He says, “Aaahh, I’m exhausted. I’m going to take a bath.”
Mom says, “What about dinner?”
Dad says, “After my bath.”
And three . . . two . . . one . . . He sticks his head in my doorway and says, “Oi, Sana-chan.”
“Hi, Dad.”
“Did you have a good day? First day of school, right?”
“It was okay.”
“Lots of homework?”
“Not too much. I finished it before dinner.”
“Ah, good girl.” He comes in and pats me on the head like a puppy, and walks out. After his bath, he’ll eat dinner and work until he goes to bed, probably without saying another word to me except “good night.”
It wasn’t always this way. When I was little, Dad used to tell me stories at night. His favorite—and mine, even though it was sad—was the story of Yama-sachi, who went to the bottom of the sea and married Toyo-tama-himé, the Dragon King’s lovely daughter. The Dragon King gave him two huge jewels—one to bring the tides in, and one to send them out again—and sent him back to live with Toyo-tama-himé on land. They lived happily together in their home by the sea until she gave birth to their son. She told him to let her do it alone, but he peeked in on her, and was horrified to see her in her true form, as a sea dragon. Heartbroken, the dragon princess fled back to her father’s kingdom and never returned.
“She should have told him right away, so he wouldn’t be surprised,” I said the first time I heard the story.
“I think she was afraid. Maybe she thought he wouldn’t love her if he knew.”
“Then he shouldn’t have peeked.”
“No, perhaps not. Sometimes it’s better not to know everything about a person.”
“But when he found out, she should have stayed! I bet he still loved her.”
“Yes, I think he did. But she didn’t want him to be ashamed of her.”
“If you found out I was a sea dragon, would you still love me?”
“Of course. I would keep you as a pet and feed you lots of seaweed.”
“Sea dragons like frozen custard, actually.”
“Seaweed flavored?”
“No!” I made a face. “Chocolate!”
The next night, Dad arrived home just before bedtime. “Sana-chan!” he called as he came in the door. “Oidé!” I jumped up from my bed, where I’d been reading, and flew to meet him, knowing this would buy me a sizable chunk of before-bed playtime, and maybe a repeat telling of Yama-sachi and Toyo-tama-himé. Dad had a conspiratorial grin on his face and a white paper bag in his hands. I recognized the logo right away—it was from LeDuc’s Frozen Custard, my favorite dessert place of all time. “I went after work with friends,” he said, holding the bag up like a prize. “I told them I had a dragon to feed at home. Do you want some?”
“Yes!” I shrieked, jumping up and down. “Yes! Can I have some now?”
“Jiro-chan!” Mom protested from the kitchen. “It’s her bedtime!”
“Eh-yan. It’s okay. Let her have some fun,” he replied, and led me—skipping and making my best dragon noises—into the kitchen, where I devoured a bowl of cold, creamy, custardy goodness under Mom’s disapproving gaze.
When I was twelve, shortly after I discovered the strange text on Dad’s phone, Dad brought home a different surprise present: pearl earrings, the ones I keep in my box. “They’re like the two Tide Jewels,” Dad said when I opened the box, “from the story of Yama-sachi and Toyo-tama-himé.” They were beautiful—smooth and white, with a luminous pink sheen. “Everyone—even an ugly oyster—has power and beauty inside. But sometimes they keep it a secret. And sometimes it takes patience to find it.”
The best part, though, was that they had posts for pierced ears. I thought this meant that I was going to be allowed to get my ears pierced—like getting a set of keys in a gift box before being led to the new car waiting in the driveway with a big bow on top.
“Akan.” Of course Mom would forbid it. Apparently the earrings were not Mom-approved, and no amount of wailing and whining on my part could change her mind. “Not while you live with us.”
I thought very seriously about running away. Dad smiled at me. “Mom’s right—I should have checked. I know you’re angry, but you should remember what I said about the pearls. Your mother, especially, has great strength and beauty inside her.” I was not so sure.
“Keep them for when you do get pierced ears,” he said to me later. “They are very special pearls, and I want you to wear them one day.” So into my lacquer box they went, these beautiful jewels that grew around grains of sand, so powerful they could control the tides, hidden away and waiting for a future free from Mom’s old Japanese ways.
8
ELAINE AND HANH MEET ME IN FRONT OF campus before school. While we wait for Reggie to arrive, Hanh fishes a mirror out of her bag and starts applying makeup. Elaine keeps an eye out for Jimmy. We’re talking about what clubs I should join, and I’m telling them about cross-country as Reggie walks up to us.
“Holy pain and suffering, Batman,” she says. “Why? You get hot and sweaty and tired, and what—your races are going to be much more fun? No, just more hot, sweaty running. Plus no one cares about cross-country—no offense—so you just have to like, toil in obscurity for nothing.”
“Yeah, but I can’t do any of the other sports. Anyway, I got my mom to let me do it,” I say. “But first we had to have this whole argument about whether I was good enough, and how everyone else is probably better than me, so I’m going to have to work extra hard. . . . Not one word of support. She’s the worst.” The words are barely out of my mouth before I regret saying them. I feel like I’ve shared an ugly secret.
Hanh puts on the last touches of lip gloss, examines her reflection, and says, “She’s not the worst. It’s just Asian Mom Syndrome.”
“Wha—huh? Is that, like, a thing?”
“What? Yeah, it’s a thing! What’s wrong with you? Did you think you had a white mom?” says Reggie, smiling.
I just stare at her. “No.”
“Maybe there weren’t any Asian moms where she’s from,” Elaine offers.
I nod.
“Oh, right. Seriously?”
I nod again.
“God, wow. That is so weird,” says Hanh. “Okay, so Asian moms. Ask any Asian with an immigrant mom. They’ll tell you. There’s like a million videos about it on YouTube.”
“Get good grades is better than have friends,” says Elaine in an exaggerated Vietnamese accent, shaking her finger.
“No tampon. Tampon makes you lose virginity,” says Reggie firmly.
Hanh puts her hand on her hip, scowls, and says, “Why you want boyfriend? No boyfriend until graduate from college.”