BEFORE SCHOOL, I TELL HANH, REGGIE, AND Elaine about my night out with Jamie and her friends. “But that can’t be true, right?” I ask, about Officer Barlowe with a brother who was stationed in Yokohama. “He didn’t let us off just because I’m Asian, did he?”
“Holy blinders, Batman. Yes, he did,” says Reggie.
“Totally,” agrees Elaine. “Why do you think he asked you about your grades?” Ugh. I’d been hoping I was wrong about that.
“He couldn’t have arrested us anyway. We weren’t doing anything illegal.”
“JJ was,” Elaine points out.
“But the cop didn’t know that. Anyways, cops don’t arrest kids for trying to buy alcohol. They have better things to do,” says Hanh.
“See? That’s exactly my point. There was no need to worry.”
“On the other hand, you think he woulda come over if it was us in the parking lot?” she asks.
“Anyway, Sana, are you sure it’s a good idea to keep hanging out with Jamie’s friends?” asks Reggie. “I’ve been meaning to say something, but I wanted to give them a chance. Because like, I don’t know. Stuff like Friday night. You could get in trouble. Plus, I hear that JJ smokes a lot of weed.”
“He can’t possibly smoke more than Andy Chin,” says Hanh.
“It’s not the same thing,” says Reggie.
“It’s exactly the same thing,” retorts Hanh, but I get what Reggie means. Except I’m not sure why it’s not the same thing.
“What I mean is . . .” Reggie starts to explain, but she just trails off. She can’t seem to explain it, either. Could we be wrong?
“I’ve been thinking we should try smoking, actually,” says Hanh, off on a new tack.
“Oh, right,” says Reggie. “You wouldn’t even know where to get it.”
“Elaine!” I can’t believe it.
“What? Everybody smokes.”
“You mean Jimmy smokes,” says Reggie.
“Sometimes. So? There’s nothing wrong with it.”
Reggie rolls her eyes, and Elaine crosses her arms and scowls. “Stop being so judgy.”
“I’m not being judgy. You two just sound like a health class movie.” Reggie turns to me. “But seriously, Sana, what do you have in common with those guys? Like what do you even talk about?”
I consider asking her what she really means, but I don’t ask because what if she’s literally talking about common interests? How will I look then? So I say, “Arturo and JJ are really nice.”
The five-minute bell rings, and as we head to class, Janet shows up and asks Elaine how her date at the movies with Jimmy went. As Elaine gives Janet the details, it occurs to me that everyone involved in her story is Asian, and I get a wave of that good feeling of being part of a club. Maybe Reggie’s right. Maybe I just don’t have anything in common with Jamie’s friends. We don’t listen to the same music. We don’t wear the same clothes. We don’t take the same classes or have the same plans for our futures, except for Jamie.
But should that even matter? Is it even true? Or am I just making excuses? I think of how I felt like I couldn’t keep up with everyone the other night, how I wished Jamie was friends with Luisa Campos. Is it really just because Luisa is nicer? But what else could it be? And what does that even mean? Am I trying hard enough? Are they? Should they? Jamie and I are totally comfortable with each other. Why can’t I feel that way with her friends?
It’s Thursday, and I’ve just gotten home from a cross-country meet in Santa Clara. Mom’s been in a bad mood all week, and now she’s on my case because apparently I’ve been spending too much time with my friends. By which I’m sure she means Jamie’s friends, even though I’ve told her they aren’t really my friends.
I think it’s because I showed her a picture of Arturo, JJ, Jamie, and me at Jamie’s house with Mrs. Ramirez in the background, to prove that we had a chaperone all night. That was probably a mistake. One look was all it took to trigger a barrage of classic Mom commentary: See how those boys are sitting? Sloppy. They look like the bad students and criminal. Maybe Mrs. Ramirez is nice lady, but how can she let her daughter have those boys for friend? Those boys look like gangster. I don’t trust them.” Translation: “I don’t trust you.”
Which is totally unfair, considering the most untrustworthy person in this house—the one who’s going out and getting drunk and secretly kissing other women—is Dad. Okay, so there are two of us secretly kissing women. But the point is, Dad’s the one who’s doing wrong, not me. Dad’s the one who’s betraying Mom. And I’m the one who’s getting in trouble.
I’m studying for my physics test tomorrow and Mom’s busy with dinner in the kitchen when Dad gets home early from work. “Tadaima,” he calls, and rushes to his bathroom and turns on the shower. That’s weird. Usually he takes a bath when he gets home. Something’s up.
I sneak into his room to go through his pockets while he’s in the shower—if Mom isn’t going to do it, then someone has to. I don’t know what I think I’ll find, or even if I think I’ll find something. Phone: Locked, with a new passcode. Damn. Wallet: Nothing. Five twenty-dollar bills, a bunch of credit cards, a receipt from Gumba’s Pizza for $8.99.
But wait. What’s this? In the inside breast pocket, there’s a little box, wrapped in silver paper. Hands shaking, I undo the wrapping paper at one end, tug the box out, and open it.
It’s a pair of pearl earrings. For pierced ears. Which means they can’t be for Mom or me. Which means that they have to be for That Woman. Which means they’re evidence.
Which means that I sneak out of the room with the earrings and the wrapping paper under my shirt, go into my room, rewrap the present, and hide it in my lacquer box.
I’m so freaked out about what I’ve just done, and so mad at Dad, that I can’t come out of my room until well after he’s gone off to dinner “with clients.” I wish I hadn’t gone through his pockets, after all—I realize now that I really didn’t want to find anything. Why do I keep looking for stuff? And why do I have to keep finding it?
I can’t concentrate on studying for physics. I can’t even sit down—I just walk in circles in my room until Mom calls me for dinner. I consider showing her the box, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. Besides, I’m too busy arguing with her about Jamie’s friends.