In times of misery, I find that food is the answer.
During Chinese New Year, I received more red envelope money than I had in previous years. Normally, I would get twenty dollars and tuck the money into my piggy bank. But my parents were unusually generous. I had to blink twice at the one-hundred-dollar bill hidden in the red folds of the festive envelope. It meant that I could spend as well as save some money.
I decided that I would treat Yuey to hotpot to celebrate the occasion. It was the zodiac year of the dog, symbolizing loyalty and friendship. I could think of no better friend to eat with.
I look for an all-you-can-eat spot to get the most out of my money. Even though it would be my treat, I still want to be able to afford it. However, I didn't want to bring her somewhere dingy either. In the end, I picked a place with reasonable prices and pretty holiday decor.
Yuey was ecstatic when I asked her to eat with me, but food tends to make her happy. I made up my mind to tell her my secret after we ate, preparing myself for our friendship changing in a way I didn't like. She may not see me the same way after, but she could be trusted to keep a secret. Unlike Maia and Ainsley, she didn't gossip. Aside from her mild classism, she was a decent person.
We sat across from each other at a table that had a boiling pot embedded in it. I wore a hoodie and sweatpants, clothes that I could afford to have smelling like cooked meat when I left the restaurant. Yuey had a similar idea, wearing outdated and faux designer clothes.
I bring various sauces, mixing three combinations that I like at the sauce counter. Chili, peanut, and vinegar swirl in the circular discs like planetary bodies of flavor. We ordered a barn full of meat. Beef, pork, and lamb come from the kitchen in neat pink rows. I dip a slice of beef in the nonspicy savory broth before smearing it with sauce.
"You don't like spicy?" Yuey places a slice of lamb in the red broth opposite me.
I shake my head. "Not in my soup. It's like swallowing fire."
"But you can handle it in the sauce." She points the tips of her chopsticks at my sauce dish.
"It's more salty than spicy." I chew the beef, feeling the crunch of chili flakes that don't make my eyes water. "Otherwise, I can't take the heat."
"You could train yourself to handle more spice. I eat Szechuan food all the time to get used to the spice."
I wince at the thought. "I don't like my whole mouth feeling numb. It's like being sick."
"We should eat more spicy food together," she says in between bites of meat.
"I don't know if I can afford that. Eating out constantly is expensive." I keep my eyes on her face, ready to detect any changes in emotion.
"That's fair. It's not special if we do it all the time. The food starts to taste the same anyway. I spent a month eating takeout because our chef was on medical leave."
"So you're not mad?" I was slightly miffed by her lack of reaction.
"Why would I be mad? I like eating with you."
"I just told you I was poor. Don't you hate me for that?" I grip my chopsticks too hard, creating indentations in my fingers.
"Oh. That. I always knew you were poor. It's no big deal." Seeing that we were running out of meat, she ordered seafood and quail eggs, and along with more beef slices.
No big deal? My head was going to explode. "You don't like poor people."
"I never said that. I told you that I don't think poor people should exist in America. There's enough opportunity here that you will not remain poor for long. Your circumstances are temporary. It's not like you got the scholarship by sitting on your butt all day."
"But how did you know? I never said anything." I resist the urge to tear my hair out.
"You didn't have to. Most Chinese Americans who grew up here did not come because they already had money. And my family runs a background check on all of my friends." The latter she says sheepishly, embarrassed by the lengths the Wangs went to protect her.
"You knew." I feel like an idiot repeating myself, but I still can't quite believe it.
"I observe people. I could tell from the moment I looked at you. It's nothing to be ashamed of. You didn't choose to be born into your family or their debt. Why did you think I took you to buy fake designer bags when we first met?"
My heart thumps in my chest. Who else knew? How many people couldn't I fool, despite the people I surrounded myself with?
As if reading my thoughts, Yuey reaches across the table to grab my hand. "No one else notices things like I do. Ainsley, Maia, and Mikael definitely don't know this. It's something that's easier to pick because we're both Chinese. We would know what rich and poor look like within our people."
Her words remind me of an article I read a few months ago about the model minority myth. I was doing research by looking for ways to make my college application more competitive. I read that top universities expected higher grades from Asian American applicants because most of the students who applied had higher scores than white applicants. It's an unfair expectation. There were several other news articles featuring Asian prodigies on the cover that attributed this to strong cultural values. But only one lone article spoke about how the U.S. government's strict visa policy only permitted immigrants with valuable degrees to enter the country, skewing the perception of Asian Americans to appear as an intelligent and wealthy minority.
So most people will look at me and assume I have money if I go to a school like Two Bridges. They won't see the chasm of money that separates Yuey and me because of income inequality in the U.S.
But someone like Yuey won't be blinded by racism. She would be able to tell by the smell of my shampoo, which would have too much fragrance, and the smear of my makeup, the colors cheap and easy to rub off. She knew all of this about me and still chose to be my friend.
I almost cried into the hotpot broth.
Every day when I went to school, the shame and guilt of being poor oozed out of me. I was a soggy sponge of insecurity, constantly vigilant of the way others may negatively perceive me.
"It doesn't bother you that I'm a scholarship student?"
"I've always liked that you were a smart person. You deserve your spot at school. Although I may be biased because you're my best friend."
Is it possible to die of a full heart?
"I don't want anyone else to know," I confided.
"You don't want people to know that you deserve to be in Two Bridges more than most of the student population?" She submerges a quail egg in the broth.
"Exactly. I don't want anyone to be jealous of me."
"You mean you don't want Ainsley to be jealous of you. I don't see why you're still friends with her. I don't think she likes you."
I flinch. Ainsley could be scathingly honest, but she didn't hate me. And she didn't have the capacity to be jealous of me. I tell Yuey just as much, and she disagrees.
"She's always picking apart your appearance. It's childish and only something people do when there's nothing else to make fun of. She wouldn't be doing that if she didn't think it was the only thing she had over you."
I chuck some fish roe into the murky broth. "You've got it all wrong. She hates Natalie, not me."
"She likes neither of you. And she especially doesn't like that you used to be friends."
I give up trying to prove her wrong. My point was clear. Ainsley would destroy me if she knew I was a scholarship student. Whether I should remain her friend was a different story.
But one thing was clear. Yuey cared about me more than I gave her credit for. Our friendship went beyond after-school study dates and food runs. She worried for me and knew things about me that I probably couldn't spot. It suggested that she had a great deal of feeling for me, more than I had for her.
My guilt returns. I didn't deserve her friendship.
We get bubble tea after, something I also insist be my treat. Yuey likes eating something sweet after a savory meal, so she had a large fruit tea while I picked a simple milk tea. As we drank, I couldn't help but think how lucky I was to have someone who liked me as I am.
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