Chapter 2 #3
“See, I told you,” one of the girls says to the guy behind her. The guy scowls. “She looks the exact same as her photo.”
I blink. “Uh, my photo? What photo?”
The same girl’s eyes widen while her friends titter.
“Haven’t you seen it? It’s been going around everywhere—pretty flattering too,” she adds hastily, in a way that makes me suspect she’s lying.
As we shuffle farther up the line, she fishes her phone out from her pocket and brandishes it in front of my face.
And I don’t know whether to cry or laugh.
In an article for some online teen magazine (titled “Why We’re All Swooning Over This Senior Student’s Love Story”), someone’s attached one of my old school photos from when I was still living in the States.
It’s actually impressive, how they managed to find the worst possible photo of me.
My hair’s been tied into a super-tight high ponytail that’s hidden behind my head, so I pretty much look bald, and my eyes are only half-open and watery from having just sneezed.
I’d begged the school photographer—almost bribed him—to let me retake it at the time, but he’d waved me away with a cheery “Don’t worry! Only your parents will see this anyway!”
Funny how that turned out.
“Wow,” I say. “This is just … great.”
“I know, right?” The girl beams, either missing my sarcasm or choosing to ignore it. “You’re, like, famous now.”
Famous. The word tastes funny, but not entirely in a bad way. There’s something inherently cool about it, something flashy and shiny and desirable, all the things I never thought I could be. I just wish it were only my writing that was famous, and not me.
I make a noncommittal sound with the back of my throat and grab an empty tray.
Try to focus on selecting my lunch. If there’s one thing Westbridge International does well, it’s the food.
The school chefs serve actual three-course meals, and they change it up every day; we had pineapple fried rice and braised chicken and silk tofu earlier this week, then dim sum (complete with shrimp dumplings and fresh mango pudding and all) the day after.
Today, they’re serving up roujiamo—shredded pork belly and diced scallion sandwiched in crisp, golden pieces of bing.
I heap four onto my tray and turn to go, but the kids behind me aren’t done yet.
“Is it true that your boyfriend’s identity is top secret?” the same girl asks.
My body stiffens, but my voice comes out smooth. “No. I mean … No, I wouldn’t say that.”
“So you can tell us who he is?” another girl pipes up.
“Also no.”
Even though I can only see them out of the corner of my eye, I can practically sense their disappointment.
“Can y’all give her some space?”
This, from a girl in my year level I vaguely know. Her name starts with S: Samantha or Sally or Sarah … No, Savannah. She’s standing at the front of the line, her tray stacked with at least six roujiamos, one hand on her hip.
After a stunned beat, the kids mumble apologies and back away.
I almost feel bad for them. Savannah is one of those people who’s effortlessly cool and absolutely terrifying at the same time.
Her winged eyeliner alone is sharp enough to cut glass, and she’s so tall I have to crane my neck a little just to look at her.
It also doesn’t hurt that she’s dating one of Caz Song’s friends; anyone with any connection to Caz Song is basically granted instant membership to the school’s Super Popular, They-Could-Step-on-Me-and-I’d-Thank-Them circle.
“Um, thanks for that,” I manage.
“No big deal,” she says. She has a faint New York accent, and I remember hearing somewhere that she’s Vietnamese American.
Quite a few students around here fall into similar categories: Chinese American, Korean Australian, British Indian.
All people who have grown up balancing different cultures.
People like me. “Must be pretty overwhelming, huh? Getting questions like that all day.”
“It’s okay.” I shrug, hoping to play it cool. “Could be a lot worse.”
“Yeah, I mean, you could’ve gone viral for trying to go up a down escalator in the middle of a crowded mall only to end up falling and knocking over a mascot in a giant chicken costume.”
I stare at her. “That’s … very specific.”
She laughs. “It was trending the other day. In fact, I think your post took its spot.”
“That’s nice? I guess?”
“Huge accomplishment,” she agrees jokingly. “You should be proud.”
We’re standing near the cafeteria tables now, and for a moment, I debate asking if she wants to have lunch together.
But that’s silly. It’s not like I have a great track record with keeping new friends; I can’t imagine building a friendship on a deeply embarrassing lie would yield great results in any case.
And like she said, her speaking up for me wasn’t a big deal.
Plus, a scan of the cafeteria makes it clear that her boyfriend—Daiki, I remember from roll call—is waiting for her at the largest corner table, alongside Caz Song, Stephanie, and Nadia and a bunch of other loud, gorgeous, perfectly sociable people from our year level.
They’re laughing together at some joke Caz must’ve told just now, their mouths wide open, some actually doubled over in mirth.
I can’t help but stare for a few beats, an unwelcome, unreasonable stone of envy lodged in my gut.
“Well, thanks again,” I tell Savannah with a weak half wave, eager to be alone. “Um, bye.”
She looks surprised, but she nods at me. Smiles. “Anytime.”
Then I leave her there. I leave the cafeteria entirely and climb the five flights of steps up to the very top of the building, my lunch tray still gripped tight in my hands.
Soon, the babble of voices and clatter of plates fade away, and it’s just me standing alone on the roof with warm, buttery sunlight falling around me.
For the first time since this morning, I feel myself relax slightly.
I love coming up here, not only because it’s quiet and most often empty, but because it’s beautiful.
The rooftop is designed like a garden, with bright mandarin trees and slender bamboos and this gnarled-looking plant I can’t name lining the sides and fresh jasmine flowers—Ma’s favorite—blooming everywhere like little clusters of stars, sweetening the air with their scent.
There are even fairy lights strung up around the railings and over the wooden swing set in one corner, though I’ve never stayed behind late enough to watch them glow.
The view’s gorgeous too. From here, you can see the entire stretch of the school campus, and Beijing rising behind it, all that shiny glass and steel reflecting the clouds in the sky.
This is my trick to surviving new schools: Find a space like this, a place no one can disturb me, and claim it as my own.
It’s especially useful now, when I need to figure things out alone.
I lower myself onto the swing and balance my tray on my lap, ripping out a large bite of the roujiamo with my teeth. Then I do the thing I’ve been putting off all day: I check my phone.
Generally speaking, I try to stay off social media as much as possible.
Every new post from an old friend serves as a painful reminder: This is their life now, without you.
This is their group of best friends, their boyfriend they didn’t tell you about; this is them moving on completely.
This is proof that when they said they’ll remember you, stay in touch with you, they were lying.
Sometimes I’ll stare at an Instagram photo of someone I was close to in London, New Zealand, Singapore, at their fresh-dyed hair and wide grin and the kind of cropped jacket they wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing years ago, and get the odd sense of seeing a total stranger on my feed.
But today, so many messages come flooding in that my phone freezes for a solid minute.
My heart freezes as well. People I haven’t spoken to in years—people from primary school—have reached out to me, all with screenshots or some variation of omg you made it!
A few have followed up with questions like How has life been?
or It’s been ages! but the distant politeness of it all, compared with the keyboard smashes and emoji spam we used to send one another without thought, only drives another pang through my gut.
And all I can think is: Thank god for Zoe.
She’s the only one left in my life. The only one who’s stayed over the years. And the only one who’s messaged me with a completely unrestrained number of exclamation marks demanding an explanation.
I shoot back a quick message promising to update her on everything the next time we call, before moving on to my inbox with quivering fingers. My mouth feels too dry. I can barely swallow.
At least twenty emails from journalists and writers for all kinds of media sites pop up, some requesting interviews, some asking for more exclusive material, including a couple selfie.
I imagine myself posing with one arm around nothing but air, or one of those cardboard cutouts of a K-pop idol, and hysteria rises to my throat.
But the absurdity doesn’t stop there. A few people have sent me links to think pieces inspired by my essay.
“The Teen Love Story People Can’t Stop Talking About: Joy in the Age of Cynicism,” one reads.
Another has tied the “surprising success” of my essay to the revival of rom-coms, as well as my generation’s “growing disillusionment” with dating apps like Tinder.
Yet another has somehow managed to drag my racial identity into their analysis, warning that the whole thing could be an elaborate ruse designed by the Chinese government to “soften the image of the rapidly emerging global superpower.”
Despite the dread churning in my stomach, I can’t help it; a laugh of disbelief bursts from my lips. This is by far the most ridiculous thing to have ever happened to me. That probably ever will happen to me, period.
But then a new email comes in with a faint ping, and my incredulity gives way to pure awe when I see who it’s from.