Bitter Melon (13 page)

“Frances Ching!”

I hear that name as if it were someone else’s, but Ms. Taylor’s jubilant voice plus the nudges of Salome and Diana jolt me back to reality. Mr. McCormick pats me on the shoulder with his bear-paw hands. “Great job, Frances,” he says enthusiastically.
As I turn to thank him, I see Derek next to him, giving me his quiet smile and thumbs-up. Against my will, my heart flutters again. I smile and quickly turn away. As I walk to the podium, I pass by the red-haired girl and smirk. She pretends not to see me. I shake the emcee’s hand as I receive my trophy. It is big and brassy but lighter than it appears. I stand there with the honorable mentions, looking into the sea of faces on the bleachers. People are looking at me. And they’re applauding. It seems as if the whole world is noticing me for the first time.

The only person missing is my mother. For a moment, the applause of the audience seems hollow, like the light, brassy trophy I am carrying. But then I see Ms. Taylor in the bleachers. Whereas others are sitting, she is standing, giving me an ovation. She is applauding, not politely at her waist or chest, but up and out, as if giving me an offering. She’s nodding at me, as if to say,
You’ve done it!
The brightness in her eyes fills the vacuum in my heart until I can no longer remember why it was there in the first place.

The emcee announces the second-place winner, the girl who spoke about the feminist movement during my third round. Then he announces the first-place winner: “Derek Collins!”

Derek shakes hands with Mr. McCormick. His teammates either pat him on the back or shake his hand. Derek walks towards the podium with a long, confidant stride, only to trip over his own feet halfway to his trophy. If I had done that, I would have died of humiliation, but Derek only blushes and smiles sheepishly. He shakes the emcee’s hand, accepts his
trophy, and makes fun of his own clumsiness, pretending to trip again, stopping his fall, and feigning relief at saving his trophy. The audience laughs and applauds more loudly. Derek bows dramatically. He then holds his trophy up to his coach and team, as if to say,
I couldn’t do this without you
.

It’s time for the winners to congratulate one another. I immediately begin congratulating all the other winners. When I can’t avoid Derek any longer, I turn to congratulate him. Derek approaches me with his giant trophy and shakes my hand. “Congratulations,” he says. His voice is professional, without any hint of our alliance from the final round, the first round, or even Princeton Review. Gone is his usual warmth and humor.

As we walk to Ms. Taylor’s rental van in the crisp, dry night air, I clutch my trophy, reminding myself that this is what I came here for.
This
is real. Derek’s feelings for me are not. Diana can have her Derek. I have something better, something longer lasting. As I reach for the van door, a painful yellow streak of electricity zaps my fingers. The shock almost causes me to drop my trophy. I remember the electrical sensation of Derek’s hand brushing mine. I squash this memory as I force the door open. No shock this time. I will never be caught off guard again.

By the time we get back into the city, it is nearly nine o’clock. As Ms. Taylor drops us off at St. Elizabeth’s, she says, “Frances, wait. I have something for you.” She reaches into her briefcase
and hands me a large envelope. She winks at me. “Now go home and flash that trophy of yours to your mom.”

If only she knew.

Theresa is parked nearby. She is eyeing her rearview mirror nervously for cops and meter maids, because she is waiting in a no-parking zone. I hurry to her car and get inside. Once she sees my trophy, she forgets about the parking police and begins jumping up and down in her seat and clapping. “I knew you could do it!” she says.

Then I remember the Gwun Yum pendant and place it back on her. “Thanks,” I say.

As we head home, I open the envelope Ms. Taylor gave to me. Inside the envelope are an application for Scripps College and two sealed letters of recommendation, one for Scripps and one for Berkeley.

“What’s that?” Theresa asks.

“Oh … just a copy of my speech.” I’m not ready to burden her with this yet, especially after all she has done for me.

Theresa looks confused but quickly dismisses it. With all the stress she has had to endure, she probably doesn’t have the energy to question me. I will tell her about Scripps later, when the time is right.

Theresa parks in a spot on a quiet street a few blocks away from my apartment so I can change back into my jeans. Though it is dark, she covers my lap with my jacket as I change. Then we continue home. As we near my apartment, I know that it is time to hide my trophy, but I hesitate. All this work I did, all
this accomplishment, and Mom will never know. All I have to do is leave it on my lap in plain view, let its shiny surface reflect the streetlight into our apartment window, into Mom’s line of sight. Our whole secret would be destroyed and, along with it, Mom’s image of me as brainless and useless. I continue to eye my trophy, daring it to shine into our living room, daring Mom to see it.

“Quick, put it in your backpack,” Theresa says.

I do as she says. But I can’t hide my trophy in my backpack forever. Where on earth will I hide it once I get inside? “Can you hide it for me? In your house?” I ask.

“My house?”

I nod. “Our apartment is so small. There’s no place for me to hide it. At least your place is bigger. There are more potential hiding places.”

Theresa squirms in her seat. “Oh … okay. I guess I can find someplace.”

I take the trophy out of my backpack and hand it to her. She places it in the backseat and covers it with her sweater before I open the door to leave.

As I approach the metal gate to my apartment, I feel as though I am returning to prison. With each step I take up the stairwell, the fire and spirit in me that defeated the red-haired girl threaten to diminish to a distant memory. Only the thought of my shiny trophy gives me the courage to open the door and face what is behind it.

Though it is nearly dark outside, there are no lights on in the
apartment. At first, I think that maybe Mom is out. I turn on the light and find Mom lying on the couch under a blanket. Her face looks haggard, like a dirty, wrung-out rag. She probably has not moved from that couch all day, not even to turn on the light, get food or water, or use the bathroom.

“I rested. Just like you told me to. I hope you’re happy,” she says.

I continue walking towards the bedroom.

“Of course, if you hadn’t broken my heart, I wouldn’t need to rest in the first place,” she adds just before I close the door.

I remind myself that I have a trophy now. Mom can’t take that away from me. After coming this far, I can’t give up. I open my backpack. Ms. Taylor’s envelope is inside. I pull out the Scripps application. I am not a helpless prisoner anymore. Like a secret agent, I am plotting my escape.

I spend the rest of the weekend enduring my mother’s hot screaming and cold silence. The following Monday, during homeroom, Mr. Daniels announces my speech win over the PA system. My homeroom teacher, Sister Pam, congratulates me, and the whole room claps for me. During speech class, the support I get is even more enthusiastic. It reminds me that there are people out there who appreciate me, even if Mom does not.

At the end of speech class, I tell Theresa that I must meet with Ms. Taylor. “College stuff,” I explain with a dismissive wave of my hand. Theresa nods. She assumes that I am referring to my application to Berkeley, and I don’t correct her.

After the other students have left the room, Ms. Taylor goes over the different kinds of financial aid with me. There are grants and loans. You have to pay back the latter with interest. I ask what interest is, and Ms. Taylor explains that I’ll need to pay back more than I borrowed. That’s how the lender makes money. This concept also applies to buying a car or a house. It even applies to bank accounts and retirement accounts.

“Think of it this way,” Ms. Taylor says.
“Interest
is why it’s in the lender’s best
interest
to lend.”

“That’s very interesting,” I say, joking.

Ms. Taylor hands me the financial-aid form for Scripps. Because grants and loans are based on financial need, she explains, I will have to get my mother to fill out and sign the portion of the application that asks about family income.

My heart falls to my stomach. There is no way that I can get my mother to fill this out. Does this mean that Scripps is out of my reach?

Then Ms. Taylor explains about scholarships. These can come from the school or corporations or organizations. Though some are based on financial need, many others are based only on merit. Ms. Taylor hands me a book listing the various corporations and organizations that offer scholarships.

I quietly decide to focus on the merit-based scholarships.

I spend the last ten minutes of lunch break wolfing down my pork bun in the cafeteria while Theresa goes over my Princeton Review homework.

“Now that you’ve finished your speech competition, you won’t have to miss any more Princeton Review,” Theresa says.

The mention of Princeton Review brings back the memory of Derek Collins pecking Diana Chandler on the lips.

“What’s wrong?” Theresa asks.

“Oh, nothing.” I shrug and paste on a smile.

Theresa looks skeptical. I look away.

“You can tell me,” she coaxes. “Maybe I can help. Are you worried about your next SAT?”

“No.” I then divulge the whole Derek saga, from my first day of Princeton Review, to the showdown with the red-haired girl, to his inexplicable cold shoulder right after the competition.

“But why is he getting you so down?” Theresa asks, looking genuinely puzzled.

“I just told you,” I say, totally annoyed. “He acted like he was my friend, and then he turns around and acts like he doesn’t even know me.”

“But he’s just an acquaintance,” says Theresa. “It’s not like he’s your best friend or your boyfriend.” Though Theresa means no harm, that last part stings.

“But it’s … it’s disrespectful.” My voice cracks. Against my will, tears well up in my eyes.

Theresa’s eyes widen. “Do you … Do you
like
him?”

My tears spill over. I wipe them away with my napkin. Theresa offers me a tissue.

“Maybe he likes you but more like a friend,” she says.

“Then why did he ignore me?” I ask. “Friends don’t do that.”

Theresa thinks this over. “Maybe he didn’t want the others to know that you were friends,” she says.

“But why?” I ask. Is he embarrassed to be associated with me? Am I that dorky? I want to ask Theresa this, but I’m afraid to consider the possibility.

“Maybe he secretly likes you back but can’t express it because he’s with Diana,” Theresa says.

I give her a skeptical look.

“All the times he was friendly towards you, like during Princeton Review and during speech rounds, she wasn’t around,” Theresa points out. “But once she showed up, he acted aloof. Also, when he is friendly towards you, he does it in a covert way, with secret smiles and gestures. Why would he do that unless he had something to hide?”