Bitter Melon (17 page)

“But if he’s not interested in me, wouldn’t it be better if I knew for sure instead of having to guess?” Theresa says.

I am irritated by Theresa’s logic. “If he doesn’t call you, then that’s all you need to know,” I insist. “Don’t humiliate yourself by calling him. If he wants you, then he should make the first move.”

Theresa sighs again. We finish up our cocoa. Now it’s report card time. I have Theresa’s report card and she has mine.

“Ready?” I say.

“Ready.”

We open each other’s report cards. My biggest fear is getting a B and ruining my 4.5 grade point average. Mom would kill me if that happened.

“What did I get?” Theresa asks.

“Mostly As. A-minuses in speech and English. How about me?”

“All As, with A-minuses in government and physics.” Good. That means I got an A in speech. It would be embarrassing not to do better than Theresa in speech when I’m the one who’s been in competition.

Suddenly, Theresa’s face falls.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Speech is on your report card.”

“Yeah. So?”

Then it hits me. Our moms have to sign our report cards. My report card shows that I took speech and not calculus.

“What are you going to do?” Theresa asks.

I wish I knew. I stare at the signature portion of Theresa’s report card. I visualize my mother’s handwriting on the thick black line. I spell out her name with my eyes. Then I trace the sharp, slanted letters with my fingers. Slowly, an idea comes to mind.

At the end of speech class, I approach Ms. Taylor’s desk. Theresa waits for me at the doorway. Ms. Taylor pulls out my college application for Scripps.

“Looks good. I think this is a winner,” she says.

I nod and take the application. It feels good to have Ms. Taylor’s stamp of approval. I hadn’t planned on asking her to
review it, but when she offered, I was more than happy to accept.

“Have you filled out your financial-aid form?” she asks.

I nod, even though it is still sitting in my folder, totally blank. “I applied for scholarships too,” I add. At least that part is true.

“And one more thing.” Ms. Taylor beckons to Theresa. “This is for you too.” Theresa approaches. I quickly hide my application in my folder. Ms. Taylor pulls out a few papers stapled together. “The Chinese American Association is sponsoring its first speech tournament,” she tells us. “Now, here are the challenges. It’s not like the state-sponsored tournaments, where you compete in groups of five for several rounds. All the competitors are herded on a stage like cows, and each speaker goes one after another, so you’re out of luck if you’re number thirteen out of fifteen. You only get one chance to speak, so there’s no second chance if you have a bad round. And the competition is Friday.”

“This
Friday?” I say.

“Sorry about the late notice, but I just got this information this morning,” Ms. Taylor says. “Now here’s the good news. Because this is only for competitors of Chinese descent, the competition pool will be different. You won’t have to compete against all the Derek Collinses, so your chances of winning are higher.”

I wince at his name. Then it dawns on me that she has a point. This could be my only guaranteed Derek-free competition.

“Also, unlike the state-sponsored competitions, winners get money as well as a trophy,” Ms. Taylor continues. “The first-place winner gets five hundred dollars; the second-place winner
gets two hundred fifty dollars; and the third-place winner gets one hundred twenty-five dollars. And this will be pretty high profile in the Chinese American community. Finally, this is the association’s first speech event. Wouldn’t you like to say you were a part of history? It’ll also look good on your application.” Ms. Taylor winks at me.

“Oh, and one more advantage,” Ms. Taylor adds. “Unlike the state tournaments, family members are allowed to attend. So you can invite your family!”

Great. Just what I need.

Theresa starts shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“Don’t look so nervous, Theresa,” Ms. Taylor says. “There is no reason why you can’t do this and have fun.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m more interested in just speaking in class, to improve my communication skills,” Theresa says. “I don’t want to be in the spotlight.”

“Well, I’m leaving the door open in case you change your mind,” Ms. Taylor says to Theresa. Then she turns to me. “I’m closing your door before you have a chance to sneak out.” She smiles mischievously at me and winks again.

Theresa looks at me as if to say,
Tell her no!
I pretend not to notice. I walk out the door with Theresa.

Once we reach the hallway, Theresa starts walking faster, so fast that even I, with my longer legs, can’t keep up with her.

“It wasn’t my fault,” I say.

Theresa rushes down two flights of stairs, not looking at me at all. I’m out of breath, but I manage to stay on her heels.

“I didn’t say that I would do it. She just assumed,” I add.

We reach the locker room. Theresa opens her combination lock, her fingers furious.

“How can I say no to her? She’s counting on me,” I say.

Theresa wrenches her locker door open. She hangs her head and sighs.

“But
you
are also counting on
me
to keep this a secret,” she says. “And I was counting on you to stop. My dad is a member of the Chinese American Association. Do you realize how much harder it will be to hide this competition than it was to hide the first one? It will be in the Chinese newspaper. It will be on Channel Twenty-six.” Channel 26 is the Chinese TV station.

“I said no to make it easier for you to say no,” Theresa says. “If you didn’t get to compete and I did, you would feel bad. Also, my mom would attend. So would Auntie Gracie. Ms. Taylor would talk to them about you and blow your cover.”

I picture Theresa, the tongue-tied introvert, competing in a speech contest. “Did you really want to compete in the CAA tournament?” I ask.

“At first, I wasn’t interested in competing at all,” she says. “But then I saw how well you did and how that changed you. You look taller now, brighter somehow. It made me think that maybe I had made a mistake by not taking any risks.”

“Well, you shouldn’t deny yourself just so I don’t feel bad,” I say.

Theresa changes her books and retrieves her lunch. “Never
mind,” she says. “I’d probably just make a fool out of myself anyway.”

“That’s not true,” I say. “Maybe we can both compete. Maybe we can find a way not to let our moms know.”

Theresa looks at me incredulously.

“I can’t back down now,” I say. “Not after everything Ms. Taylor has done for me.”

“Are you really doing this for Ms. Taylor or are you doing it for yourself?” Theresa says.

My face flushes hot. “I can’t believe it,” I say. “You’re my best friend and you’re calling me selfish. Fine. Do you want me to tell Ms. Taylor to count me out? If so, just tell me and I’ll do it.”

Our stares form crossed swords prepared for battle. Finally, Theresa looks down. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” she says with a tone of resignation. She closes her locker. I follow her to the cafeteria, smiling inside over my victory.

To my relief and good fortune, Theresa is not the type to hold grudges. Before long, she is back to her cheerful self. We have a truce. I will compete. Theresa will not mention what I’m up to, but she won’t lie for me either. Theresa will compete, but she won’t invite Nellie to attend. We haven’t figured out how we will compete without our mothers finding out, but we still have a few days.

We are supposed to leave for Nellie’s house for dinner soon.
I am sitting at my desk. Mom is in the bathroom. I have before me the current report card and a report card from last year. The two lie side by side. On top of them is a sheet of white scratch paper with
Gracie Ching
written in cursive on it over and over. I hold the sheet of paper up to Mom’s signature on the old report card. The second to the last
Gracie Ching
is close but not exactly like Mom’s signature. It looks too shaky. I practice writing my mother’s name a few more times. Then, with quick strokes, I write my mother’s signature on the new report card with a blue ballpoint pen.

The phone rings, almost causing me to smear my forgery. I hide the report card in my backpack before picking up the receiver.

“Frances.” It’s Theresa.

“We’ll be leaving soon,” I say.

“That’s not why I’m calling,” Theresa says. “My mom found the trophy.”

I gasp. Quickly, I look behind me to make sure Mom is out of earshot.

“I hid it in my closet in my suitcase,” Theresa says. “Mom decided that we’re going to spend Christmas with Dad in Hong Kong this year. If I had known about that, I would’ve hidden the trophy somewhere else. Anyway, she went into my suitcase this afternoon to see if it was big enough for all our stuff.

“At first, she thought it was mine. I probably should have said nothing, but I couldn’t bear taking credit for your accomplishment. So I ended up telling her it was yours. She doesn’t know
that you’re in speech class. She only knows that you competed and won. I said that you want to surprise Auntie Gracie. I made her promise not to spill the beans and spoil your fun.”

Mom walks into the living room. She has her coat on and is clutching her purse and a fishnet bag of oranges.

“Okay,” I say. “We’ll be over soon. Bye.” I hang up.

“If you weren’t so busy chatting on the phone, we’d be there by now,” Mom says.

I put on my jacket, swing my backpack over my shoulder, and follow Mom to the door.

“Why didn’t you offer to help your mother carry the oranges?” Mom says.

“Sorry.” I take the oranges from Mom.

“I shouldn’t have to ask you. You should have thought of it on your own.”

“Sorry,” I repeat as I follow Mom down the stairs.

Nellie’s kitchen and dining room, which were dingy white before the quake, have now been painted cotton-candy pink. It doesn’t quite go with the lacquered dark-wood credenza, dining table, and chairs, but Nellie is thrilled about it. The four of us are sitting down to dinner. Though we eat here often, I never get used to the crinkly plastic seat covers, which are supposed to protect the embroidered white cushions. A tablecloth made of a similar plastic covers the dining table. Come to think of
it, everything in this house is protected that way. The couch is covered with plastic too. Even the remote controls are covered with cling wrap. The idea is to cover everything so it will last longer but to keep the covers clear so that everyone can see what nice things you have. I’m surprised that they don’t have a plastic covering for their carpet. Then again, there are plastic runners going down the hallway.

Nellie is like the plastic seat covers, which by covering the flashy seats are all the more obvious. As she hands me my bowl of rice, she nudges me, winks, and gives me the thumbs-up. Her back is to Mom, but her body visibly jiggles with enthusiasm, giving her away. Throughout dinner, she smiles brightly at me every chance she gets. I think she enjoys feeling like one of the girls, hiding this big secret from the grown-ups. I try to avoid eye contact with her, but that’s like trying to ignore a pink elephant in the room. So far, Mom hasn’t said anything, but it’s only a matter of time. After dinner, Nellie and Theresa serve the sliced navel oranges that Mom and I brought over.