eleven
faking
When do you and I become strangers? It is hard to know, except that it seems to begin after we come to America. Things happen
slowly, until one day, I realize that I do not remember the last time we played together or when you wanted anything to do
with me.
You get older, your face elongating into a man’s. With age, our differences become clear, the way the ocean polishes away
at the shoreline.
We are so unalike. You are a smaller version of Baba. Your analytical mind grasps concepts after a single lesson. You excel
academically. You shrug off social difficulties in a way that I cannot, perhaps because they do not matter to you. You move
through the world like a scholar, waiting for a higher plane of learning, waiting to leave this insular world behind. I feel
earthbound, wishing to be more American, wanting to share jokes with friends.
Baba treats us both the same, diligently teaching us math beyond the school lesson plans. He scoffs at how slowly the curriculum moves. With you, it is easy, and you fly beyond the schedule until you’re doing problems at a college level in eighth grade.
With me, it’s another story.
“Why don’t you understand?” Baba says one afternoon, a regular replay of our tutoring sessions. “It’s very simple. Your brother
picked it up instantly.”
That’s all I hear, how proficient you are, how smart. Baba’s tone glows with delight at your name. I shake my head. I don’t
know why it is hard for me. If I could learn it, I would. Instead, I feel as though I am trying to break into an impenetrable
fortress.
“You’re supposed to be getting better, not worse.” He sighs. He turns toward the living room, where piano melodies drift through
the doorway. “Chen Wei!”
The music abruptly stops. Your head emerges. “What?”
“You try.” The resignation in his voice slaps me hard. I twist in my seat, embarrassed.
“But, Baba, I have too much of my own work,” you protest.
“She is your sister,” he says. “You are responsible for each other. She needs your help. And maybe you’ll be able to reach
her better than I can.”
We exchange a look of equal outrage. I don’t want to learn from you, any more than you want to teach me. But Baba puts up
a hand. His irritation is clear. He has shed his problem off onto the two of us and extricated himself.
You let out a half grunt, half sigh. “Go to your room,” you say. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
I retreat, biting back a retort. I hear you and Baba arguing quietly as I shut the door. I collapse onto my bed. My cheek
rests on the cool pillow, beginning to dampen lightly from bitter tears.
There’s a knock at the door. “Hello? Can I come in?” You let yourself in and shut it behind you.
Surreptitiously, I wipe my face against the sheets as I sit up.
You carry a red pen and my notebook of problems Baba had begun marking up. “What part of it is causing you problems?” you
ask.
“All of it.”
Your lip curls. “Can you get more specific?”
“No.” I stare sullenly.
“Okay. Great talk.”
I turn the other way to face the wall, willing for you to leave me alone. I don’t hear anything but paper rustling for several
minutes. Finally, you clear your throat. “I’m looking at your answers. You’re making the same type of error. I think you’re
probably just missing a simple thing. What if you—”
“I don’t want your help. You can’t teach me anything.”
Baba’s pity and frustration make me feel worthless.
“Everything is so easy for you. You never need help. You don’t know what it’s like to be me, and I’m tired of trying to be
like you.”
My resentment leaks out in ugly spurts; directed at you, directed at the world.
I can’t begin to articulate it the right way, so it comes out in all the wrong ways.
None of this is your fault. All I know is that nothing will be simple between us again.
We will always be compared against one another, and one of us will never measure up.
You say nothing, only turn on your heel to leave. I have gotten what I asked for, only I am left with hollow disappointment
anyway.
I sit there, trying to decide if this means I’m excused or not. To my surprise, you return shortly. You drop the notebook
on my bed. It’s flipped open to Baba’s prompts for next week. They are all filled out.
“What is this?” I ask.
“Next week’s answers. I filled them out for you.”
“What? You can’t do that.”
He shrugs. “Why not? I know them, and you don’t. I’m good at faking handwriting.”
“That’s—that’s cheating.” My eyes dart toward the door, as though Baba might be standing at the crack, listening in.
“This isn’t for school. You’re not turning this in to anybody except Baba. That’s not cheating.” You glance at the pages carelessly.
“I left a couple of them wrong so it wouldn’t be obvious.”
For some reason, this makes me want to laugh. That you pretend to be worse at math so your imitation of me would be more convincing.
“I’ll do these for you every week so we can stop getting lectures from Baba,” you say.
“I don’t want this.” But my fingers are curling around the notebook even as I protest. The temptation is too great. We both know that I will go along with it.
You give me a long look that’s partly sympathetic and partly exasperated. “Do me a favor, though.”
“What?”
“Use your new free time to figure out who it is you want to be. Don’t just be me.”
I stare at you.
You give me a ghost of a smile, a hint of humor coming out. “There can only be one of me anyway.”