“You’ve never been to China?”
I shook my head, and Yuey’s eyes bulged from her head.
We were sitting in the public library, the AC blasting over our heads. The cold air washes over our backs, and I feel my sweat freeze over my skin. I was completing homework from a summer prep school my parents enrolled me in. Although I didn’t need the extra help, I appreciated getting a glimpse of my junior year subjects before all my classmates.
Yuey was here because she was bored. She just returned from her family vacation in Shanghai and came bearing gifts. I gratefully accept the bag of treats, makeup, and trinkets, floored by her generosity.
“My family hasn’t had the time to go back. We’ve been too busy setting up the business.”
And by that, I mean too busy baking pastries. I discreetly shove my hands beneath the pages of my workbook, my fingernails still caked in flour from massaging the dough for the morning batch of goods. I woke up early every day to help my mother with the breakfast rush, working even harder on the weekends when I didn’t have to go to prep school.
“I thought you were born overseas and came here when you were young. It’s like that for most Chinese people.”
I’m tempted to lie and say that was how I was raised, but something in me refuses to conceal that part of myself. It was the other thing that set me apart from my friends, aside from my socioeconomic status, a harmless fact about my life that I was determined to make a part of my mythology. Being ABC, or American Born Chinese, was the one thing that linked rich Yan to poor Yan.
“My parents thought that being born here would make life easier for me.”
Yuey nods in understanding. “You don’t have to apply for citizenship. You could get into good universities and find a job after with no problem.”
“You get it. They want me to fit in, be as American as possible.”
The truth is that poor Yan didn’t go to China because most of her family was in America. Her uncle spent a decade moving everyone from rural China to escape poverty and political discrimination. If anything, her family wished that she were more Chinese by speaking the language fluently and cooking complicated traditional dishes with ease.
But rich Yan grew up as a younger sister to the Ng Corporation heir. By that logic, most of her family should be in China, living a lifestyle identical to Yuey's. She should have been able to afford trips back to the mainland, all of the designer clothes she could have ever wanted, and so much more. Her presence in America would be purely strategic, a way to expand the family fortune.
The trouble with speaking to Yuey was that sometimes I forgot which Yan I was supposed to be. I remind myself that I should play the wannabe wealthy American, not the poor, hardworking child of immigrants, even if everything about me says otherwise.
I was still trying my best to save up for a replacement phone. I took calls from my friends through a sticky, white plastic landline at home, winding the cord between my fingers as Maia shared the latest gossip or Ainsley complained about a stuffy social event. Yuey rang the most often, happily blowing money on international calls to speak to me. The three didn’t question me further when I explained that my parents were too strict to give me another phone during the summer. They understood what it meant to be raised with rules that made little sense, to be under the thumbs of their families for the mere sake of being caged.
Yuey helps me with the problems in my prep book, teaching me shortcuts to math problems that she learned from her private tutor. We take longer than we should, chatting idly through my homework.
“You’ll be number one in the rankings when we go back to school,” she reassures me. “All of the best universities in the country will want you.”
Not as much as they want the three people ranked above me.
I don’t resent Yuey for being smarter and richer than me. She never chose to be that way, to be born more blessed than the rest of the world. But it’s positively unfair that Natalie has both of those qualities, and she gets to be prettier than me. It still irks me that a girl more focused on boys beat me in the rankings. And Mikael wasn’t exempt from my resentment either. He got to sit at glowing firstplace and help Natalie outrank me. Was it not enough that he was born a rich boy?
Maia asked me about him shortly after the dance. She saw us together and wiggled her eyebrows at suggestions of romance.
“He was being nice,” I told her. “Nothing more.”
“Well, he’s not that nice to me,” she said, which made Ainsley laugh.
Yuey mentions him over lunch in between slurps of xiao long bao, after remarking that the dumplings she had in Shanghai were much better.
“How’s that little gweilo boy? You seemed happy dancing with him at the sophomore bash. Not that he needed any of the extra credit being there.”
I pour a spoonful of black vinegar into the small opening I made at the top of the bao and take a bite of the tart, savory goodness.
“It’s not like that with him. He was helping me out with something.”
“Helping you fall in love?”
I nearly spat my dumpling out. Vinegar shoots up my nose, sending me into a coughing fit. I wipe my face and scowl at her.
“I don’t want a boyfriend.”
“I never said anything about that. He’s got a crush on you. Nothing wrong with a crush.”
I slap my hand down on the table, startling her. “I want Mikael’s rank, not his love. His feelings are temporary. My grades are eternal.”
Yuey sips her scalding tea, gathering her composure. A smirk plays on her face.
“It doesn’t have to be one or the other. What if you could have both?”
I stuff more dumplings in my mouth, deciding it was pointless to pursue this line of inquiry with her. We change the subject to Yuey’s time in China.
“My family dragged me to some weddings. I think some of your cousins were there. They might come visit the U.S. for the holidays.”
I freeze at the mention of my imaginary family. These were the people Yuey assumed I was involved with, the source of all the wealth that paid for my Two Bridges tuition.
“They can come, but I don’t think they’ll like it here,” I reply with what I hope is a nonchalant tone.
She shrugs. “It’s not about whether the rest of your family likes it. They’ll need to show their faces once your family’s business in the U.S. settles. I assume they’re still in the red?”
“They don’t tell me,” I say, playing along.
“Well, my family will be visiting. They’ll be staying at the Ritz, and my cousins are begging to see all the tourist attractions. Would you like to join us? Your presence will make the whole thing more bearable.”
“I can’t. I’m stuck between prep school and stupid family stuff. You know how my parents are. Even being here is a hassle.”
This was another half-truth. My parents were fine with wherever I went as long as I still made time to help out at the bakery. But it was exhausting to be rich Yan when school wasn’t even in session.
So while Yuey returned home to her family’s modern luxury apartment in Long Island City, I trudged back to my family’s dingy Lower East Side public housing complex. I take off my fake luxury clothes and tie an apron around my waist, getting ready to clean the tables at the Ng Bakery.
Inside the colorful pink interior and mirrored walls, I greeted the customers, who were mostly Chinese elderly, mothers, and children. I wipe up after the old folks and deliver sweets to the grubby, eager fingers of little kids. I pour coffee for tired construction workers and overworked businessmen.
At the end of the day, my efforts are rewarded with a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill. I nearly teared up at my mother’s unexpected generosity, normally used to seeing Andrew Jackson instead of Benjamin Franklin on the crinkly green paper.
It gave me hope that I could be more than what I was born into.
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