It was maddening. I could see Dad wanting a break from that.
I looked at Mom and tried to see her as Dad might. She is short—at twelve years old I was already pushing past her. Her hair was true black, not almost-brown like mine, cut in a shoulder-length bob and pulled back on one side—childishly, I thought—with a barrette. She had a classic moon face, a soft oval, with the high nose bridge and long earlobes that I inherited. “Lucky,” she told me once, rubbing my ears affectionately, “and high class,” stroking the bridge of my nose. She was no fashion model, but she was pretty enough.
I looked back at Dad. Dad, who was always working, who traveled a couple of times a month and always brought back presents for me. Who used to tell me stories, and fling me into the air, and slip me candy when Mom wasn’t looking. But that was when I was little. In the past couple of years, he had somehow faded into just a nice guy who drifted in and out of the background of my life.
Who were they to each other? Dad always said they’d known each other all their lives. Baba, Dad’s mom, once told me the whole story, and it had sounded so romantic: Dad had gotten very sad and sick while he was in grad school, and Mom had taken care of him, and they’d fallen in love and gotten married. But that was all I knew. It was a long time ago. Did they still love each other? Could they have stopped?
I decided not to say anything about the text. Not talking about it meant that it wasn’t a big deal. And if it wasn’t a big deal, it might not even be true.
But even if I didn’t talk about it, I couldn’t forget about it. I checked the number, wrote it down, and later put it in my lacquer box. I Googled it and learned that it had a San Francisco area code. For the next few weeks, every time Dad stayed out late, every night he was on a trip, I thought about the phone number in my box and I gnawed my suspicions to shreds. But I said nothing.
Months went by. Nothing changed between my parents. No one talked about having affairs. No one filed for divorce. My silence paid off. But for some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of the phone number. Maybe I was still suspicious—sometimes I thought I’d call it one day and find out for sure who it belonged to. But I never did, and the phone number slowly disappeared under my growing collection of sea glass.
The number is still tucked safely in my little lacquer box, which in turn is tucked safely in my suitcase next to my Emily Dickinson poems. I watch neighborhoods of cookie-cutter McMansions slip by and give way to miles and miles of cornfields as Mom and I lurch and jiggle our way across the state, across the country, away from the land of Midwest farmers’ daughters and toward the land of the California girl.
4
IT’S BEEN FOUR WEEKS SINCE WE ARRIVED. FOUR weeks, and I’ve spent the entire time doing nothing, going nowhere, and meeting no one.
Scratch that. Mom and I have spent the entire time unpacking, arranging, and rearranging furniture, going to Ikea, Target, and Costco, and meeting . . . no one. On the other hand, it’s not like I had a full social calendar back in Wisconsin. And it’s better than going to math day camp, which is how I spent last summer.
Today’s list of errands takes us to Bed Bath & Beyond to pick up a bath mat, a step stool, and a duvet cover and new sheets for my bed. When we walk in the door, I do a quick scan-and-count. A Latino couple, a few Asian women, a couple of white men . . . ding-ding-ding! It’s majority minority! Mr. Williams, my world history teacher last year, was always saying how this is happening in America, but I’d never actually seen it until we moved here. I get a kick out of it every time. In Wisconsin, when Mom and Dad spoke Japanese in public, I could feel people not-staring. I couldn’t even linger a few feet away and pretend I was with another family—all anyone had to do was look at my face and hair to know who I was with. But here in San Jose, we blend in. In fact, it’s beyond blending—here, we are completely inconspicuous. We fade into the background—dark hair, Asian faces, foreign language, and all. I love it.
I’m reveling in our anonymity as we approach the bedding section, which is where life gets difficult. No matter what I choose, Mom points out flaws that, once she’s shown me, I can’t unsee:
Sky blue with a pattern that looks like dandelion seeds floating across it? “Makes me feel like allergy.”
Pale gray with a single cherry blossom branch? “Only good for spring.”
Pure white with a bold arabesque print down the middle? “Looks like Raw-shock.”
“It’s Rorshach, Mom.”
“Raw-shock.”
And then, oh, this one. Powder blue with a deep blue coral plant (or is it an animal?) that grows from the bottom corner and spreads intricate, lacy branches across the fabric. It’s perfect.
“How about this?” I ask, patting it lovingly.
Mom runs her own hand over it. “Ahhhn. It makes me feel like sandy, like drippy—”
“Mom! Can’t you just let me like something without telling me what’s wrong with it? It’s my bed! It’s my room! This is America, Mom. Let me express myself a little!”
She snorts. “Hah! That’s the problem with America. Be different is cool, express yourself is cool, and don’t care how the other people feel. It’s so selfish.”
Right. How could I have forgotten? For Mom, different equals disrespectful.
“Can I help you? Looks like you’re having a little trouble deciding on something.”
. . . aaand a stupid, useless store clerk has overheard our stupid, useless argument. Great. Why can’t she just leave us alone? Or actually . . . maybe she can stay. She’s about my age and height with light brown skin and black hair pulled into a ponytail that spills in waves down her back. Brown eyes, clear and wide, under delicately arched eyebrows. Cupid’s bow lips with a slick of rose lip gloss. A dimple on her chin. Shimmery dark green nail polish at the tips of slender fingers. And the way she stands—not clerkish at all. Graceful. Regal, even. Like she’s a queen in disguise.
I’m hooked. Who is she? I stand up a little straighter. “ . . . any normal pattern?” Mom is saying.
“Mom, I really like this one.” My voice is reasonable, well modulated, mature. No more petulant whining. Must impress Fascinating Store Girl.
“Yeah, it’s great, isn’t it?” Fascinating Store Girl says. “It’s my favorite, actually.” She smiles at me, and my brain goes a little flittery. Fascinating Store Girl and I have the same taste in duvet covers. How cool is that?