肥肥(Zhangster)
4:56 pm
I heard your dumbass got called into the office today
Lee
4:56 pm
You heard correctly glad to see those ears are working
肥肥(Zhangster)
4:56 pm
Serves your stupid ass right did you get in trouble
Lee
4:56 pm
No but fuck this school
肥肥(Zhangster)
4:56 pm
Ew no this campus can be dirty sometimes
Lee
4:56 pm
STFU you know what I meant where TF is Villanova why isn't she responding
肥肥(Zhangster)
4:57 pm
IDK probs too busy getting dicked down
T Nova
4:57 pm
Hey how did you know
Lee is typing...
肥肥(Zhangster) is typing...
Read 4:58 pm
T Nova
I was joking
Lee
Sure
Suddenly, the door slams behind me, and my mom walks in, plastic bag in hand. Slowly, she makes her way to the kitchen island, sets down whatever she's carrying, and slips off her trench coat. As she turns to hang up her jacket, I spot bits of white stuck in her hair. Upon closer inspection, I realize they're eggshells. Pushing up from my spot on the couch, I scramble onto my feet, trudging to her general area in our kitchen. Reaching toward her, I pick out a bit of the shell stuck between the thin slightly graying strands, cracking it under my thumb. The curved side is still wet from the egg whites.
"Who did this to you?" I ask, voice barely a whisper.
Waving her hand dismissively, she smiles, taking a plastic container of hot and sour soup out of her bag and dumping it in a pot. Then, she lights the stove and puts the lid on top.
"Accident at work. Someone spill. Don't worry," she answers curtly, stirring the soup with a spoon.
"Spilled on top of your head?" I challenge, brow raised. "Last time I checked, the nail salon you work at doesn't have any eggs."
When she senses my unease, she purses her lips, averts eye contact, and continues to stir around the pot. Clumps of tofu and bamboo shoots float in the muddied crimson broth, swirling around like river rafts. Hot and sour soup is the ultimate comfort food. Regardless of how inauthentic or greasy, mom always insists that the broth reminds her so much of her home in China. Though I've never visited, I felt a visceral, intangible warmth whenever I ate it that I knew couldn't simply be explained by the temperature of the soup.
"Fall from counter," she insists curly, through gritted teeth.
Unconvinced, I took a moment to examine her. Streaks of yolk have stuck some of the strands together. There's no way something spilled on her. Since she's been fired from Lucky House, she's been taking extra smaller shifts at the nail salon. It isn't much, but it's better than nothing. Still, even if by some weird coincidence there were eggs at her workplace, if I recall correctly, she's taller than all the shelves there.
She's honestly such an awful liar. Guess it runs in the family.
But this is something she does—deflect from her own problems so I don't worry about her. I understand where she's coming from, however, I wish she wouldn't do that, especially if it's something this serious. I suppose it has to do with how she was raised—to be emotionally detached. When I was younger, I envied her ability to be stoic, but soon, I learned that it's a largely immigrant mindset born from a survival tactic—focusing on self-preservation to make ends meet.
She can't afford to let every little thing get to her, because our well-being depends on her strength. It's the same reason why I've never seen her cry. We lived similarly in that way—an endless cycle of falling down, dusting off our knees, and standing back up as if nothing ever happened. Eventually, because the pain never truly goes away, your knees start to wobble as you pick yourself up.
And when I look at her—I can see the agony. Through my distorted glasses lens, I see it in the way her palms are calloused from working so hard. I see it in the way she speaks in short sentences so people wouldn't look at her as if what she had to say is less valuable. I see it in the way she always makes sure to finish her food even when she's stuffed so we wouldn't waste anything, because when she was growing up, she never knew where her next meal would come from. I see it in the way she constantly texts me to be careful when really, she wants to stay by my side constantly to protect me from everything that's hurt her.
It's not like no one else can see it, because I'm pretty sure they can. No one else takes the time to try hard enough. But not me. I do.
The pain of feeling so much at once, that she stopped feeling at all. Pain passed down through family lines. Really, it feels like it's only me and her against the world.
Despite the obstacles and hardships thrown her way, she still managed to split oceans so I wouldn't have to swim ashore, bridge country lines, and kill a part of herself to keep us alive. And here I was, correcting her English, blissfully unaware that it is one of the only things she still has from China. I wonder if, in me, she sees an ungrateful daughter that has taken everything she's done for granted.
Pushing that thought away from my head, I grab two ceramic bowls from our cabinet and set them on the kitchen table. Then, I empty out our leftover rice into the bowls and pop them into the microwave for 2 minutes.
"Lee," she mumbles, switching on the stove's light, "come here."
As the microwave makes a humming noise, I do as I'm told, watching her stick a spoon in my face. Taking the hint, I sip the soup off of the hot metal surface. Almost immediately, the potent spice scalds my tongue. A vinegar aftertaste follows shortly, relieving my tastebuds.
"It's done," I tell her, and she switches off the stove, using a towel to bring the pot onto the table. As if on cue, the microwave beeps, indicating that the rice is done.
Carefully, my mom ladles some of the broth into our bowls and stirs it. In silence, the two of us dive into our food, shoveling spoonfuls of soup-soaked rice into our mouths. While the both of us are sitting here, enjoying our food, I can't help but think about my dad. I don't remember much about him since he died when I was pretty young, but mom used to go on and on about how he can only eat rice if there was some soup in it so he wouldn't get indigestion. She doesn't talk about him much these days, and I don't push her to. I'd like to think we both moved on. Either that, or we're really good at hiding it.
From the corner of my eye, I notice she has stopped eating and is looking at me with an amused expression on her face. Confused, I awkwardly shift in my seat. "What?"
"You eat so much like your father," she muses, lifting her bowl to her lips to sip the remainder of the stew, "you stick your tongue out when the spoon is almost in your mouth."
I frown. "Is that a bad thing?"
"Not at all," she quips back, setting down the ceramic, "女人的舌头像把剑，她是不会让它生锈的 [a woman's tongue is like a sword, she won't let it rust]."
Ah, another one of her favorite Chinese proverbs she utters from time to time that I don't quite understand. I'll add it to my list, alongside 有钱能使鬼推磨 [if you have money, you can make a ghost push through a millstone]. To be transparent, I don't know if that saying really applies to me seeing that my tongue isn't sharp. It's been dulled from years and years of speech therapy.
"I'm just gonna pretend like I understood what you said," I mutter under my breath, taking a moment to study her. People always say we look exactly alike, and honestly I don't see the resemblance (maybe because I don't know if they're being racist or not). The curvature of her brow bone is sharper, subduing the thickness of her eyelids, and contrasting the plumpness of her lips. Her skin is more olive-toned, while I definitely inherited dad's paleness.
"You can think about it while you 洗碗 [wash dishes]."
Frightened, I widen my eyes. Washing dishes is the worst chore. All the food scraps floating in the dirty ass water is enough to make me wanna throw up. I'd rather fold 100 shirts than wash 10 dishes. "Ugh..."
"Don't ugh me, get up and go do them," she says curtly, pushing in her chair.
"Only because you asked so nicely."
***
"Leigha open the fucking door!" a voice I recognize as Tara's calls from outside. Groaning, I jolt up in bed, rubbing my eyes. Satin sheets brush against my bare arms as I roll out of bed, still very much dressed in a thin tank and fuzzy pajama shorts. The second I unfasten the latch, Tara barges in, a pair of sunglasses perched on her nose. For comedic effect, she struts towards me as if our woolen rug is a red carpet.
"No really, make yourself at home," I murmur to no one in particular, watching as she inspects the marble detailing on her nails.
"We're going to jail, doll."
Confusion manifests on my face. "Um as a prisoner or—"
"Of course not," she scoffs, tongue pressed into her cheek, "we're going to visit my dad."
That's a relief. "Oh? What's the occasion?"
"He wants me to help him find a good lawyer. I need a key from him."
"What the hell was he even arrested for?"
"Compliance with embezzling money. You know, the real juicy stuff."
"Okay sounds good," I tell her, turning left so I'm back in my room, "give me, like 5 minutes to get ready."
"Just go in your pajamas. I doubt anyone will care."
"Fine," I agree with a clenched jaw, emerging around the threshold, grabbing my keys from a cubby hung on the way near the front door. The both of us head down the spiral stairway, the floorboards creaking under us as we trudge out of the complex. Today, the sky is uncharacteristically foggy, considering we live in summer-all-year-Cape Bedford, but I can still make out a blemished silhouette of the blood orange sun peeking out behind a densely concentrated storm clouds surrounded by a cotton candy afterglow. Grabbing the crook of my elbow, Tara drags me down a few blocks, and the smell of barbeque smoke fills my nasal passages. Doesn't exactly seem like prime BBQ weather, but hey, who am I to judge.
In front of me, Tara comes to a halt when we arrive at her car. She opens the door for me so I can claim the passenger's seat, while she switches on the ignition. Slowly, she peels out of her space and merges into the rightmost lane.
"So," she begins, following the curve of the road, "what's our next move?"
"Dunno," I answer truthfully, leaning my head against the window, "we don't have any ammunition. Not anymore. We've already used all our trump cards. If anything, we need to form a solid game plan first."
"Yeah, no kidding," she says, as we approach a red light, "doubt we can burn another house down, we barely got away with it. But there has to be something. Kind of feels like a stalemate right now. Didn't tell you this before, but dad's at the same prison as Wes is. Hopefully, we can find a way to siphon some information out of my dad. I don't think he'll be as loyal to him anymore after...you know..."
"Tell me about it," I sigh to myself. I can't help but feel a little bit guilty for the fact that Tara's dad is in jail and that Faye's place got trashed. They're honestly the only people keeping me sane right now. They've been nothing but supportive, and I don't deserve them, frankly. I don't know how I'm going to repay them.
A wavy lock of mocha-colored hair falls onto her forehead, curling above her cheekbone. The greatest mystery of all is how Tara constantly manages to look so put together at all times. "I don't know if you've heard, but Kass and Halle haven't had any luck finding a hospital that is willing to offer them a transplant, and Halle's been...nauseous lately. She says it's not related to her kidney...but I know better than that."
Gnawing on the inside of my lip, I fiddle with the hem of my shirt. "Antioch didn't work out?"
"Nope. Neither did Ridgewood, Davenport, or Vanderbilt. They're going to check Avery Valley on Monday...but I don't have high hopes."
God, that sucks. The worst part is that we can't really do anything about it.
Before I can reply, she drives up a curb and into a parking lot. From the outside, the prison is completely unmemorable. The building itself is a simple industrial design—shaped like multiple rectangular prisms connected together. On the walls, patches of chipped paint are haphazardly covered by missing people's posters. Long silver bars stretch from either side of the ramp, leading up the cobblestone stairway.
Together, Tara and I walk to a pair of double doors, arms linked. Waiting there are a pair of security guards, who seem to be examining us carefully.
"Take off your jackets and put them in the bin," the shorter of the duo instructs, pointing to a table in front of a metal detector. Doing what's told, Tara strips off her cardigan and drops it into one of the buckets. Following her lead, I gently place my own sweater into the bin behind hers.
Fortunately, none of the sensors are triggered, meaning that we're allowed to enter. Compared to the exterior, the inside is more polished. The hallway is narrow and windowless, yet tall. Our footsteps echo with each step, a loud reminder of how small we are relative to the size of the building.
The lobby where visitors are allowed is not much different. The ceiling slopes negatively, pointing towards a glass barrier. The crust is stuck in the crack where the glass meets the table. On the other side of the barricade, thick metal bars enclose the cells. A phone is stuck onto the cubicle slots. Next to me, Tara talks to one of the guards, who directs us to the seat in the far right.
As we make our way there, I notice a familiar mop of graying blond hair. When the man turns around, I recognize an unmistakable face: Wes D'Medici. For a moment, our gazes connect, and pure, unfiltered charged hatred shoots through the distance. Unable to match the intensity, I look away, a knot forming in my belly.
Is that a warning?
Taking a seat in a plastic red chair, Tara presses the telephone to her ear, using her other hand to twirl the wire. An officer on the other side guides Drew to the slot adjacent to us. Unlike the picture I was given, Drew has traded his loosened dress shirt and pants for an orange jumpsuit. Even in his disheveled state, the resemblance between the two is uncanny—same creamy complexion, as smooth as frosting and jewel-toned eyes.
"It's nice to see you, T," I can hear his voice faintly from the position I'm standing in.
"It's nice to see you too, dad," she replies tenderly, "don't worry, I'll get you out of here soon. You don't deserve this."
At this, I tense slightly. Because, in my humble opinion, he did, at least for a little. She doesn't see it that way because, at the end of the day, he's still her dad. I suppose that is something we have in common: being very family-oriented.
"You have to call one of my attorneys. I forgot their name, but I have information about all our lawyer friends in a folder at home. Ask for John in the front. He'll make sure you get the key that was in my pocket. Come back as soon as possible and I'll tell you who to call."
"Time's almost up, Villanova," the guard behind us informs, "wrap it up."
Briefly, Tara steals a glance at me over her shoulder. "Okay. Talk to you soon. Hopefully, you'll be out of here by then." And with that, she hangs up. We're being escorted through the lobby. A chill jolts down my spine when I realize that someone is watching us leave.