We walk along the quiet, residential streets. I look over at Ming. We still haven’t had a chance to talk about what she told me. “So do your parents know . . . that you’re gay?”
“No way,” she says. “Hopefully they never will.”
Ming kicks another rock, and I study her face.
“How about at school?” I ask.
“You’re the first one.”
Wow. I guard the honor with my heart.
“I’m so proud of you,” I say.
Ming smiles as she lifts her hand to shield the sun out of her eyes. “Thanks,” she says. “It feels pretty good.”
“Are you going to start telling people?” I ask.
“Maybe.” She shrugs. “But not back home.” She lets out a long, labored sigh. “China’s not like here. My family will never understand.”
As she looks up at the palm trees and the vast blue sky, I think about how difficult things must have been for her back home to want to leave her family and come live with strangers in a foreign country.
Nine
Claire
We arrive at LAX. The driver picks us up in a Mercedes SUV. I sit in the back, gazing out the window at the palm trees and the many people walking around in flip-flops.
“Why does everyone here look like they just woke up?” my mom asks, frowning at the pedestrians’ sweatpants.
“Welcome to America! Where everyone walks around in gym clothes and nobody goes to the gym!” the driver says cheerfully.
My mom shakes her head at the people while I pull out my phone, tap on the Amazon app, and start shopping for flip-flops. When in Rome and all.
“Don’t even think about it,” my mom says, grabbing my phone. “I will not have my daughter dressed like a slob.”
“Hey!” I protest, reaching out a hand for my phone.
She gives it back and turns to the driver. “What else is different?”
“Oh, a lot of things. You gotta be careful, especially at night. People have guns here,” he says.
It takes us two and a half hours to get to East Covina, California, where my school and host family are. I thought the Shanghai traffic was bad, but it’s nothing compared to Los Angeles traffic. By the time we arrive, it’s already 6:00 p.m., too late to go to the school, so we head directly to the host family’s house.
I notice there are many signs in Chinese in East Covina. Shops, restaurants, even banks have signs written in Chinese. If it weren’t for the palm trees, I’d say we were still in Shanghai. Famished, I point to one of the restaurants, Sizzling Sichuan Garden, and ask if we could stop and eat there. My mom shakes her head.
“They’re expecting us,” she says. “I’m sure they’ll have prepared dinner.”
We arrive at the host family’s house ten minutes later. It’s much smaller than our villa in Shanghai. It barely has a yard and is sandwiched in between two much larger houses.
My mother turns to me and remarks, “Bad feng shui,” as the screen door screeches open and a Filipina lady steps outside. She’s petite and has a bubbly face, which reminds me of Tressy, and I instantly miss her.
“Are you the Wangs?” Mrs. De La Cruz asks. She beams and goes to shake the driver’s hand. “You must be Mr. Wang.”
“No, no, he’s my driver,” my mom cuts in, laughing at the thought. My mother studied drama and English in university, so her oral English is actually decent. “I’m Mrs. Wang. This is Claire.”
I smile politely.
“Claire, it’s so good to meet you! I’m Maria De La Cruz,” she says. “My daughter, Dani, is just your age.”
I follow her gaze to the house and see a skinny girl with thick wavy hair and glasses, holding a book, standing behind the screen door. Mrs. De La Cruz, meanwhile, picks up one of our suitcases and starts moving it inside the house.
“C’mon, let me show you to your room,” she says. “I have it all ready for you!”
We follow Mrs. De La Cruz inside. I mumble hi to the girl as we pass, and she mumbles hi back. Clearly she’s as psyched about me being here as I am.
The living room is tiny and sparsely furnished. There’s a gray couch, a coffee table, a cabinet with a cross hanging above it, and a TV. That’s it. It’s so bare, it reminds me of the inside of Tressy’s room. I still remember the first time I stumbled inside. I was six. I remember looking around, at her small bed and wardrobe, and being confused. I asked her why she didn’t sleep in one of the spare bedrooms upstairs, and she answered because she’s not a member of the family.
“Of course you are,” I had insisted. She spent more time taking care of me than my own mother did.
Tressy bent down and put her warm hands around my small cheeks. “Oh, sweet child,” she said.
Later that night, I asked my mother if it would be all right if Tressy moved in to the room next to mine.
“No way! She’s a maid. She needs to sleep in the maid’s quarters,” my mom said.
“But her room’s so small,” I said.
My mother crouched down in front of me and looked in my eyes. “It’s small for us, but it’s big for her.”
The memory weighs in my mind as my mom stands in the De La Cruzes’ living room.
“How long have you guys lived here?” she asks Mrs. De La Cruz. Dani sits down on the couch.
“Oh, a long time, madam. Since before Dani was born. It was her father’s house,” Mrs. De La Cruz explains.
My mom looks around the room. “And where is Mr. De La Cruz?” she asks.
Mrs. De La Cruz gazes down into her hands. “He left us, madam . . . a long time ago.”
My mother stiffens. Mrs. De La Cruz has just uttered her literal worst nightmare. Now she really can’t stop staring at her.
“So it’ll just be us girls,” Mrs. De La Cruz says brightly. “Would you like to see your room, Claire?”
I nod.
Dani gets up from the couch and leads me down the hallway. She asks me what grade I’m in, and I say eleventh. She’s also a junior at American Prep.
“Oh, that’s great,” I say.
She compliments me on my English, and I shake my head shyly as she opens the door to my room.
My room, like the living room, is modest, with a queen bed, a small bureau for my clothes, and a desk. But at least it has a window, and as Dani reaches to open it, I instinctively reach for her to stop—No, it’s too polluted outside—then remember we’re not in Shanghai anymore.
“Sorry,” I say.
Dani smiles. The first smile since we arrived. I sit down on the bed—sink down, rather, it’s way softer than my bed in Shanghai—and Dani pulls up a chair. I ask her what the teachers at American Prep are like.
“Some of them are really good, like my debate coach,” she says. “Others . . . could be better.”
I inhale with jealousy at the word “coach.” And then it dawns on me. My mother and grandmother aren’t here breathing down my neck, telling me what to do. Maybe I can swim again.
“Are there a lot of Chinese kids?” I ask.
“Oh yeah,” Dani says.
Our mothers walk in. Mrs. De La Cruz sets my suitcases down, and my mother pushes down on my bed with her hand, feeling the firmness of the mattress.