Bitter Melon (11 page)

I put on the clothes I prepared yesterday, black tights and a pressed white long-sleeved shirt. I pull up a pair of jeans over my tights. I packed a black sheath skirt in my backpack yesterday, to put on in place of my jeans as soon as I get to school. I picked black because it is supposed to be a slimming color; I hoped it would hide my pouch and my thunder thighs.

As I step into the kitchen, I look forward to a decadent breakfast of toasted Eggo waffles, but Mom is already there. She has not forgotten about last night. I can tell by the sticky, heavy static in the air. I ignore her, hoping to avoid more fighting. I pick up a banana and head to the bedroom, pretending to be busy with school stuff.

Minutes later, Theresa honks her horn. The sound of it startles me, even though I’ve been expecting her. I rush to the door with my backpack.

“You’re not even going to say ‘Good-bye, Mommy’?” Mom asks.

“Bye,” I say. To soften her mood, I add, “Have a nice day.”

But her reaction is the opposite of what I intended. “That’s it?” Theresa’s horn honks again. “Is that how little respect you show your mother?” Mom says.

I can’t tell what she wants from me, so I guess. “Bye, Mommy,” I say.

“How can you be so cold?” Her sentences are broken up with sobs. “I went through all this trouble just to take this day off. For you! But you don’t care.”

As inconspicuously as possible, I eye my watch. It’s 7:38.

“See, even now, I’m crying, begging for you to care, and all you do is look at the time,” she says.

“I have to go now,” I say. “I’m running really late.”

“The library’s open all day,” she says. “So what if you miss an hour?”

An hour? She’s going to do this for an hour? The doorbell buzzes. Theresa has gotten out of her car and is trying to reach me at the gate.

“Theresa’s waiting outside,” I say. Perhaps the mention of Theresa will pull on Mom’s guilt strings.

“Let her wait,” Mom says coldly. So much for guilt strings.

“I’m sorry about the mix-up,” I say. “Let’s spend some time tomorrow, to make up for today.”

“I’m busy tomorrow. I have to clean the apartment, wash your clothes, pay your bills, and make your dinner.”

“Can’t you do those things today, so you’ll be free tomorrow?”

“I can’t. You’ve upset me so much that I’m too sick to move.”

At first, I am frustrated and confused. I can’t convince her to reason with me. Then it dawns on me: being unreasonable is her way of winning. No matter what I say, she will turn it against me to keep me from leaving. I will have to either placate her by giving up on the speech tournament or do the unthinkable: ignore her outbursts and walk out the door.

Our doorbell buzzes again. This is my last chance.

“Well, if you’re not feeling well, then maybe you should rest,” I say. “You wouldn’t be well enough to go out with me anyway.”

I am surprised by my own cleverness. Mom stares at me in shock. Before she has a chance to recover and reload her ammunition, I rush out the door.

At the bottom of the stairs, Theresa is clutching the gate and looking at me through the spaces between the metal bars.

“What took you so long?” Theresa says as we get into Nellie’s car.

“Sorry,” I say.

Though Mom’s fit cost me a good ten minutes already, Theresa has no intention of making up for lost time. She refuses to exceed the speed limit, even by a mile an hour. She leaves twice the necessary distance between her and the car in front and makes complete stops at every stop sign, looking to the left, then to the right before proceeding.

At 7:59, Theresa pulls up in front of St. Elizabeth’s. I wait for her to say good-bye so I can jet out of the car. Instead, she looks at her lap. I am antsy with impatience.

“I’m sorry I got mad,” she said.

“That’s okay,” I say. I am eager to end this conversation so I can leave.

Then Theresa pulls a bright green pendant from underneath her blouse. It is hanging on a long red string around her neck. The pendant bears the image of Gwun Yum, the goddess of mercy and compassion. In most Chinese households, Gwun Yum is a more popular deity than the Buddha and second only to the three fat old men who represent happiness, prosperity, and longevity.

“My great-grandmother gave this to me right before she passed away,” Theresa says. “She said that Gwun Yum would guide and protect me.” She takes off the necklace and puts it on me. She tucks the pendant under my blouse, carefully positioning it over my heart.

My impatience has fallen to the soles of my shoes. The pendant is warm against my sternum from Theresa’s body heat. I want to thank her, but I’m afraid that I might lose control and cry. I’ve got a big day ahead and must maintain my composure. I nod thanks to Theresa, avoiding her face. Slowly, I step out of the car.

After spending nearly four years at St. Elizabeth’s, I forget how large other high schools are. I belong to a class of ninety-six girls. How many seniors will commence at this school, two thousand?

Ms. Taylor, my teammates, and I are standing on the playground, awaiting our room assignments. We’re a pretty small group. There are only three speakers on the St. Elizabeth’s team: me, Salome Sanchez, and Diana Chandler. We’re an oddly matched trio. Salome has dark spiked hair streaked with red, blue, and blond. She wears heavy makeup, a nose ring, and a gold crucifix necklace. Diana is the star dancer in the dance department. She is tall and extremely thin, with long arms and legs that seem to have no joints. She looks like a dancer even
when she’s not dancing. When she raises her hand in class, she looks like a swan lifting its wing. She sits tall and straight, as though a string were attached to her head, pulling her up.

Secretly, I think Diana Chandler is the most beautiful girl in the school. I envy her Grace Kelly poise, her clear, translucent skin, her cloud of dark brown hair, and her willowy figure. My only consolation is that Diana is the weakest speaker on the team, whereas I am the strongest. Also, I have better grades.

“Listen up, ladies,” says Ms. Taylor. She motions for the three of us to huddle. “Competition is about comparing people, judging who is the best. According to those rules, whoever wins is successful, and everyone else loses.

“But I want you to think about success differently. Winning is part effort and part luck. What judges think, how well other competitors do, that’s luck. Talent, that’s also luck. Some people are born with more and some with less. Luck is totally out of your control.

“What is under your control is your effort. You have all worked hard for this competition. You have all made significant improvements over the last couple of months. It takes incredible courage to speak in public and to speak your truth. You should all be proud and hold your heads up high.

“You’ve done the work; now it’s time to reap the rewards. Reward time isn’t after the competition, when they hand out trophies. Reward time is now. It’s the thrill of competing, the opportunity to show them what you’ve got. Relish this time. Don’t worry about how other people are doing. Focus on what
you’re doing. If you’re doing your best, if you’re having fun, then you’re a success.”

I detect the faintest odor of cigarettes on Ms. Taylor’s clothes. For someone who is confident that we’re all winners, she is smoking like someone who’s nervous for us.

The room assignments are posted. I am number three out of a group of five speakers. I’m disappointed. The last spot is the best spot, because the final speaker gets to leave the lasting impression on the judge. The first spot is the second luckiest, because you get the freshest ear. Being in the middle is the worst, because you are easily forgotten. I am careful not to show my frustration, because Ms. Taylor hates whiners. Instead, I wish Salome and Diana good luck, I assume my speech pose—straight spine and shoulders back—and I walk confidently to my room.

It is a typical classroom, similar to Ms. Taylor’s. Yellow sunlight filters through the windows. Seated in the middle of the room is the judge. She looks like a cross between a cookie-baking grandmother and an absentminded professor. She wears round metal-framed glasses. Her half-inch-thick lenses protrude from their frames, making the frames look like tongs holding ice cubes. Her curly salt-and-pepper hair pokes out in all directions. Her body is lean and frail, and her mannerisms are nervous and fidgety. She smiles kindly at me as I walk in. I pick a seat behind her and off to the side and sit down.

I discover quickly that a side seat is a good seat. From this vantage point I can scope out my competition. A girl with
brown skin and thick, wavy black hair walks in, then a white girl with straight brown hair. They both pick inconspicuous seats at the opposite side of the room. Then a tall, freckled girl with curly red hair enters. She sits way in the back, behind the judge. Then the fifth competitor walks in. He is tall, lean, and blond and wears a dark suit and a long black coat. He looks at me. His eyes are like arctic glaciers.

It’s Collins.

My heart starts pounding. As he approaches, I look away, pretending not to recognize him. He sits down one row behind me and two seats over. I wish I could make myself invisible or disappear.

The judge asks the first speaker to begin. It is the girl with the wavy black hair. She is giving a speech about apartheid. A paragraph into her speech, she begins to lose track of where she is. She does this frequently, as if she hasn’t spent enough time rehearsing. I’m irritated. If she hasn’t prepared, why should she waste our time like this? Then it occurs to me that in a competition, her disadvantage is my advantage. So I sit back and watch her unravel.

The brown-haired girl is next. Her speech is about education. Oddly, she too starts losing track of where she is in her speech. She begins by stuttering here and there. I don’t know whether to feel confused or glad. Then she says a few sentences, then stops, then tries to begin again. After the second time of starting and stopping, she seems to forget how her sentence is supposed to end and then tries to backtrack. Soon she can no longer remember where she was in the speech at all. I notice that her eyes keep traveling to the same spot just before she
makes each mistake. Her mouth is frozen open, but no words come out. She seems mesmerized, her eyes transfixed on the same spot in the back of the room.

I look to see what she is staring at. Sitting at the back is the red-haired girl. Her chin is resting on her palm. She has the most bored expression on her face. She rolls her eyes, then crosses them. I look at the brown-haired girl. Tears well in her eyes. Her bottom lip is quivering.

It was no coincidence that the first girl also faltered. That red-haired girl probably sabotaged her too.

Suddenly, I no longer see the brown-haired girl as my opponent. She has become an ally, a fellow good guy against the bad guy sitting in the back. I try to hide the horror on my face. Not that she would notice. She isn’t looking at me. She is still staring at the red-haired girl.

The brown-haired girl has been silent for several seconds. Why isn’t the judge saying anything? Doesn’t she notice what’s going on? I turn to look at her. Half the time, she is looking at the brown-haired girl and nodding encouragingly. When she is not watching the girl, she is buried in her notes and scribbling furiously. She is so focused on what she is doing that she has tuned everything—and everyone—else out.

Does Collins notice what’s going on? I steal a glance in his direction. He is cringing, as though watching a car accident in slow motion.

Finally, the brown-haired girl runs out of the room. I can
hear her clamoring footsteps and the faint sounds of choked sobs echoing down the hallway.

The judge looks puzzled and concerned. “Uh … speaker number three?” she says.

As I walk towards the front of the room, I realize that no rehearsal is ever enough to prepare you for the real thing. As I recited my speech at school, all my classmates smiled and nodded in encouragement. Ms. Taylor never coached us on how to deal with mean-spirited saboteurs.

The cool breeze from the hallway licks my cheek, beckoning me to follow the brown-haired girl out of this room and out of this competition. I’ll never have to see these people again, so what does it matter?