Chapter Thirty-Nine
Berkeley
Marigold
By eleventh grade, Marigold was the top student at Berkeley High, and the loneliest. In class she sat in the front row and spoke firmly, her spine erect even when she bent her head down to write.
Outside class, she could be found behind a wall of encyclopedias in the reference library.
A growing number of freshmen and sophomores sought her out for tutoring.
She never turned anyone down, but she never befriended them, either.
Of the Yuen sisters, she was the shortest and plainest. Her face was round with a triangular chin, her expression pensive even when she was eating.
She wore the same rotation of five turtlenecks and jeans every week and only bothered to tie up her hair so it wouldn’t obscure her glasses.
Her classmates called her an oddball, for she was never seen without gloves, even in PE.
A pity, for Marigold had beautiful hands.
Deft and slender fingers with pink shiny nails.
Few appreciated how expressive they were, dancing when she was in the middle of an explanation.
She was happiest when she was with her sisters. Least happy whenever someone mentioned the name Kenji Yamamoto.
The first two years of high school, they had no classes together.
If they encountered each other in the hallway or by their lockers, Kenji would turn his back to her, his jaw setting as if her presence gave him a toothache.
Once or twice she’d pass him drawing in the library, and he’d shut his sketchbook the moment he saw her.
Rumors swirled around why he hated Marigold, and none were in her favor.
No surprise. Everyone was friends with A-minus Ken.
He was an easy talker, good at sports, and popular with students and teachers alike.
It also helped that since middle school, he had grown nine inches taller and gotten rid of the bowl haircut, which had done wonders for his looks.
He’d gotten smarter, too. At the end of sophomore year, he’d rocketed up the rankings to second, just behind Marigold.
Which was when she began to worry.
They both wanted to go to Stanford, and they both needed scholarships. Their guidance counselor said it was unlikely the university would offer more than one full ride to a Berkeley High student in the same year. So Marigold redoubled her efforts. And so did Kenji.
Junior year, they had five classes together.
In English, they argued over whether Romeo and Juliet were in love.
Kenji believed their love was genuine; Marigold argued it was lust. In history, they took opposite sides arguing political theory: Marigold debated as Thomas Hobbes while Kenji was John Locke.
A few brave souls tried pairing them on assignments, hoping it might ice the animus between them. Mr. Martinez, the biology teacher, was the latest to attempt such folly. One rainy Monday morning, he partnered the two on their fetal pig dissection.
Kenji’s hand went up. “Sir, I’m afraid you can’t put us together.”
“Why is that?”
“Because Marigold’s allergic to me.”
A few of their classmates snickered, and Mr. Martinez crossed his arms. “Very funny, Ken. Get to your stations, please.”
Kenji brought his notes to the counter, standing across from her. “Can’t say that I didn’t warn him.”
Marigold gave him a stormy look. She snatched the set of instructions on the table, scanning the text as she exchanged her black nylon gloves for the lab’s latex ones.
Kenji had some difficulty putting the glove on his right hand, where the tip of his middle finger was limp and drooped down.
Probably a tendon injury, Marigold observed, from baseball.
“Wow, you really do write in shorthand,” he said. “Guess that’s why no one borrows your notes.”
“Hand me the scalpel,” she said.
With a sigh, Kenji obliged.
“Pins.”
“Are you going to do everything?”
“You can read the instructions aloud.”
“It’s my grade, too.”
“You don’t need experience with dissections to design games.”
“And you do?”
“I’m going to be a doctor.”
Kenji looked surprised.
“What? You don’t think I can?”
“I didn’t say that. I just . . . I thought you were a candy striper.”
She was, until Helen made her quit. Marigold made a clean cut along the pig’s intestines, her nostrils flaring from the smell of formaldehyde. “So you thought I wanted to be a nurse.”
“Is that why you study so hard?”
I study “so hard” because my parents still dilute our dishwashing soap to save money, because whenever Dad gambles we go without meat so that we can pay our rent.
Because if I don’t get a scholarship, I won’t be able to afford college.
But Marigold said none of this. Kenji’s family was solidly middle class—she could tell from the stack of comics in his locker, all owned instead of borrowed from the library, how he didn’t have a job after school like she did, how he went to the cinema with friends on Saturdays.
“I want to help fix people,” she replied.
“Fix people? You make it sound like they’re cars.”
“Why not? Our heart’s a battery, our brain an engine, our lungs a radiator.
” She set down the scalpel. Kenji never wore his stupid grin around her anymore, but she found his blank, deadpan look even more unnerving.
No doubt he was mocking her in his head.
“What are you going to fix with your games?”
“Games make people happy.”
She pointed at his hand with her chin. “Do you even know you’ve got a torn tendon? You should see the nurse.”
Kenji trained his attention back on his notes, where, in spite of his injury, he was sketching the fetal pig. “It’ll heal.”
“It’ll heal crooked.” For the captain of the baseball team, she couldn’t believe how little he worried about an injury to his hand. Exchanging her lab gloves for her black ones, she took out the blue box she kept in her backpack.
She opened it cautiously, as not to dislodge the contents, which were fitted neatly into place.
On top were her old silk gloves from the attic—worn only sparingly these days, though she still brought them everywhere.
Under those were extra leather finger pads, tweezers, pencil grips, folding scissors, antiseptic wipes, a roll of gauze, Tylenol—Marigold liked preparing for little catastrophes, sparks-related or not, but she hadn’t planned on binding her enemy’s sports injury.
She took her wooden pencil and cut it in two with her scissor blade.
“Here,” she said tersely, “you should splint that.”
“I’m right-handed. Can you help?”
A muscle ticked in Marigold’s jaw as she obliged. It was tempting to wrap the gauze extra tight, but she didn’t. There, it was done. Quite a professional-looking job, too.
“Thank you.”
Marigold avoided acknowledging him and stole a peek at his sketch instead. His rendering of the pig’s anatomy was impressive, better than the textbook, even.
“You labeled the thymus and trachea wrong,” she pointed out when he looked up.
“Thanks.” He made the change. “I’ll make a photocopy at lunch. Pass to you in English?”
“No thanks.”
“You’re doing the lab, you haven’t had time to take notes.”
She took a firmer tone. “I said no thanks.”
“Hey. Marigold.” Kenji sounded serious. “Why do you hate me so much? Is it because I’m Japanese?” He sounded distraught when she didn’t respond. “C’mon, you can’t really think that. My family’s been here four generations—my uncles fought against Japan in the war.”
Marigold said nothing. The truth was, she wondered if her hostility toward Kenji had gone on long enough. She still didn’t know why he’d swung the baseball bat into the car, but he’d become more serious since middle school, more careful in his words and demeanor.
Except when he’s whispering about me to his friends, she reminded herself. Or making fun of me in his sketchbook.
She took her pencil and drew across the countertop. “Here’s your side, and here’s mine. Don’t cross it.”
A darkness touched Kenji, hardening the tanned lines of his face. He took the fetal pig tray and placed it in the dead center of the line. He took the tools, too: scalpel, forceps, scissors, laying each with a purposeful clank.
He was angry with her. Good.
She ignored him, yet as she turned to her notebook, there was a sour taste in her mouth. It would linger longer than she cared to admit.
That Friday during their weekly lunch, Marigold complained about Kenji to her sisters.
“You told him you hate him because he’s Japanese?” Rosie exclaimed. She covered her face with her hands. “My God, I can’t believe we’re related. How can you say things like that?”
Actually, Marigold hadn’t said any such thing. “Dad says it all the time.”
“Dad was raised in China. This is America: love and peace. No hate.”
Marigold sipped her milk. “You don’t know Kenji like I do.”
“Oh yeah? Has it ever occurred to you that maybe you find him annoying because you like him?”
Marigold sent her sister a withering glare. “There is nothing about Kenji Yamamoto that I like. Nothing at all.”
“Is there any boy you like?” Rosie pressed. “Or are you bringing a slide rule to prom?”
“At least a slide rule shows signs of intelligence. Can’t say the same about the four dummies you kissed this month.”
“Be nice, you two,” said Peony.
Marigold closed her lunchbox lid. Most days she looked forward to lunch with her sisters, but lately, all they wanted to talk about was boys.
Even Peony had been infected. Her older sister had met Paul Wong over winter break at a family dinner.
Paul was twenty and had dropped out of high school to become a plumber like his father.
On Saturdays he joined the Yuens for dinner, bringing a box of rice noodle rolls from Sam Wo Restaurant instead of flowers.
He let Helen and Philip win at mahjong and insisted on helping wash the dishes.
Both sets of parents had already blessed a future union, but Marigold didn’t approve.
“How can you go out with him?” Marigold complained to Peony later that day. “He doesn’t even know the difference between your and you’re or there and their.”
“Neither do our parents. Do you hold it against them?” Peony folded Paul’s newest letter into her pocket as if it were a hundred-dollar bill.
Marigold bit her lip. She couldn’t hold it in. “Boys ruin everything.”
Peony wiped her hands on her apron. “Where is this coming from?”
“I thought you were going to apply to Merritt.”
“I changed my mind. College is your dream, not mine. I’m happy where I am.”
“Don’t you want more than this?” Marigold spread her arms at the bakery. “Don’t you want more than to be someone’s wife?”
“Ah,” said Peony, suddenly understanding. “This is about Paul.”
“Not just Paul. It’s about losing your sense of self.”
“I’ll still be me. Right now, the only thing that makes your heart race is a pop quiz, but that’ll change. You’ll see.”
“No it won’t,” said Marigold with all the passion of a misunderstood teenager. “Do you know why only five percent of physicians in this country are women? Because once we get married, we’re expected to quit our jobs and have babies. That won’t be me.”
“If it isn’t, then I’m happy for you,” said Peony, patiently, “and if you change your mind, I’m happy for you too. Won’t you be happy for me?”
This was her sister’s gift, the ability to subdue any storm with a few earnest words. Marigold felt her resistance ebb away, and she lowered her shoulders, humbled. “I will.”
Peony squeezed her hand. “It’s hard for me, too, all of us growing up. I know it feels like Rosie and I are leaving you, but we’ll always be here for you. Truth is, you’re the one more likely to leave us.”
“Me?” Marigold shook her head.
“You won’t be at Three Flowers forever. I know it. You’ve got a beautiful journey ahead. I just hope, wherever it takes you, in the end you always come back.”
Marigold would never forget how radiant Peony looked at that moment. She glowed, a strawberry flush dusting her cheeks, and Marigold thought maybe there was some magic to being in love.
It made her curious. But not curious enough to try it herself.