3
THE THING WAS, THOM WASN’T Superman, but she did have a superpower.
She was incredibly strong. But not in the good way.
Strength was the sort of thing that seemed cool, and maybe it would have been if she just didn’t have so much of it.
It had started out small last summer. Ma couldn’t open a pickle jar, and Thom had twisted it off with no trouble at all. That was kind of nice. If it had stopped there, her strength might have actually been useful.
But then it got worse. She picked up an unopened water bottle and crushed it, water exploding everywhere. Luckily, this had been during soccer practice at her last school and all the girls were splashing themselves to cool down, so they had just laughed it off.
Then one day, she closed her bedroom window too hard and all the windows in the house shattered. Good thing Ma thought it was an earthquake—that was back in Los Angeles, where earthquakes weren’t unusual.
For a few months, she’d still been able to kick the ball at soccer without popping it, hurting anyone, or breaking something. She’d managed to get through most of the season without people discovering that she wasn’t completely normal.
Then came the very last game she’d played on her old team. When Thom had tried to pass the ball to her teammate Brenda, she kicked too hard. She’d passed the ball to her all right, only it bounced off Brenda’s arm and hit Hang, then Quyen, then Anna, and knocked five other girls off their feet. Brenda sprained a wrist and Quyen got a nasty bump on her forehead, but aside from a few bruises, no one else was hurt. They’d all laughed it off, thought it was hilarious, like something out of a Jackie Chan movie.
But Thom knew the truth.
She was a freak.
Something was wrong with her.
Maybe she was like Superman. Maybe they were related. But probably not, because even though he was from another planet, Superman could also shoot lasers out of his eyes and see through walls. She couldn’t do any of those things. Thom was just really, unnaturally, dangerously strong.
Which was why she shouldn’t have kicked the ball. Because the moment her foot connected with that thing, everyone could see exactly how strange she was.
* * *
Ma hated to cook, which meant they were having frozen dumplings, scallion pancakes, and broccoli beef, heated in the microwave for dinner. Their dog, Mochi, a white Pomeranian with brown spots, followed her from the dining room to the kitchen, licking his lips and panting each time the smell of a new dish filled the house.
Thom set the table with two pairs of chopsticks, two spoons, and a paper towel torn in half—one half for each of them. Mochi pranced up to her, his fluffy tail wagging, nails clicking on the tiled floor. Thom reached down to pet him. He came close to sniff her hand, started shivering, and then backed away with a whimper.
Ma carried a plate to the table. “Mochi, stop it. It’s just Thommy.”
Thom straightened, and Mochi stopped shaking. He looked up and wagged his tail, so she reached for him again, but then he started shivering again. Her insides tightened and numbed. Even her own dog didn’t like her.
“It’s okay, cưng,” Ma said.
Thom was usually embarrassed when her mom called her sweetie in Vietnamese, but at least they were at home and no one could hear. Funny how back in West City, it had never bothered her—the way Ma talked—but now in Troy, Thom didn’t want anyone to hear. Everyone would think it sounded funny. Not haha funny but weirdo funny. And even though she’d never heard anyone make fun of Ma’s accent, she was acutely aware of how Asian it sounded, here in Troy, where Kathy’s family was the only other Asian family they knew.
“He just being weird,” Ma added. “Come eat. The food is ready.”
They sat down at the glass kitchen table, which was lined with old newspapers instead of a real tablecloth. Ma piled Thom’s small bowl with beef and dumplings, topping off the mountain with a scallion pancake that threatened to avalanche onto the table.
“Eat, eat, eat,” she said, waving her hand. “You so small. They not feeding you enough at school. Eat, or they think I starve you.”
Thom picked up her chopsticks, and they snapped in half, the pieces clattering onto the table. She looked up quickly at Ma to gauge her reaction: Was she mad? Freaked-out? But Ma just tsked, got a different pair from the kitchen, and positioned them correctly in Thom’s hand, so that one was balanced on her middle finger and another on her index.
“Thanks,” Thom said, reaching for a clump of rice, but her grip must have been too strong again, because this time the chopsticks bent. She was being so gentle, too. She looked at her mother again and caught the widened eyes before Ma fixed her expression into a reassuring smile. “Can I just get a fork?” asked Thom.
“Ayah, you’ll never learn to use chopsticks if you never practice. Go get another pair.”
“But—”
“You ashamed of your culture?”
“No, I … What does that have to do with chopsticks, Ma?”
“Asians use chopsticks.”
“Not all of them,” Thom mumbled.
“I say go get another pair.”
Thom slunk to the kitchen, then sat back down, holding the chopsticks with the lightest touch she could manage without dropping them.
“You talk to Thuy?” Ma asked.
She nodded, even though it was a lie. Thuy was Thom’s best friend at her old school. They had done everything and gone everywhere together. People thought they were sisters. Though, thinking about it, that was also probably because they were both Asian and had the same dark hair and were about the same height. Truthfully, Thuy had always been much prettier than Thom—her nose was slim, her hair a thick, dark frame around her small face. Thom, on the other hand, had cheeks so chubby that her aunties pinched them until they turned red, a wide, flat nose, and a ruddy complexion that always made people ask her if she was okay, because she looked flushed.
Now the time difference between Georgia and California and Thuy’s strict tutoring schedule made it impossible for the two of them to talk. Texting was easier, but Thuy hadn’t responded to her last three messages and Thom had given up on checking her phone every few minutes.
“How she doing?” Ma asked.
“Good.”
“You make any new friends at school today?”
Thom tried to take a bite of the pancake, but it was too chewy—Ma had left it in the microwave for too long—so she shoved the whole thing in her mouth, which gave her an excuse not to answer.
Ma tsked. “You never get husband if you eat like that.” She shook her head. “Friends?” Ma asked again. She always insisted that this was the true path to happiness. Surround yourself with people, bury yourself in your studies, and keep yourself busy enough that you’ll never have time to realize how miserable you are. It didn’t explain why she had suddenly taken a new job in Troy at the college library. They’d had to move across the country, away from everyone they’d ever known.
Thom swallowed the lump of pancake. It threatened to lodge halfway down, but then, painfully, it passed. Ma cleared her throat.
Thom shook her head. No friends.
“It’s okay. Give it time,” Ma said.
“Why can’t we move back?” Thom asked. It was the same question she asked almost every day.