Chapter Twenty-Five
The next week flies by. I spill my heart out in our pitch.
To some people, Silicon Valley and artificial intelligence are the gold rush, I write.
To others—to my mother—the United States itself is that mine replete with luxurious things.
In Mandarin, America is mei guo, or beautiful kingdom, but in our family’s worst moments, I’ve wondered if there was any beauty at all in this country.
Sometimes I don’t know why we even stayed.
It feels weird to be vulnerable in something that’s going to be read by faceless strangers, but I figure that if whoever is judging thinks the same way Edvin Nilsen does, they’ll probably want to know about my background.
When Khoi reads what I wrote, he hugs me but says nothing. He doesn’t need to.
Tuesday, the program organizes a game of capture the flag on MIT’s campus, and Khoi convinces me to go. “C’mon, Char, you can’t skip everything fun. And this next checkpoint isn’t like the last one. It isn’t an exam you can cram for.”
We take another break from work on Thursday evening when Aisha invites us to her midsummer showcase over at Harvard.
The dances are mesmerizing. Bodies weave in and out perfectly in sync as music flows from frenetic to tranquil.
There’s even a traditional Chinese fan dance, which I’ve never seen in real life. I wish my mother was here too.
Then a funky drum splits the air, and Aisha rushes onstage with several other dancers, their hips swaying to the beat.
She kicks, her leg arcing through the air like a calligrapher’s brushstroke.
Levitates, as if she’s no longer bound by the same gravitational forces that anchor the rest of us.
She radiates pure joy. This is so obviously what she’s meant to spend her life doing. I applaud until my palms hurt.
At five p.m. on Friday we upload our proposal to the Alpha Fellows portal. To celebrate, Khoi and I go to Toscanini’s, an ice-cream shop near campus, and we split a scoop of their most iconic flavor, B3: brown sugar, brown butter, and brownies.
After dinner, there are Independence Day fireworks along the river. Some of the Alpha Fellows want to watch the show on sailboats. They’re really determined to get permission. After enough begging, they finally wear the camp counselors down.
“That’s the secret to life,” Obi says as we walk over to the MIT sailing pavilion. He sounds a little too smug. “Be super-duper annoying until you get what you want.”
This other girl shoots him the nastiest look and takes a big, dramatic step back like he’s got the plague.
“Wait, wait, hold up,” Obi says in a panicky voice. “I didn’t mean it like that!”
I fall back to walk next to Khoi. “Growing up, I never got to see fireworks,” he says.
“What? Why?”
“The sound reminds my dad of a pirate attack.” It sounds so silly—like something out of a Disney movie—that I almost laugh, but one glance at Khoi’s face tells me he’s dead serious.
I don’t know too much about the history of the Vietnam War, but I know that Vietnamese refugees fled the country on boats.
The world can be horrible in ways I can’t even imagine.
“PTSD is an asshole,” I say. “My stepdad has it. He served in Iraq.” I’ve never told anyone about Michael’s condition before.
He reaches down to give my hand a squeeze, and his grasp is warm and soft and perfect. I have to remind myself to let go.
On the dock, we strap ourselves into puffy orange life jackets. The sailboat bobs in the dark water. I end up in a group with Jenni-with-an-i, Haru, Aisha, and Khoi. Jenni-with-an-i, who got certified to sail last year, asks the rest of us to slide in before she unties the boat and jumps in.
As we cut through the waves, she explains the basics of sailing. There’s a mainsheet, which, counterintuitively, isn’t actually a sheet—it’s a rope that controls the orientation of the sail. There’s also the till, a glossy wooden lever that is used to steer.
For once, Haru seems enthralled. He keeps asking Jenni-with-an-i questions about the boat mechanics. Aisha and I exchange knowing smiles. Somehow I don’t think Haru is truly that interested in tacking versus jibing.
We find a windless spot to float. It’s a pleasantly cool night, that perfect summer twilight vibe I’d spend the entire school year waiting for. The moon is plump and yellow and it looks the same as it does back home.
While we wait for the fireworks to start, we idly swap gossip—one of the girls at Alpha Fellows is Elon Musk’s secret daughter, three camp counselors are in a throuple—while passing around Aisha’s flask.
After I have a sip, I offer it to Khoi, but he whispers, “Can’t have alcohol with my meds.”
There’s a whistling, and then a deafening crack as the first firework shatters into gold-and-crimson shards.
“Char!” Khoi shouts. “Look! It’s in the shape of a heart!”
I mean. It’s kind of impossible not to smile.
We fall silent as the sky splinters into bright, luminous colors: midnight blue, vibrant green, deep purple.
I’ve seen fireworks displays before, of course, but somehow this one feels uniquely magical.
I don’t know if it’s being out on the water, or next to my friends, or just the alcohol zipping through my veins.
I cut my gaze to Khoi. The fireworks are reflected in his eyes, and he looks so giddy, like a little kid seeing them for the first time. It’s adorable. Then I notice Aisha watching me watch Khoi. Blushing, I turn my face back toward the sky.
Once the last firework fizzles into nothing, Jenni-with-an-i is about to steer us back to shore when another boat speeds past.
“Race you to the Esplanade!” Diego shouts. Next to him, Obi pumps his fists in the air.
“Bet,” Aisha yells. She’s drunk. “Captain Jenni, after them!”
Jenni-with-an-i frowns at the water. “I don’t know, the winds are starting to pick up…”
“Babe, fuck the winds! Fuck them!”
“Not anatomically possible,” Haru mumbles.
“It’ll be fun,” I say, not wanting the night to end just yet.
With a sigh, Jenni-with-an-i tacks, and soon we’re whizzing after the other boat.
She’s right; the wind is stronger than before. Hair whips into my eyes and mouth. On the bright side, at least it’s my own hair.
“Woooo!” Aisha hoots. “Somebody do Titanic with me.” She stands up and holds her arms out. “I’m the king of the world!”
Then there’s an aggressive gust and she totters.
Khoi rushes over to her. “Are you okay?”
With Khoi on the left, the boat tilts from the uneven weight distribution. Jenni-with-an-i stumbles. Haru drops the rope and throws his arm out to keep her from falling.
“Fudge, the sail is luffing!” Jenni-with-an-i cries. “Somebody secure the sheet!”
The boat lurches again. The hull is almost entirely perpendicular to the river. I scramble for the rope, but I’m not quite sober and it’s slicker than I thought. It slips out of my grasp.
The metal arm of the sail swings back wildly and knocks Khoi clean into the Charles.
It takes me a moment to remember he can’t swim.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve plunged into the icy water, the cold slicing through my clothes.
I frantically grope for Khoi in the darkness.
My fingers finally find fabric—his shirt.
I lock my arms around his midsection and kick upward with all my might.
The water breaks over our heads, and we both gasp for air.
“Char, what are you doing?” he sputters. “We’re wearing life jackets.”
I stop thrashing. He’s right. We’re both buoyant. We’re fine.
“Oh,” I say, feeling immensely dumb. “Right.”
They’ve tilted the boat upright again.
“Y’all alive?” Jenni-with-an-i calls.
“Babes, you’re lucky this is a coding camp and not a swimming camp!” Aisha shouts.
Our friends drag us back onto the boat and we decide to head to shore.
Even though it’s, like, eighty-five degrees out, I’m shivering.
My body is one giant goose bump. As we sail, Haru brags to Jenni-with-an-i about his motorcycle, which was apparently a bribe from his dad during his parents’ divorce.
He says “torque” like it’s the most erotic word in the English dictionary.
“We could go for a ride,” he says to her. “The suspension is phenomenal. Buttery smooth. You gotta feel it for yourself.”
Jenni-with-an-i squirms. “Ummm, aren’t motorcyclists twenty times more likely to die in a car crash?”
“I’ll ride with you, dude,” Khoi offers in his completely oblivious Khoi way. Aisha makes a choked-up noise that sounds like a stifled snicker.
“Maybe if we have time,” Haru says in a tone that means he’s never bringing this up again.
Meanwhile, all I can think about are fluffy cotton towels and a mug of hot chocolate. Not the powdered packet crap. The rich, smooth stuff that makes your insides feel like liquid gold.
I decide that the minute we reach dry land, I’m bolting for the nearest shower.
But I don’t get the chance. Once we dock and Jenni-with-an-i starts derigging the boat, Khoi touches me on the shoulder. “Can I talk to you?”
We sit on the far end of the dock, away from everyone else, still dripping wet. Khoi’s shirt clings to his torso, and I make a point of looking away.
The water is so serene, like dark glass. Deceptively serene. Who knows what’s lurking beneath the surface?
“Do you know the common advice for saving a drowning person?” he asks.
“Check that they’re actually drowning first?”
“The advice is to not jump into the water yourself. Because somebody who is drowning will drag you down with them.” He shakes his head. “Char, why would you even try? I weigh more than you.”
“You never know. Maybe I’ve got superpowers,” I say. Now that he says it like that, it does feel ridiculous that I tried to save him. “It’s not that serious.”
“No, it is serious. You could’ve gotten hurt.”
Why is he so hung up on this? “As you pointed out, we were both wearing life jackets.”
“I don’t want you to try to save me.”
“Khoi, you’re always so eager to help everyone else. Now that I tried to help you, you’re being weird.” I mean, he’s usually a little weird, but he’s being even weirder than normal.
“Because it’s different when I’m not the burden!” He screws up his face, like he’s said more than he intended to.
Something inside me twists.
“You’re not a burden,” I say quietly. “Who told you that you were a burden?”
He’s silent for a long time. I wait.
When he finally speaks, he says, “Growing up, my parents were always stressed about my medical bills. We were upper-middle-class but my health issues were expensive. And when my dad got arrested, it felt like I was the reason he had done… what he did.”
“Khoi, I’m sure that’s not true.”
He does this noncommittal nod-slash-shrug that indicates he thinks I’m wrong, but he’s too polite to say that out loud.
“When my dad left, I thought he did that because I was defective in some way,” I say. “It took years to realize that, even if that were true, it doesn’t excuse my father’s actions. He was a grown-up who couldn’t face his responsibilities. That’s on him. Not me.”
“Char, I’m so sorry.”
“I’m sorry too.”
Khoi lays his head on my shoulder and I let him, even though it feels like a not-entirely-platonic gesture.
“My dad did bad things because he chose to,” he says to the river. “I was a child; he was the adult. Sure. I know that intellectually. But even if I repeat those facts over and over, I never feel less guilty.”
“That’s a mood,” I say. “Knowing that I shouldn’t feel inadequate only goes so far.”
“Too bad we can’t debug our brains, right?”
“Khoi, I think that’s what alcohol is for.”
He laughs, a gorgeous bellyful of mirth, and something flutters inside me. For the stupidest second, my brain decides I’ll do anything to make him laugh again.
Anyway, it makes sense now, why he’s always tried so hard to help me. To help others, too—his fake relationship with Aisha, his conversations with other students whenever they ask for advice. As if he’s trying to prove to himself that he’s good and useful. That he’s enough.
But he’s already enough for me.