“I won’t tell anyone,” I promise, “but—do you want the job?”
“No!” Tatya practically barks. “Not in a million years. I love it here—this is my family.” She sighs. “Will you do me a favor? Throw this away for me?” She holds out the card toward me. “If I throw it away here, someone might see it. And I don’t want it in my bag—I don’t want you thinking that I’m even for a second considering his offer.”
I shake my head quickly, sensing the genuine worry in her eyes. “That’s really not necessary. I believe you.”
Her arm doesn’t budge. “Please. It will make me feel better.”
I take the card from her and hold it in the air. “Fine, fine. I’ll burn it when I get home, okay?”
Tatya laughs. “Okay. Thank you. And thanks for coming to my rescue, too.”
When I’m back in the car, I tilt the card and watch the metallic gleam move across the words like a magical wave. And when I flip the card over, I find a phone number on the back.
I hate that the thought even crosses my mind—I hate that I’m so desperate to chase my dream that I could even imagine it—but it occurs to me that Simon Tarbottle is looking for a new aerialist, and maybe that aerialist could be me.
And then I force the horrible desire from my thoughts and shove the card into my glove box.
Hidden in the darkness, where bad ideas belong.
CHAPTER FOUR
Harley! Can you get the door? It’s probably your grandpap,” Mom shouts from somewhere in the kitchen.
I close the lid on my laptop—and the unfinished document listing all the reasons I need my parents to support me—and make my way downstairs.
The next half hour is a blur of hugging one family member after another. Grandpap arrives first, like Mom guessed, but Aunt Adeline, Uncle Henry, and my three very loud cousins turn up before I’ve even closed the door.
Aunty Michiko and her new boyfriend follow soon after, and then Aunty Ayako, Uncle Jesse, my older cousin Matty; his girlfriend, Taylor; and their toddler, Isabella. Popo rings the doorbell last, and I’m really not surprised—she likes to make an entrance.
“Happy birthday, Harley Yoshi.” Popo coos like I’m still a little kid. She’s the only one who ever uses my middle name—which is a family name and doesn’t exclusively belong to a Nintendo character. Having to point out to people over the years that I was named after my late grandmother and not a famous green dinosaur has been the bane of my childhood.
My middle name is also pretty much the only part of me that reflects my Japanese heritage, even if it is a quarter of my blood.
I’m a quarter Chinese, too, but I have no name to show for it. Even Popo’s first name is Jane, so sometimes it feels like there’s this dormant part of me I’ve never had a chance to learn about. It doesn’t fully make sense—belonging to these different cultures, but not really belonging.
You know those refillable soda machines at fast-food places? When I was a kid, I used to add a little bit of everything in—7UP, Dr Pepper, Pepsi, raspberry iced tea—whatever they had, I’d mix it all in. But when it was all mixed together, it wasn’t really 7UP anymore, or Dr Pepper, or Pepsi, or raspberry iced tea. It was everything, and nothing.
It was something new that didn’t have a name.
I feel like that sometimes—like something without any history. Like I don’t quite fit in.
An Italian last name, a Japanese middle name, a splatter of freckles across my nose that Mom insists are from her Irish father’s side of the family. And a Chinese grandmother whose face I’ve searched a million times for little bits of me that I was never able to find.
I’m American, but that only explains my passport. It doesn’t explain all the other pieces of me that aren’t easily labeled.
Not to mention how Chloe calling herself American and me calling myself American get very different looks from people. Sometimes it feels like if I call myself American, people will only ever follow up with, “But what are you really?”
But if I lead the conversation? If I tell them everything I am? If I point out all the pieces of my heritage to explain why I have my name, and my face, and my culture? Then people tell me I don’t get to be all these other things—I only get to be American. Like the rest of me is suddenly erased. Like my heritage isn’t important. Like all the pieces that should mean something don’t mean anything at all.
And in all honesty, I’m really tired of other people thinking they have any authority whatsoever on what I’m allowed to call myself.
Popo gives me a gentle hug and hands me a red party bag stuffed with yellow tissue paper. She has the happiest eyes of anyone I know, even though her mouth rarely breaks into a smile. The weight of the bag surprises me because it’s too heavy to be clothes.
And Popo has never bought me anything that wasn’t clothes.
Popo loops her arm around mine and leads me into the kitchen to join everyone else, so my curiosity has to take a back seat.
Bunches of blue and yellow balloons are positioned around the room, and glittery silver streamers and stars dangle from the walls. With the exception of my youngest cousins, who’ve already found a comfortable spot in front of the television, most of my family members are hovering over Mom’s Brie and honey appetizer, and the rest are digging through the beer cooler.
Mom shoves a cheese-covered cracker in her mouth and hurries across the kitchen to check the oven. The moment I set Popo’s gift on the counter, Mom’s head lifts back up like a deer sensing danger.
“Not on the counter, please. I just wiped it down,” she says with gentle-scolding eyes.
I really want to point out that this is probably the best time to put objects on the counter, being as it’s clean, but I keep my words stuffed in my brain where they belong. I still want to believe there’s a chance I can change her mind about school, and arguing with her over silly things will only hurt my cause.
“Popo is still spoiling you, I see.” Dad eyes the gift bag as I pick it back up and set it on a table in the hallway instead.
“Grandmothers are supposed to spoil their grandchildren,” Popo retorts from around the corner. When I’m back in the kitchen, her head is tilted to the side and she’s staring at Mom. “You look tired. Do you have a cold?”
Mom sighs the way I do when Mom overanalyzes everything about me. Maybe it’s a mother-daughter thing.
“No, Ma, I’m fine,” she says. “I hope you’re hungry. I made pumpkin ravioli.”
Popo walks past her and presses her cheek to Mom’s in a weird almost-hug. They’ve never been good at showing emotion with each other, even though they show so much to everyone else.
Twisting her mouth, Popo says, “You should’ve asked me to cook. I could’ve made chicken stir-fry.”
“Harley likes ravioli,” Mom says calmly. She pulls a tray of garlic bread out of the oven. “So does the rest of the family.” She means Grandpap, mostly, because he’s the only one who turns up his nose when anyone cooks anything that isn’t his own idea of “American.” We’re expected to treat Italian food like it’s totally ordinary, but if Mom ever served up ramen or Spam fried rice, it would be treated like it was something unusual. Something exotic.