Bitter Melon (15 page)

After dinner, I explain to Mom that I have an exam tomorrow and that I need Theresa’s help.

“She helps you all the time with calculus,” Mom complains. “Why can’t you figure it out on your own? Why are you so slow?”

I slump my shoulders, presenting the image of a very stupid person. Then I grab my backpack and hurry to Theresa’s. Nellie greets me, offers me what is left of their dinner, and calls Theresa to the kitchen. Then she continues to the living room to catch up on her Chinese soaps.

“You’re a genius!” I say to Theresa. Then I give her the latest Derek Report. When I get to the part where he asks me about the dance, Theresa interrupts.

“Why didn’t you say yes?” she asks. “He was clearly planning to ask you to go with him.”

I sigh. “My mom won’t let me go out with boys.”

“What if you go stag?” Theresa suggests. “Then, technically, you won’t be going with him.”

“She won’t let me do anything social, especially if there’s a remote threat of interacting with boys,” I say. “If I don’t go to this dance, I’ll miss my only chance.” I pause, waiting for Theresa to offer a suggestion. But she just passively accepts that I can’t go.

“Mom lets me hang out with you, though,” I say, hinting.

“But how will hanging out with me help with going to the dance?”

I give her a knowing look. Slowly, Theresa’s face registers understanding—and alarm.

“W-Wait a minute,” she says. “I thought we agreed not to lie anymore.”

“We talked about
speech,”
I reply. “We never mentioned
dances.”

Theresa opens her mouth to argue.

“I’m not asking you to lie,” I say. “I’ll be the one lying. You don’t have to say anything.”

“But—”

“Please?”
I say.

Theresa sighs. “The dance is tomorrow. How do we get tickets?”

Theresa and I figure out that we can get tickets at the door for a slightly higher price than they were selling for earlier. However, that presents another problem: I have no money to pay for my ticket. Unlike Theresa, I don’t get an allowance.

We decide that our alibi is that we’re going to the movies. And if we’re going to see a movie, then I’ll need money from Mom. That is why I am bugging Mom right before bedtime, when she is tired and grouchy, for permission to be out tomorrow night.

Mom is wearing her orange-and-brown pajamas. They are so old that she might have been wearing them back in Hong Kong, before I was born. Her contacts are out and her glasses are on. Those too look old, like from the sixties. Actually, come to think of it, they look similar to Ms. Taylor’s black cat-eye glasses, minus the rhinestones. I always thought they looked dorky on Mom, but on Ms. Taylor they look cool. Mom is in the bathroom, brushing her teeth. She is brushing so aggressively that the flesh under her upper arms is jiggling.

“Theresa’s invited me to go to the movies with her tomorrow night,” I say.

Mom continues brushing, as if I have said nothing at all.

“There’s this movie she really wants to see,” I continue.

Mom spits and starts gargling.

“She’s done so much for me,” I say. “I really don’t want to say no to her.”

More gargling. At least she’s not yelling. Maybe she is considering my request.

“Why can’t you see the movie on Saturday or Sunday?” Mom asks. “Then you wouldn’t have to be out at night. That’s safer. You could also see a matinee. That’s cheaper.”

I didn’t think of that. What to do?

“They’re offering a special double feature, so it’s two for one,” I reply, “even cheaper per movie than a matinee.”

“What are you seeing?”

“The Little Mermaid.”
Theresa showed me a review, because she really wants us to see this film. I read the review, which included a synopsis, in case Mom quizzes me about it later.

Mom is silent as she flosses. Her floss makes clicking sounds every time it passes between her teeth. Finally, Mom says, “What time is the movie?”

I suppress the urge to dance with glee. “Seven o’clock.”

Mom wipes her mouth and goes to her purse. She pulls money out of her wallet and hands it to me. It is twice the amount of one movie ticket.

“Treat Theresa,” Mom says. “Tell her it’s from me, to thank her for spending time teaching you.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”

“Don’t think I don’t know that it’s really for you,” she says.
“You wouldn’t have the nerve to ask me unless it was associated with her.”

I try to hide any trace of alarm. But underneath my calm demeanor, I wonder, how much does she know?

Since I’m paying for the dance, Theresa decides to pay for our makeup, which we buy at the drugstore on the way to the dance. We buy only one set for the two of us, since we probably won’t have the opportunity to wear this stuff again unless we sneak off to another illicit school dance.

St. Augustine’s fall dance is held in the gymnasium. The music is so loud that we can hear it halfway down the block. Since the theme is autumn and Halloween, the gymnasium is decorated with fall-colored leaves and jack-o’-lanterns. We bypass the coat check and head straight to the bathroom, which smells like pee, used sanitary napkins, and Aqua Net hairspray. The bass outside is so loud that it rattles the door. I am wearing a red sweaterdress with a low waist and a tube skirt. As I scrutinize myself in the mirror, I notice that all the other girls are wearing darker colors, like navy blue and black.

“Do you think my outfit is too bright?” I ask Theresa.

“No. Red looks really good on you,” Theresa says. “How about me? Does this look okay?”

Theresa is wearing a lavender-and-white-lace sailor dress with an empire waist.

“It’s very pretty,” I say. It really is pretty, but it’s probably more appropriate for a wedding than a school dance. It also makes her look twelve instead of seventeen. I wonder if my dress really is too bright, if Theresa is trying to spare my feelings as well.

I inspect my face in the mirror. I’ve been struggling with my complexion for the last two years. I get the occasional red swollen pimple, the kind that hurts when you touch it, but most of the time, I just have a plethora of tiny bumps, the kind that don’t show up on photos but that you can see close-up. As luck would have it, I have two swollen red bumps today, one on my chin and the other on my forehead. Maybe I’m being punished for disobeying my mother.

We pull out a plastic bag filled with foundation, powder, a blemish stick, eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick, all still unopened.

“How exactly do you put this stuff on?” I ask Theresa.

Theresa flips the foundation over and examines the back of the packaging. “Follow the directions, I guess,” she says.

We start with the foundation, taking turns pouring it on our fingertips and smearing it on our faces. Then we inspect ourselves in the mirror. Somehow, it just doesn’t look like in the commercials. In the commercials, the ladies’ faces look like porcelain—white, smooth, and flawless. On us, the foundation looks peachy and pasty, especially on me, because I caked it on to cover up my acne.

“It didn’t look this orange on the color chart,” I say.

“Maybe we need to blend it in better,” Theresa says.

We both try blending it in more, but that doesn’t seem to help. I can’t see my real skin color, but I can still see my acne. With the blemish stick, I begin burying my pimples. Then we take turns applying the powder. Fortunately, the powder works wonders for my oily, shiny skin, though I still think the color is a bit too orange.

Now it’s time for the eye shadow. We try our best to imitate the picture on the back of the packaging, doing the eye shadow version of painting by numbers. Then we move on to the eyeliner, lipstick, and mascara.

We examine ourselves in the mirror. Do we really look prettier now? We look at each other, shrug, and exit the bathroom.

I scan the gymnasium for Derek. This is particularly challenging, considering that the room is dark except for the dozen spots of red, white, and blue light that orbit the dance floor. The occasional epileptic strobe light is not much help either. The bass is vibrating in my sternum, making it hard to breathe. Am I the only one who thinks this music is too loud? I check to see Theresa’s reaction. She is trying to smile for me, but clearly she’s not having any more fun than I am. Though this is called a dance, there isn’t really much dancing going on here. About a dozen people are on the dance floor, but most are standing in the periphery in small single-sex groups. These groups rarely intermingle. The couples on the dance floor are probably couples that came in together. I recognize a few girls from our school but, alas, no Derek.

“I don’t see him,” I say to Theresa.

“What?” her lips mouth.

I lean towards Theresa’s ear. “Do you see him?” I yell.

“What?”

I point to the bathroom and she follows me there.

Once we’re inside, I say, “Maybe he’s not coming after all.”

“Maybe he’s running late,” Theresa says. “Or maybe he’s out there but we just didn’t see him.” She rubs her ears. “I can hardly hear myself talk. I think I’m going deaf.”

“This was a waste of time,” I say. “We should just go.”

“It would be a shame if we left now and he showed up five minutes later,” Theresa says. “We may as well give a hundred percent effort. That way, if we fail, it’s not because we didn’t try our best.”

When Ms. Taylor says this, I feel inspired. When Theresa says it, I feel annoyed.

Nonetheless, she has a point, so we march out into the cannon fire of dance music for one last-ditch attempt. We look around for another fifteen minutes but, still, no Derek. Theresa and I look at each other, shake our heads, and go back to the bathroom.

“If he’s not here by now, he’s not coming at all,” I say.

I thought we had this connection, Derek and I. Now I am wondering if that was just a figment of my imagination. Only Theresa knows about my foolishness, yet I feel as if the whole world can see my folly. I don’t want to go home defeated.

“You know what we should do?” I say.

“Go home?” Theresa says, her face lighting up.

“No. We should forget about stupid Derek and ask some other guys to dance.”

Theresa’s face falls.

“We each ask one boy to dance,” I say. “Then we go home. We never have to attend another dance again. Deal?”

“I have a better idea. What if you ask a boy to dance and I go hide out and wait for you to finish?”

“But I need your help!”

“I’ll cheer for you from the sidelines.”

“But that’s not the same! We have to be in it together.”

Theresa groans.

“Come on,” I say. “Just one song.”

Theresa sighs. “Fine. Just this once.”

With half bravery and half trepidation, we march arm in arm back out to the gymnasium. The music has gone from rap and hip-hop to slow. The DJ announces that this is the last song for the night. More couples are gravitating towards the dance floor.

“Okay. Last dance, last chance,” I say. “I’ll go left and you go right. Afterwards, we’ll meet back at this spot and report back to each other on how it went.”

Theresa nods. We let go of each other and forge ahead. I scan the clusters of boys. Who would be a good candidate? Definitely no tall, slender blonds. I don’t want any posttraumatic stress. He can’t be too cute and popular looking because I need a fair chance of success, but he can’t be too unattractive either, because I’ll have to dance with him.

The first guy I see is tall and lean, with dark skin and giant black doe eyes. One lock of his shiny jet-black hair curls lazily over his forehead. He smiles at a friend, revealing a perfect set of white teeth.

Out of my league. Pass.

The second boy I see has frizzy brown hair, thick glasses, and sweaty, oily skin that is peppered with acne. His bulging figure makes his striped T-shirt and cords look two sizes too small. His belly is protruding over his waistband. As he laughs with his friends, he looks like he’s wheezing and snorting.

The thought of him holding me close makes me shudder. Pass.

I see other guys, but their bodies are turned away from me and they are half enshrouded in darkness. The song is halfway finished. I begin to panic. I must choose someone fast.