“Pepcid AC? For Asian what?”
“Asian flush!” Hanh wrinkles her nose in distaste and Elaine grins. “You know, how Asians get all red when we drink alcohol?”
Oh, right. That. I wince, remembering my reflection in the mirror at Glen Lake Country Club. Come to think of it, that night at PopStar featured a lot of red-faced Asians, too, Dad and That Woman included.
“I read online that if you take two Extra-Strength Pepcid AC before you drink, you won’t get it. At least, not as bad,” Reggie explains.
I’m not feeling up to getting drunk for the first time tonight, especially since I don’t plan to stay long, but it can’t hurt to take precautions. If Mom were to catch me sneaking back in, that would be bad enough. Sneaking back in with Asian flush? I don’t even want to think about it. I take the pills and the water, and we’re ready to go.
We walk into a high-ceilinged, marble-floored front hall, complete with elaborate chandelier. It opens onto a white-carpeted living room with old bedsheets spread over the furniture and signs posted that say, STAY THE FUCK OUT OF THIS ROOM, MOTHAFUCKAS!
“Uptight much?” whispers Elaine.
Reggie rolls her eyes and says, “Poser.” Fake gangsta talk is one of her biggest pet peeves.
Most of the action is in the back of the house, where the alcohol is. There’s a few white kids because Andy is a student government guy, and a lot of those kids are white, but most people here are a flavor of Asian: Filipino, Indian, Vietnamese, Korean, Taiwanese, Chinese, Japanese. I’ve gotten used to a mostly Asian crowd in the past few months, but a mostly Asian party still feels odd. I mean, talk about making yourself conspicuously different. Even though I’m technically one of them, I suddenly feel like I don’t belong. Like this isn’t really my scene.
So I tell Elaine, “Practically everyone here is Asian.”
“So?”
“Do you think that’s weird?”
“Uh . . . no? What’s weird about it?”
It seems I’m destined to feel like an outsider no matter who I hang out with. I also notice that either the Pepcid AC trick doesn’t work, or not many people know about it, because red faces abound. Elaine points this out to me, as well, a little nervously. “Tell me if my face gets red, okay?” she says.
“Trust me, you’ll know.”
“Not if I’m drunk. Did you see those pictures of me from karaoke?”
We squeeze through the hallway into the kitchen, where cans of Bud Light vie for counter space with bottles of vodka, rum, and tequila, and two-liter bottles of assorted sodas. Stacks of red Solo cups teeter next to a case of Red Bull. Costco-size bags of chips, pretzels, and popcorn spill their contents across the swirls of marble on the island in the middle of the kitchen.
I pour myself a rum and Coke, and I’m taking an experimental sip, hoping to heck that the Pepcid AC will do its job, when I notice that the party isn’t all Asian, after all. There’s Thom, and there’s Caleb right behind him. I turn my back before they can see me—the advantage of having hair the same color as everyone else around me is that it’s easy to blend into a crowd—and search for Reggie.
I find her with Janet and Hanh around the corner in the dining room. “Reggie! You told me that it would be just us!” She looks uncomfortable. And guilty. As she should.
“I know, I know. But I knew you wouldn’t come if you knew Caleb was going to be here. Can’t you just, you know, try to patch things up with him? You could go for a walk or something if the party isn’t private enough.”
“Caleb doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“He says he’s mad, but I think he’s starting to get over it. I want us all to be friends. Please? For me?”
“I don’t know—”
“Oh—shh! Here they come. Just act normal. I’ll get Thom out of the way, and you can apologize to Caleb. Be yourself. Be nice.” Panic grips me and I open my eyes wide and shake my head as discreetly as I can, the universal sign for No! No! No! but it’s too late. She’s waving at them. In the few seconds it takes for them to make their way over, just as I’m about to slide into despair, I feel a spark of hope. Maybe Reggie’s right. Maybe Caleb’s not as mad as he seems. Maybe I can make things right.
“Hi, Caleb! I’m so glad you came! Sana’s here, too!” Reggie has put on a mega-watt smile and her voice is high and loud and extra-friendly.
Okay. Go for it. I try for a funny opening—he likes funny. “Hey, stranger.”
For a second Caleb stares stonily, stubbornly at some invisible thing in the air above Reggie’s head, his hands jammed in his pockets. Then he kicks at something invisible on the ground and mutters, without looking at me, “Hey.”
Complete and utter fail.
“Um, I have to go to the bathroom,” I mumble, and as Reggie reaches for my arm, I duck away and hightail it out of the dining room, through the kitchen, down the hall, under the chandelier, and out the door. I walk around the neighborhood for almost an hour, trying to escape the fog of despair that’s reappeared and is now hunting me down. I’ve just about given up when the phone rings.
It’s Mom.
36
OH, NO.
Has she been in my room? She has to know I escaped, or she wouldn’t be calling me. Maybe I should ignore her. Pretend my phone was on mute or something. Wait to deal with her until I get home. But what if she calls the police next? I answer. “Hello?”
“Sana! Where are you?”
“Nowhere, Mom. I’m just out for a walk.”
“You’re supposed to be in bed! Why are you on a walk?”
“Don’t worry, Mom. I’m just a few blocks—”
“Hayaku kaen-nasai.”
“I am.”
But I don’t hurry home. Who would? Still, I can’t take too long, or she’ll be even angrier at me. Eventually I reach my block. The porch light is on. And Dad’s car is in the driveway.
Great. This should be fun.
No point sneaking back in through the window—hopefully Mom didn’t notice it, or the screen. (Why didn’t I hide it under the bed?) Hopefully she believes my story about just going for a walk. I open the door and brace myself. Mom and Dad are waiting for me on the couch, Mom in her robe and slippers, Dad in his work clothes. I don’t dare look at them in the face.
“Tadaima.”
“Okairi,” says Dad. But Mom says nothing. I lean down to take my shoes off, and her silence pools around me like water. I hazard a furtive glance at Mom’s face, and what I see surprises me. She doesn’t look angry. She looks sad.
“Where were you?” It’s Dad again, sounding stern, which disorients me. Why should he be angry? Since when did he become the bad cop?
“I told Mom—”