game theory says—”

  “That’s enough,” Mr. Wang said, a pained tilt to his lips.

  This was way worse than silence.

  My inclination had been to win (if I could) in order to prove to the Wangs I was smart enough to match their incredibly intelligent daughter (which I wasn’t, but I needed some way to trick them into thinking that, and mahjong was a good one). However, her father definitely had an ego, and so did her mother (especially with mahjong, it seemed), so there was some risk with that too.

  I paid attention to what they were discarding: useless directionals and other non-suit tiles, plus numbered tiles from the two ends. They were playing it safe, not wanting to help anyone else, or worse, “drop the bomb” and discard the winning tile (leaving them to fork over some dough—or plastic chips, in our case).

  After a few more circles around the table, I was pretty sure both Mr. and Mrs. Wang were making their hands worse by only discarding the safer tiles.

  Okay. I decided to focus on maximizi
ng my chances of winning, even if it meant taking risks. Especially because that was how Jing-Jing was playing, and there was something romantic and poetic about our united front, even in mahjong strategy, right?

  After another “risky” discard on my end, Jing-Jing beamed at me, already catching on to my plan.

  And she didn’t even have mahjong training with Master Liu. (There aren’t actual mahjong masters, to my knowledge—he just insisted we operatives call him that.)

  I smiled back at her, and for a moment it felt like it was us against the world. Er, well, us against her parents, who were indeed formidable foes.

  “Pòng!” I exclaimed, grabbing the one circle tile Mrs. Wang had just dropped and melding it with the other two in my hand. If she wanted to drop the numbers on the ends, I’d take advantage of that. This must be that equilibrium thing Jing-Jing was talking about.

  Jing-Jing and I continued to “pòng” and “chī” her parents’ tiles, but at the expense of dropping risky pieces, which they picked up. And with each declaration of “Pòng!” or “Chī!” it felt as though a one-against-all game had become team versus team.

  No one said anything as I declared, “Hú,” and pushed my winning hand onto the table to reveal my tiles.

  Mrs. Wang sniffed at me. “You’re reckless.”

  “But it worked,” Jing-Jing said with a laugh. She was gradually becoming more like the girl from the application, the one with oomph and humor and a sparkle hinting at the three suns’ worth of light beneath. I stared at her with a lopsided grin before catching myself and wiping it off, only to realize that, wait, I was supposed to be looking at her like that.

  Christ, I had to pull myself together.

  Eight minimal-talking games later, I had won four, Jing-Jing three, and Mrs. Wang one.

  “You’re ganging up on us,” Mr. Wang joked with a deep chuckle. “Is the secret that you’re working together but your mother refuses to help me?” He turned to his wife. “Come on, Lǎo Pó, help me out here.”

  I knew that Chinese husbands sometimes called their wives “old woman” in Mandarin in the same way someone might say in English “ball and chain” or “little woman” or even “honey” (as I’d heard one man claim, “It’s endearing!”), but it still jarred me when I heard it. (And I could tell Jing-Jing didn’t like it but was more used to it.)