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of cheating husbands,

  and of the woman

  who they saw

  as “the other.”

  Without Mom

  there were no more answers,

  nor questions either.

  At least, not questions

  I wanted to ask anyone

  out loud.

  Xiaoling

  I loved Xiaoling, though

  not like a mother.

  She didn’t pretend

  to be my mom.

  She tiptoed around the issue of discipline

  and turned the other way when I turned up

  at ten a.m. on a Sunday morning.

  I wondered if Xiaoling was happy

  here in America,

  with us,

  with my dad.

  I wondered if she thought she made the right decision,

  to pack her bags,

  her son,

  her life,

  and fly business class to America

  to marry a strange, short but successful

  software engineer.

  I wondered if she loved my dad,

  if she saw something in him

  that Mom and I

  did not.

  Dinner

  Dad drank

  Chianti with his

  Szechuan-style steak.

  He savored every second.

  I sat there

  with a polished-off plate

  watching Xiaoling pour

  Dad another glass.

  Silence smothered the table.

  It choked the air.

  It felt lonelier

  than being alone.

  Mom never made us

  sit at this table.

  Dad wafted the fresh pour.

  He set down the wine,

  and then he said,

  “How are your grades?”

  “They’re still As,”

  I said,

  moving the tines of a fork

  across oil slicks and streaks of sauce

  on an otherwise

  white plate.

  He slowly chewed

  his steak

  and said,

  “Senior year counts.

  Make sure

  they stay

  that way.”

  If my body could dive

  into a pile of textbooks

  and swim around

  and surface at the end

  of the year

  with straight As

  wrung from my body,

  then maybe I could be

  the perfect daughter to Dad

  and Xiaoling.

  But I could feel

  the parts of Mom

  that slid over my shoulders

  seeped into my skin,

  sat in this chair,

  restless

  under a Chihuly sculpture

  that she selected.

  Like a fine wine

  When I told my dad

  I was applying early

  decision to Princeton,

  he responded with

  “Very good selection,”

  as if I had ordered

  a fine bottle of wine.

  Mom poured herself another

  From a bottle of chardonnay

  on one of the last nights

  before she disappeared.

  I side-eyed her behavior,

  but she didn’t notice.

  She’s stopped noticing

  a lot of things.

  Like how much

  I wanted her

  to be the mom

  who couldn’t

  French braid

  my hair

  because she sucked

  at it,

  not the mom

  who couldn’t

  French braid

  my hair

  because she was

  drunk.

  She teetered over to the table

  cast in orange light.

  “What are you working on?”

  “Trig,” I grunted.

  She swirled her glass.

  “I can help you with that,” she said brightly.

  “I know. But I’ve got this.”

  I scratched out another answer.

  “When I was your age . . .”

  “Mom.” I pointed to the textbook

  and reached for a pair of earbuds.

  She caught my hand.

  Her skin felt raw.

  “Let me sit here with you.

  I promise

  I’ll be quiet.”

  I pulled away from her.

  “Fine.”

  Rain smattered against the windows

  and drizzled down the drainpipe.

  And an hour later, Mom prattled away

  about the gossip at the tennis club.

  The recent divorcée dating a younger man.

  “Twenty-five.”

  The hair color of the saleswoman

  at Nordstrom.

  “Silver with lavender hues.”

  Mom mused

  about whether she should go back

  to grad school.

  Finish the dissertation

  she never started.

  Or maybe learn how to code.

  “I could work for a start-up, Nic.”

  She was like the evening news,

  the hum of a steady voice,

  drowning against the sound of rain.

  I finished all thirty problems in trig

  and moved on to US History.

  Dad came home at midnight.

  His eyes glazed over Mom

  slumped in a chair

  and an empty bottle of wine.

  “Did you finish your homework?”

  “Just did,” I said.

  He nodded. “Get some sleep.

  It’s a school night.”

  He padded back down the hall.

  “I can drive you to school tomorrow,”

  Mom mumbled.

  I packed away my notebooks

  and kissed her on the forehead.

  “Go to bed,” I whispered,

  and she reached for my hand

  and squeezed it.

  In my room I texted Kitty.

  Can I get a ride in the morning?

  It’s already morning,

  she texted back.

  Kitty texted me

  Twice

  during the awkward

  family dinner.

  Ohmygod. Ohmy

  God. My parents are letting

  me out of the house.

  And

  The twins are throwing

  a party. Please, please

  say you’ll go.

  An hour later,

  with Kitty’s persistence,

  I found my way

  into an outfit.

  I looked like a girl

  taking a last stand

  on summer.

  A cotton shirt

  that slipped down my shoulder.

  Boy shorts and Rainbows.

  A single messy braid

  and a makeupless face except for

  the dark smudges of eyeliner

  outlined over and over again.

  “Hot” is all

  Kitty said

  as she took one look

  at me and headed to the car.

  Kitty drove

  in six-inch heels,

  and a miniskirt

  that was more mini

  than skirt.

  “Kitty, seriously,

  can you even drive?”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Of course I can.

  I’m an awesome driver.

  I aced my driver’s test,

  and I was wearing

  these same shoes.”

  I worried about all

  the poor choices

  I had made,

  including getting into this car

  with Kitty.

  “Why would you wear those

  to
your driver’s test?”

  Kitty shrugged. “Because they were new.”

  On not being best friends

  If I were thirteen and had to give

  one half of a “best friend” necklace,

  a broken heart with

  be

  fri

  on one half and

  st

  end

  on the other,

  then obviously I’d give it to Kitty.

  She was more than a best friend.

  But Kitty had an actual best friend.

  Her name was Sarah.

  Kitty and Sarah have lived next door

  to each other

  their whole lives,

  so I guess that made them

  best friends.

  Sarah was one year older than us.

  So now she’s in college

  at Sarah Lawrence.

  Sarah went to Sarah Lawrence.

  I mean, it’s a common name

  and it’s a good school, but

  who does that?

  Like, were there any Stanfords

  at Stanford?

  How many Sarahs

  attended Sarah Lawrence?

  Was it higher than average?

  Were there more Sarahs per capita

  at Sarah Lawrence

  than at any other school?

  I tried to be friends with Sarah,

  but we didn’t click,

  not in the same way

  that Kitty and I clicked.

  Maybe it was because

  Kitty and I

  were opposites.

  Kitty was a constant bundle

  of nervous energy.

  It wasn’t usually noticeable until

  it was quiet,

  and then she was a constant buzz,

  like an appliance.

  If Kitty were to describe me

  She would say, “Nic has black hair

  that sometimes smells like a fruit smoothie.”

  Actually, no, it’s not black.

  It has reddish highlights

  and walnut lowlights,

  the kind of color that women pay

  two hundred dollars

  to achieve.

  If Nic were an animal, she’d be a gazelle.

  She has an elegance

  like a dancer, and maybe

  if she didn’t hate leotards and pink tights

  she would have turned into one.

  (Okay, maybe Kitty wouldn’t compare me to

  a gazelle.

  Maybe she’d say I’m more like

  an inchworm,

  calculated, precise, inconsequential.)

  I knew what Kitty would definitely say, though, because

  she was obsessed, in a slightly

  politically incorrect

  kind of way,

  with my genetic makeup.

  She’d say that Nic was one of those girls,

  who was clearly only half-Asian,

  because she looked

  less than 100 percent White, and

  less than 100 percent Chinese.

  She’d say I’m lucky because

  half-Asians were always prettier than

  white girls like her.

  I’d say, “Not always. Remember Tory

  in second grade?

  She was funny-looking,

  and not in a good way.”

  Kitty would wrinkle her nose

  and give me a look.

  “Everyone has beauty, Nic.”

  Kitty’s first party

  Jenny Pugh—one half of the Pugh twins—

  wore a strapless gold dress

  that clung to all the wrong curves.

  She marched toward us,

  clomping her Louboutins

  across the marble floor.

  “Oh, you’re here.”

  Jenny smelled sweet,

  like lilacs and cotton candy

  and a pitcher of margaritas.

  I smiled on the outside.

  “Thanks for the invite.”

  “I didn’t invite you,” Jenny replied.

  She glanced over at Kitty

  as if the words extended to her

  by default.

  “I know,” I said.

  I stood unflinching,

  but part of me

  already wanted

  to leave.

  But this was Kitty’s first party,

  and she didn’t deserve to be ostracized

  just because she was

  loyal and kind

  and friends with me.

  Jenny huffed.

  “Why are you here?

  After what you did

  to Ben.

  He transferred to Prep,

  you know.”

  The red Solo cup tipped

  precariously in her hand.

  It smelled fruity

  and flammable.

  Of course I knew.

  I tried calling and texting

  after Jordan’s party.

  I waited by my phone, hoping

  that every

  single

  text

  would be

  from Ben.

  They never were.

  I drove to Ben’s house

  and saw a moving truck

  haul away his family’s belongings.

  I saw an agent ram a FOR SALE sign

  into the lawn.

  Ben no longer went

  to Meydenbauer, but

  he wasn’t a million miles away.

  He was living at an estate

  that his mother inherited

  somewhere on the edge

  of town.

  The move had been planned

  for months, but

  I didn’t think it was possible

  with all the technology around us

  for someone to disappear

  so easily

  from our lives.

  But with Ben,

  I guess it wasn’t that hard.

  To Ben,

  I no longer existed.

  “He won’t even return my texts.”

  Jenny pouted.

  “You and me both,”

  I said.

  Jenny was not amused.

  “Who the hell transfers schools

  before their senior year?”

  “It was his parents,” Kitty said.

  “They thought he would have

  a better shot at an Ivy.”

  Kitty shrugged, as if to say,

  Wouldn’t you have done the same?

  “But the kids at Prep

  are freaks,”

  Jenny said.

  Ben left the circles of friends

  he held together.

  He abandoned sports teams.

  He resigned from student government.

  He walked away from everyone,

  but he drove away from me.

  Jenny scoffed

  and glared at me

  until her twin sister, Audrey,

  wobbled down a grand staircase

  slurring indiscernible words,

  at a very discernible volume.

  “How will Audrey ever survive

  college without me?”

  Jenny muttered,

  clomping her way

  to her twin.

  I grabbed Kitty by the arm.

  “Let’s go find the drinks.”

  I navigated our way around

  a huddle of senior girls

  who loitered in the living room.

  Kitty waved at all of them.

  A few half smiled in return.

  But as I walked by,

  they lowered their voices;

  they tightened their circle.

  They all averted their eyes.

  I imagined the thought bubbles

  that hovered over their heads.

  I thought maybe I would see

  screams and taunts

  and flashes of
obscenities.

  But when the girls

  glanced back up,

  all I could see

  were eight eyes blinking

  beneath an empty bubble

  because there was nothing

  left to say.

  I was the ghost

  of my former self

  who most people

  saw right through.

  We found handles

  Of cheap vodka, rum, and whiskey

  wafting toxic smells

  on the kitchen counter.

  “What do you want?”

  I said to Kitty.

  Her eyes grew wide.

  “Anything. I can have anything?”

  “Anything that can be mixed

  with what’s here.”

  I waved my hand across

  a garden variety of mixers—

  Diet Coke, Red Bull,

  Cran-Apple juice, Crystal Light,

  and a bottle of organic soda,

  flavor unknown.

  Kitty started pouring

  everything—

  and I mean everything,

  including the dredges of empty bottles—

  into a plastic cup.

  “What are you doing?”

  I said.

  “It’s my Kitty drink!”

  “It’s a suicide,”

  I said.

  She shrugged, holding up her cup,

  admiring the concoction for a moment

  before taking a large gulp.

  Then she coughed

  and sputtered

  and said,

  “I think it needs more Diet Coke.”

  I nodded apprehensively.

  “I think you’d better hand over your keys.”

  Kitty nodded willingly.

  “Okay. You’re the expert

  on these things.”

  “An expert

  on parties

  or on alcohol?”

  I asked.

  She took another gulp

  but didn’t answer.

  I didn’t want

  to be considered

  an expert on either.

  Both left me

  with an aftertaste

  that felt like sadness.

  I poured myself

  a generous cup full

  of mystery-flavored

  organic soda

  and pocketed

  Kitty’s keys.

  What happens at a Meydenbauer party

  “Now what?” Kitty asked.

  “You’re pretty much

  looking at it.”

  Through the sliding glass door,

  guys in fluorescent tanks

  with unwavering concentration

  battled it out over

  a game of beer pong.

  The coffee table

  in front of a flat-screen

  had been removed

  to make room

  for a dance floor.

  Sophomore and junior girls

  were going fucking nuts

  dancing

  to R. Kelly’s “Ignition (Remix),”

  while a couch full of guys

  from the JV football team

  sat on a sectional and stared.