18. You’re Territorial
YOU’RE TERRITORIAL
BEFORE
Even if winning bronze at nationals wasn’t what we wanted, even if it gives last year’s bronze-at-worlds Arjun additional ammunition to complain about what the teams should have been, we’re still celebrities for a day or so.
Caltech’s news announcement about our third-place finish is the university equivalent of the principal saying a few words during the beginning of a lunchtime assembly.
It’s a likely-ChatGPT-authored few paragraphs that’s currently featured on the college’s website and is populating the spam inboxes of alumni, but what truly matters is that I’m now able to leverage it into meetings with professors.
Bronze-at-worlds Arjun was right, even though I didn’t want to admit it: As a freshman in remedial/accelerated calculus, I was bottom quartile of the incoming class. Though I’d emailed professors about potential undergraduate research fellowships, no one had bothered replying.
As one-third of a well-ranked bronze-winning national programming team and because (thanks to my father) I know how to ride a moment, I line up meetings with several potential advisors.
I want to do well at worlds, of course.
But even if Lucas, Brody, and I win at next year’s regionals, nationals, and worlds, longer term, I’ll need research and peer-reviewed papers, other awards and accolades to keep my father’s attention—and thus his bank account—on me and my sisters.
When I forward Caltech’s news announcement to my father, he’s so pleased he actually calls.
“I told you Caltech was the correct school for you.”
I nod, a tight smile on my face even though it’s not actually true.
I needed to stay close to my mother, and my father actually said he’d be willing to pay tuition at Caltech, Columbia, or Duke.
No mention of the state schools (where, thanks to my parents’ still-married, still-filing-taxes-jointly status, I didn’t qualify for financial aid).
So I went to Caltech.
“And you’re contributing to your team?”
“Yes.”
“Four people?”
“Three: one junior, one sophomore, and me.”
“Fine.” My father’s face is already turned from me, the WeChat signal glitchy. “First would have been better, but you’ve earned a bonus.”
He hangs up before I can reply, a good thing, as it allows me to save sharing about any potential research fellowship for another call, to earn another bonus.
Two days later, his assistant texts me that he’s FedEx’ed a red envelope of cash.
Unfortunately, my mother gets to it first.
She messages me while I’m in a meeting with K. Parth Patel—whose lab I would kill to get into. Not only because the research is exciting, but also because it’s a name my father will be impressed with.
Taking the girls shopping for necessities!
I see the message preview on my phone screen, and it’s the exclamation point that worries me, but I can’t do anything about it while K. Parth Patel is asking me about my familiarity with the Church-Turing thesis and whether I’ve read his paper on error models and thresholds.
Because even though yes, I’m passingly familiar, and also yes, I’ve read several of Patel’s papers in preparation, I have to focus to hold my own in this meeting.
The long minutes pass. By the time Patel nods, the corners of his mouth coming down a little as he considers my candidacy, telling me finally that I can join their weekly lab meetings, almost an hour has passed.
I call my mother, but it rings twice before I’m sent to voicemail. I text, but my mother has her status set up as Do Not Disturb. Whatever money there is (or was), will be gone by the time I get home.
I almost reschedule Lucas, who now comes twice a week, and whose help I need in diagnosing our dishwasher, which isn’t draining and bubbled at the sides. But he’s already borrowed his mother’s car so he can bring his tools. Aurora, Wren, and Harper have already mentioned it’s a Lucas night tonight.
“I should warn you—” I stop, not sure what, exactly, I want to say. That my mother took my sisters shopping and I’m angry about it?
“Yes?” Lucas is a supernaturally calm driver, even in the Greater Los Angeles area, where the homeless are regularly pushing shopping carts across dividers and there are fender benders and people arguing at least once every other trip.
He stops completely at every stop sign (even when there’s clearly no one around) and signals patiently, drumming the steering wheel to some invisible beat.
“It might be a difficult night.”
“Did Aurora’s science project not go well?”
I can’t help but look askance at him, which Lucas catches. “You’re not supposed to play favorites,” I say.
“Wren and Harper are great, but they’re too young to be curious. And I’m not playing favorites. Aurora’s tied with Leno and Levi.”
“Tied. Meaning if they were all drowning, you wouldn’t save her last?”
“She’s the only one who would need saving, Leno and Levi are strong swimmers.” He turns toward me, a micro-frown on his face. “You should let me teach Wren and Harper.”
When I’m silent, because what’s the point in talking about arranging access to swimming pools and scheduling, Lucas shakes his head before resting his hand on my thigh. “What are you hoping to warn me about?”
“I—”
But we’re already here, and Lucas is already parallel parking in that precise way of his, the one where he can’t really focus on anything I’m saying, and so I shake my head.
Perhaps my mother remembered Wren and Harper need new underwear. Maybe Wren asked for the blanket she’s been wanting. Maybe there’s enough left over for Aurora’s potential laptop.
As I open the apartment door to the chaos and wreckage of our living room, I quickly realize that not a single cent has been spent on actual necessities.
My mother lounges on the couch while Wren and Harper are seated on the floor, the three of them nearly buried under shopping bags, soft tissue paper, ribbons, and fanciful boxes boasting brand names we can no longer afford.
In a not-insignificantly-sized pile near the center of our worn rug are a stack of cut price tags, meaning returning even a small portion of these purchases will be difficult.
“Look what Mummy bought me.” Harper twirls in a circle, modeling a beautiful half-lace dress with layers of flouncy underskirts, cut at different angles.
It is exquisite and also fragile in a way that’s completely inappropriate for my barely four-year-old sister.
Before I can formulate an appropriate response, Wren comes toward me.
“Mine is better!” she declares, running toward me in a floor-length dress embroidered with constellations and planets.
Wren trips the moment before she gets to me, falling and tearing the delicate outer layer, leaving a gauzy hole near where Saturn had been stitched in.
It’s still wearable, but a prescient reminder that five-year-old girls aren’t meant to be dressed in these kinds of intricate, delicate clothes.
“Oh no.” Wren’s lower lip is already jutting out, and because I don’t want her new dress to have both a hole and a layer of snot, I move quickly, grabbing at the tissue paper in the nearest shopping bag.
“Wren.” My mother is shaking her head even as she remains seated. She’s not going to bother looking at the damage; she’s too engrossed in opening her own packages. “I told you you’d have to be careful if I bought you that dress.”
“The tear is barely noticeable. With some black thread I can—” But even as I speak, I admit to myself the gauze doesn’t look fixable. “Why don’t you go to your room, change for dinner.”
“Mum said she was going to take us out to show off our refinery.”
“Finery,” I correct, my smile tight, my face stony. “I was hoping to have a nice meal in.”
“Of course you would.” My mother wraps her new shawl around herself, twisting her shoulders to get a selfie. “You eat out far more often than we do, because of your job.”
“Yes, Mother. I eat returned food orders and sneak slices of leftover pizza.”
I rarely use this tone with her. More to the point, these days, I speak to my mother as little as possible. It’s too hard to balance my guilt and anger. Yes, I feel responsible for our situation, but most days, my mother’s not even trying to parent, help or be present in any meaningful way.
I look at the matching pink-and-purple glittery boots that sit in a pile. It’s April and past the rainy season. By the time there’s another storm, the girls will have grown out of these.
“We can eat out another day,” I tell the now-quiet girls. “Grab your boots and”—I look around—“tights and other clothes.”
Nylons, I think and don’t say.
Because why the fuck is my mother buying my four- and five-year-old sisters nylons?
“Wren and Harper have been wanting to take dance lessons,” my mother explains.
“They’ve mentioned it.” We can’t afford lessons. But I don’t want to be labeled the bad guy.
“We don’t need dance lessons,” Aurora, who has quietly inserted herself next to me, announces.
My eldest little sister is dressed in her normal clothes—which, given that we’ve been in this new house for two years now, means my castoffs.
Aurora’s too young to understand so much about the power struggle between my mother and me.
And yet she not only does, she is clearly taking sides.
“Did you not get any new clothes?” I can feel the emotion clogging the back of my throat because it’s obvious the most responsible Zhao has gotten shafted.
Aurora shakes her head, her voice firm. “Don’t need them.”
“Can you help your sisters carry in their clothes?” I keep my voice gentle and then crouch near her. “I’ll make this up to you.”
Aurora nods and looks away, her young face strained.
To my side, Lucas squeezes my hand. “I’ll look at the dishwasher?”
Lucas waits until I meet his eyes, and it’s clear that he’s offering to stay, to act as a buffer. But there’s nothing he can do. “You don’t have to stay.”
“I’d like to.”