“Genie,” she said, looking at me like there was something growing out of my forehead. “It’s a folk tale.”
“But it’s one that’s very important to our culture,” said Mrs. Sun. “If you live in Asia, there’s probably some TV show or movie playing any given time of day that either tells the story of Sun Wukong or is based off it in some form.”
“It was always Quentin’s favorite,” said Mr. Sun. “I’m sure our last name helped. It would be like an American child being named Bruce Wayne. You bet he’d love Batman.”
Quentin gave me a look. See? They know Batman, but you don’t know Sun Wukong?
He yawned and stretched his arms, sending thick bundles of trapezius muscle skyward. “Genie, before I forget, can I take a look at your bio notes from today? I mean, I did mine, but I zoned out in class and missed a section.”
“They’re in my room.” I waited, and watched.
He glanced toward our parents. Mr. and Mrs. Sun gave him threatening glares, but my mother shooed at him with her hands.
“It’s okay,” she said. “You two can go upstairs.”
I led Quentin to my room. It felt way too intimate, doing that. His footsteps were heavier than mine up the stairs, a mismatched thump-thump that I could feel in my bones.
He closed the door behind us, shutting out our parents’ laughter, and looked into my eyes. I don’t know what he thought of mine, but his felt like they went all the way down to the bottom of the universe.
Dark brown, I thought to myself. Not shining gold. Just a very dark, drinkable chocolate.
“Yo, so those notes?” he said.
Ugh. The baijiu must have gotten to my head.
“Very funny. So that’s the story of Sun Wukong? You’re that guy?”
“More or less.”
“Well, I don’t believe it,” I said. “Any of it. You’re crazy and you’ve latched on to a story because you happen to bear a resemblance to the main character.”
Quentin gave me a dry stare like he was puzzling something out. What to say next.
“Your mom’s a great cook,” he offered. “I can tell how much she cares about you. I’m jealous.”
“Huh?” I was thrown off guard. “Why? Your parents are awesome. They’re smart and they’re rich and they’re relevant!”
“They’re not real,” said Quentin.
“Wait, what?”
“Didn’t you hear your mom’s story? I came from a rock. I don’t have a mother or father. Never did.”
“Then who are those people downstairs? Actors? Con artists?” I was starting to get indignant at being lied to again.
“They’re no one.”
He reached into his hair and yanked a couple of strands out of his scalp. He tossed them into the air where they poofed into a white cloud like road flares.
“Goddamnit Quentin!” I waved my arms and prayed the smoke detector wouldn’t go off.
“Look.”
Once I finished coughing and fanning the vapors away, there, in my room, were Mr. and Mrs. Sun. They beamed at me as if we were meeting for the first time.
Downstairs, Mr. and Mrs. Sun and my mother laughed raucously at some joke, probably at my expense.
“Wha—what the hell IS THIS?” I half-yelled through clenched teeth.
“Transformation,” he said. “I can turn my hairs into anything. I needed parents to bring over for dinner, so I made a couple.”
He gestured at his mother and father and they disappeared with another puff of smoke.
This was . . . this was . . .
“Hoo,” I said without knowing what I meant. “Hoooo.”
I sank to the floor and began to furiously rub my eyes. Partly out of disbelief and partly because the faint white dust the Suns left behind was making my tear ducts itch. When my fingers wouldn’t cut it, I began scraping my face against my knees.
“Sorry,” said Quentin. “But I did promise to explain everything.”
I took a couple of Lamaze breaths.
“What,” I said as steadily as I could, “do you want with me?”
Quentin scanned my room before walking up to my shelves and plucking a book out. He took a seat on the floor in front of me, cross-legged. He could pull a full lotus with ease.
“Do you believe in reincarnation?” he asked.
“No,” I said flatly. That was the truth. Compared to some of the girls at school, I was about as spiritual as a Chicken McNugget.
“Well, it doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s something that just happens. All creatures live their lives, and then they die. If they’ve built up enough merit through good deeds and conduct, they’re reborn in another time and place, in more fortunate circumstances. If they’ve done evil then they’ll suffer in their next life. They might even end up in Hell.”
“What about you?”
“I’m immortal,” he said. “I freed myself of the Wheel of Rebirth because I liked being who I was. I didn’t want to have to struggle through who knows how many different versions of myself just to gain standing in the cosmos. I accumulated enough power within my first life to become unstuck in time, like a god.”
I could hear his words but couldn’t bring myself to allow them any quarter inside my head. How could any of this be true?
“I’ve seen people come and go over the ages,” said Quentin. “And rarely, very rarely, I see them come back. I knew you in your past life, Genie.”
He handed me the book. It was the one my mother was talking about. Journey to the West, it said, the big black letters covered by a thick layer of dust. If I had ever read it, it had been ages ago.
“Here,” he said. “This is the second half of my story.”
I took it with an air of suspicion even though it had come from my own shelf. “Why is this important?” I said.
“Because you’re in it.”
I swallowed my jitters and attempted to pry open the book, but the glossy, child-friendly covers were stuck from years of compression. The sudden crack as they pulled apart rattled me like a gunshot, and I slammed it back shut before any of its contents could leap off the page and melt my face.
I frisbeed the book to the side. The stiff cardboard backing allowed it to sail through the air and land on my bed.
“No,” I said. “Nope. All the nope. I’m done. I’m done with tonight.”
“Genie, you can’t ignore what you’ve seen with your own eyes.”
Sure I could. “If your parents are fake, then your demon could be fake, and I bet your tail is fake, too,” I said. “Animatronic or something.”
Quentin looked personally insulted by that last accusation. “You saw my tail. It’s as real as can be.”
“Prove it.”
He scowled and untucked his shirt, wiggling on his butt to free up some room around the waist of his pants. I caught a brief glimpse of the muscled crease running down his hip before the smooth skin was blocked by fur. The thick brown rope came loose and stood up behind him.
“There,” he said. “See?”
Not good enough. I held my hand out and wagged my fingers, demanding. He looked hesitant but brought it forward anyway, gingerly laying it across my palm.
This was beyond weird.