Bitter Melon (21 page)

“Second place …”

It will be either me or the last speaker. I brace myself, just in case it is me.

“Stewart Chan!”

I breathe a sigh of relief. Stewart Chan walks over to the VP like a man on stilts.

“And first place …”

Suddenly, I am gripped with fear. What if I’m wrong? What if it’s not me? What if I win nothing?

“Frances Ching!” In a daze, I stand up and take my trophy and check. I barely feel the VP’s hand as it squeezes mine. I am acutely conscious of people looking at me, of the applauding judges and audience members, of the video cameras and flashes from the Chinese TV and newspaper journalists. As I shake the VP’s hand, the flashes from the cameras blind me. All I can see are spots. Tiffany and Stewart stand on either side of me. We all hold our trophies as more flashes of light blind us. After the photos are taken, we congratulate each other. Stewart shakes my hand vigorously.

“I really liked your speech,” he says with a big smile. “It made me think about things in a different way.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, averting my gaze. Quickly, I excuse myself and join Theresa, Nellie, Ms. Taylor, and Mom, who are just a few feet from the stage.

“Congratulations, Fei Ting! I knew you would win!” says Nellie. She is patting my shoulder so enthusiastically that it hurts.

“Me too,” Theresa chimes in. She is sincerely happy, even though she didn’t win anything. In fact, she seems happier than I am. How can that be?

Then I recall Nellie’s reaction, her cheering and jumping up and down, when Theresa finished her speech. My mother, in contrast, was stone still, except for her arms, which clapped as if they were too heavy. If you judged only by appearances, it would seem that Theresa had won instead of me.

I wrote that speech for my mother. I sang her praises publicly, in front of her. But she wasn’t even listening.

“Theresa, how do you feel about competing in your first tournament?” Ms. Taylor asks.

“It was fun,” Theresa replies.

I know Ms. Taylor is happy for me, but I wish she would talk to me first instead of Theresa. I did better than Theresa. Why is she getting most of the attention?

“Frances,” Ms. Taylor says, “I think some people want to meet you.”

I turn around and see Emerald Yeh and Wendy Tokuda.

“Congratulations,” says Emerald Yeh.

“Great job,” says Wendy Tokuda. I shake both of their hands. I reciprocate their smiles, but mine never spreads farther than my mouth.

On the way home, Nellie says, “After listening to Fei Ting’s speech, I can see why she keeps winning. She has real potential.” The Chinese word for
potential
is
“teen choi.” “Teen”
means “sky” or “heaven.” To have potential is to have a gift from the heavens.

“That tree of a boy would have won if he hadn’t messed up in the middle,” Mom replies. I flinch at her remark. I am grateful for the cloak of darkness. I don’t have to mold my face into a look of happiness or nonchalance.

I was happier winning third place in the previous tournament than I am winning first place in this tournament—even though this is being covered by journalists, and even though I am shaking the hands of Emerald Yeh and Wendy Tokuda. I try to figure out why, but no answer comes to mind.

The next morning, Mom and I go to Tai’s Bakery. On the way out the door, Mom picks up the
Independent
, the free local newspaper, from the doorstep and tosses it in the trash. As we approach the glass door, I notice a few seniors enjoying buns and tea at the square tables against the mirrored wall. Under the morning sunlight, the hard black-and-white-checked floor looks old and scratched up. As we walk in, Mrs. Tai greets us.

“Congratulations, Gracie!” she says.

Mom stares at her, a blank expression on her face.

Mrs. Tai holds up the
Gum San Bo
, the local Chinese-language newspaper. On the front page is a picture of me, the vice president of the CAA, Stewart Chan, and Tiffany Haffner. “What a smart girl!” Mrs. Tai says. Mom takes the paper from Mrs. Tai and begins reading. I peek over her shoulder, but I can’t make out anything except for “one,” “and,” and “but.” Once Mom is done reading, she hands the paper back to Mrs. Tai. Mom holds it with a certain reverence, as if that floppy piece of paper were embroidered silk. “Thank you, Older Sister,” Mom says.

Mrs. Tai pushes the paper back to Mom. “I got an extra copy for you, in case you don’t already have one,” she says.

Mr. Tai walks in from the back with a hot new batch of buns.
He is wearing his usual white undershirt and worn brown slacks. The steamy, sweet scent of fresh baked pastries fills the air. “Hey, you think she’s in the
Independent?”
he asks Mrs. Tai. Mrs. Tai walks to the back room. Moments later she returns, waving another newspaper. She hands it to Mom. A similar photo sits right above a very short article, this one written in English.

“I’m assuming you already have this one,” Mrs. Tai says.

Mom pauses, obviously remembering how carelessly she threw it away just moments ago. “Of course,” she says, recovering her composure.

Mr. and Mrs. Tai give us the usual, a dozen
gai mei bao
, but this time, Mr. Tai adds a couple of extra buns.

Mom says, “That’s too many.”

“On us. As a congratulations present,” Mr. Tai says.

“No, no, no, no,” Mom says, pushing the pink box back towards Mr. Tai.

But Mr. Tai pushes it back towards Mom. “You’re one of our best customers. We want you to have it.” Then he winks at me.

Mom rushes home from the bakery. I almost have to jog to keep up with her. Once home, she digs through the trash to find the
Independent
. I fight to contain my glee. There is a large wet spot on the paper left over from a used tea bag.

Then the phone rings. Mom picks it up. It’s Nellie. I can hear her talking loudly in excited tones through the receiver, though it’s against Mom’s ear. “What? Are you kidding me?” Mom says. “Now? Can we run over and catch it? It will probably be on again on the six o’clock news, won’t it?”

Wow, I’m on television! Ms. Taylor made a big deal out of this tournament, but I thought she was just exaggerating. Mom tenses her shoulders, frustrated over missing my televised appearance. “Okay,” Mom says. Then she hangs up.

“What is it?” I ask. I pretend not to know because I want to hear her say it.

“You were on the Channel Twenty-six news,” she says. “Fei Ting, you were on TV.”

After breakfast, Mom takes me on more errands. We go to the produce market, just down the street from the Tais’ bakery. The outside smells of oranges, apples, and cabbage. The inside smells like beef jerky and dried cuttlefish. Lynn, the shopkeeper, smiles at me as she rings Mom up. “I heard from Mrs. Tai about Fei Ting’s win,” she says to Mom. “What a smart girl.”

“Oh, good at school things. I’ll be lucky if she ever learns to be good at anything practical,” Mom says. A part of me cringes at the deflection of Lynn’s compliment. Then I look closely at Mom’s face. She has the faintest blush of pride.

Then we proceed to the butcher’s, just two doors down. Unlike the produce place, which is painted green, this place is painted red, matching the
cha siu
coloring on the barbecued pork. In the display window are three crispy fried ducks hanging by their necks and a whole roast pig. The entire place smells of duck, pig, and grease.

As Mr. Lai chops up the pork for Mom, she looks at him expectantly. She is waiting for him to mention my win.
Unfortunately, she is unlikely to get any recognition from him. Mr. Lai has always been a curmudgeon. The only reasons his business is so successful are that his meat is tasty, his prices are low, and he is the only butcher in the area.

But like a glutton for rejection, Mom keeps waiting, hoping. Finally, she can stand it no longer. “Mr. Lai,” Mom says, “do you know that Fei Ting won an award?”

Mr. Lai pauses for a moment, focused on his cutting, before he says, “Oh, really.” He doesn’t even attempt to feign interest.

“Yes,” Mom says. “First place”—a splatter of pork juice hits her in the face; she blinks and wipes the drop of grease from her cheek—“in a speech contest.” Still no response from Mr. Lai. “It was sponsored by the Chinese American Association.” Her voice sounds tentative, just like when she talks to my teachers.

Mr. Lai wraps the pork in pink paper and tapes it closed. “That’s two fifty,” he says.

“Okay,” Mom says. Her head is bowed. Quietly, submissively, Mom pays Mr. Lai and takes her bundle.

“Mr. Lai is mean,” she says to me as we walk home together. She carries the meat as I carry the vegetables and pastries. “His heart is like a rock. He must have kids too. He should know what a big deal this is.”

Then Mom stops walking. “You know what?” she says. “Maybe his kids are losers. Maybe they smoke and don’t study. That’s why he didn’t compliment you. Because he’s jealous.” A slow smile creeps up on her face. “Maybe his kids went bad
because he’s a bad father. Look how mean he is to people outside. Imagine how mean he must be at home. I feel sorry for his kids. I feel sorry for his wife.” Her smile widens with triumph. “Serves him right. Don’t feel bad, Fei Ting. We don’t need him. I’ll take the bus to Clement Street if I have to. I’m not going to spend another dime at his greasy shop.”

I am totally moved by her show of support. For the first time, she is 100 percent on my side. We continue walking—no, make that marching—home.

Once we reach our apartment and load up the fridge, Mom takes the two articles. She goes into the coat closet, which, despite its skinny shape, holds more stuff than someone else’s twice-as-big closet because of Mom’s organizing ability. She pulls out two picture frames and sits at my desk, carefully arranging the articles so that they are centered in the frames. She is meticulous about this, moving each article a couple of millimeters this way and that, her shoulders tense and fingers slightly trembling, as she strains for the perfect position. When she is satisfied, she hangs them side by side on the wall facing Popo’s picture. She is careful to keep them lower on the wall than the picture, out of respect for Popo.

“There,” Mom says. “Now she can see them too.”

Mom fixes the articles with a penetrating stare. “When Ms. Taylor talked about your talents, she wasn’t exaggerating,” she said. “She had done the right thing by tricking you into joining speech. You’re a genius, like Mozart. I was wrong to force you to go to medical school,” Mom says.

I want to cry at her words. After all those years of pressure, this admission is more than I could ever hope for.

“Clearly, your talent lies in speaking,” Mom continues. “I saw all those TV journalists looking at you. You can be like them. It’s like being a movie star, only more professional. You’re not beautiful like a movie star, but with your speaking talent, you can be like Wendy Tokuda, or even better. You can be the next Connie Chung!”

A TV journalist? That seems as foreign to me as becoming a doctor. The idea is embarrassing, me with my marshmallow body on television, talking about issues that I have no knowledge of or interest in. But Mom can see this very clearly, so clearly that I can almost see it reflected in her eyes.

We arrive at Nellie’s for dinner at five thirty, just to make sure that we don’t miss the six o’clock news. Nellie and Theresa are making fish soup; steamed rock cod with soy sauce and green onion;
dou miu
, a type of sprout; and Chinese broccoli. All my favorites. Nellie is tailoring the menu for me. I sit at her kitchen table and watch her and Theresa cook. My two articles are tacked to Nellie’s corkboard above the telephone, next to her coupons and Chinese takeout menus.

Mom is going through the
Chronicle
and the
Examiner
to look for additional articles featuring my win. Channel 26 is blaring in the living room. When Mom is through, she throws both
papers onto the floor. “And they call themselves newspapers,” she says, enunciating “newspapers” as if she is spitting on them. “Well, they will never make a customer out of me.”

“Me neither,” Nellie chimes in.