Oli was glad to hear that Henri had taken to my old roommate, but was, like you, surprised at the extent to which I’d welcomed her into our lives. After all, the only thing I’d told him about Winnie was the infamous SAT scandal. I assume you’ve already been briefed?
No? Not at all? I see. I suppose that makes sense. I don’t believe Stanford was officially implicated that time around.
This was back in the year 2000, and the whole thing was not unlike the recent incident with all those Hollywood bigwigs falsifying credentials and test results to get their kids into top schools, except, in this case, the perpetrators were Chinese nationals. According to the press, US law enforcement had uncovered a Beijing company that hired expert US-based test-taking proxies—Chinese grad students, mostly—armed them with fake passports, and sent them to sit for the SATs in place of wealthy, connected Chinese college applicants. Law enforcement seized company records and released their findings, and universities responded swiftly. Three Chinese students were expelled from Harvard, one from Yale, two from MIT, a handful of others from Penn and Columbia and Cornell. And you can bet that no one was writing op-eds in defense of these kids, portraying them as innocent victims who shouldn’t be held responsible for their parents’ crimes. No, when it came to foreign students, the universal rallying cry was to get those no-good Chinese cheaters out of our schools!
I remember standing by the fountain in White Plaza with kids from my humanities seminar, poring over fresh copies of the Stanford Daily. I returned to my room to find Winnie in tears, haphazardly chucking sweaters and T-shirts into her pink suitcases. She told me her father had a stroke. She was boarding a plane that night, never mind that finals started next week. I told her how sorry I was and folded my copy of the Daily into a tight square.
Did you tell your adviser? I asked. I was sure they’d let her make up exams.
She gathered an armload of socks and said, I really can’t think about that right now.
I offered to notify her professors, and she smiled through her tears and thanked me.
The day of my last final, I received an email from Winnie. Her aunt was flying in from Virginia to pack the rest of her stuff. She was withdrawing from school. She didn’t explain why.
Needless to say, everyone in the dorm speculated that Winnie had left just in time. Joanne Tran and Carla Cohen, who remain some of my closest friends, fixated on Winnie’s less-than-perfect grammar. She mixed up he and she, forgot to add s’s to the ends of plural nouns, used present tense where it should have been past. Obviously, she couldn’t have aced the verbal section of the SATs, much less written a personal statement that was up to snuff. They seemed to view Winnie’s alleged cheating as a personal insult. Joanne pounded her fist against the flimsy dorm-room wall as she lamented having to take the test three times to raise her score, while those rich kids plunked down money for theirs.
I, too, was quite certain Winnie had cheated, and that she’d invented her father’s stroke. But I wasn’t angry. If anything, I felt sorry for her. Maybe because I’d seen how hard she worked; maybe because I knew she didn’t come from wealth. Her parents weren’t high-ranking officials like the parents of those Harvard kids. Her dad was a middle-school principal. Her mom, a secretary. She’d been able to enroll here only because she’d won a national government scholarship, plus her aunt in Virginia sent monthly checks. Even then, she worked the late-night shift at the coffee kiosk across from the library. She babysat and tutored. She chose her classes based on the number of required books. Whenever possible, she enrolled in the same classes I did so she could borrow mine. She’d set her alarm for the crack of dawn and finish her homework before I even awoke, never giving me reason to get annoyed and rescind the use of my books.
The day after I received Winnie’s email, while Carla and Joanne and the rest of our floor chugged box wine to celebrate the end of the quarter, I hauled back boxes from the recycling bin behind the bookstore and packed the rest of Winnie’s things. When her aunt and uncle showed up at our door, they were stunned by all I’d done. They took me out to dinner to thank me. But Winnie never thanked me. No doubt she had too much other stuff to worry about.
Did I ever confront her about the SATs? No, I didn’t see the point. Why bring it up after all this time? She’d paid for her crime by leaving school, which is more than can be said for those Hollywood brats.
2
Before long Winnie was a fixture in our home. I must say her timing was uncanny. Somehow, she’d managed to resurface during the single most turbulent period of my life, and whenever something threatened to spiral out of control, there she was with a comforting word, a warm hug, a little present for Henri.
Once she brought over a beautifully illustrated children’s book of Chinese folktales (tucked into another striking Birkin in peacock blue). I can honestly say I didn’t recognize the little boy who climbed right into her lap to listen to the story of the Cowherd and the Weaving Maid. It was one that my mother had told me when I was a child, about a pair of star-crossed lovers who were tragically separated by the celestial river (that’s the Milky Way, in case you were wondering).
The story was long and complex, much too mature for a child of Henri’s age. After following along for a good while, he grew bored and seized a corner of the page. Winnie, though, had quick reflexes, and before he could rip the paper, she caught his wrist and said firmly in Mandarin, No.
I sprang up, ready to soothe my son, but, miraculously, no wails followed. Instead, he broke into a cheeky grin, squirmed down from Winnie’s lap, and ran to the piano. He mashed his little fists into the quilted leather bench and gave her a beseeching look, making us roar with laughter. Maria murmured that perhaps he’d grow up to be a concert pianist, and I squeezed her hand, genuinely moved. It wasn’t entirely far-fetched; Oli had exhibited real talent in his youth.
We spent the rest of the afternoon singing children’s songs (while Henri stamped his feet and swayed with feeling), first in English and then in Mandarin, and then Maria taught us a few in Spanish, too. I was in the thick of the dreaded preschool application process—you know how it is, right, Detective? More competitive than the Ivy League? When Henri sidled right up to Winnie, laid his cheek on her lap, and sighed serenely, I could, for the first time, imagine him trooping off without us.
This Hallmark scene was what Oli walked into, a full hour before he was expected. He’d wrapped up early for once and rushed home to surprise me and take us out to dinner.
I introduced Winnie to my husband. She took his hand in both of hers and thanked him for fitting her ailing friend into his busy schedule. He patted her shoulder in an avuncular fashion and said, I’m happy to help.
Swiftly gathering her things, she made for the door, not wanting to intrude on our family time. As soon as she slipped on her shoes, however, Henri burst into tears. He lumbered over and fused himself to her leg.
I tried to pry him loose, saying, Auntie Winnie needs to get back to her hotel. She has to work. She’ll visit again soon. To which Henri released a howl so anguished that Oli cut in with, Winnie, won’t you join us? We’re just grabbing pizza down the street.
She hesitated. I knew she was waiting for me to confirm Oli’s invitation, but it had been so long since the three of us had gone out for a meal that I was torn.
Henri’s howl climbed up a key; Oli pressed her again.
All right, she said. As long as I’m not intruding.
Of course not, I said at last.