Bitter Melon (28 page)

“What made you think I was mad?” he asks.

“You sat at the opposite side of the room like you were avoiding me.”

“I was trying to give you space because I thought you were mad at me. Besides, why would I be mad at you anyways?”

“Because I didn’t call.” I replay the memory of Derek’s number, torn to shreds, drizzling into the trash. “I lost your number. Sorry,” I say.

“I’ll accept your apology on one condition,” he says gravely.

“What’s that?”

“From now on we don’t assume that the other person’s mad.”

“Deal.” I stick out my hand. He shakes it.

“When you didn’t call,” Derek says, “I figured that either you changed your mind or you tried calling me and got caught by your mom. I thought about calling you, but I figured that I’d just be told that there was no one named Frances there and that I should stop calling the Wong residence.”

I chuckle. Only Derek can make my family situation funny.

“When you didn’t show at the next competition, I really started to worry,” Derek continues. “Maybe your mom was holding you hostage. Or maybe you had the good sense to change your mind about me. That would be a tragedy. I mean, who would help me pick on Sally?”

He means it as a joke, but I can’t help feeling guilty.

“Derek, I have a confession to make,” I blurt out.

“Don’t tell me. You ripped up my phone number and threw it away.”

I freeze, my heart in my throat.

“I’m just kidding,” he says. “But seriously, what’s your confession?”

“Um …” I mentally erase how close I came to revealing what really happened to his number. “Halfway through Sally’s speech, I … aborted our plan. I felt … sorry for her.”

Derek’s face falls. He becomes silent and distant.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“No, don’t be sorry,” he says. “I see your point. We don’t want to become the people we’re trying to defeat, right?”

I nod. Little does he know that I’ve already become that person.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says. “It’s my fault. It was my idea.”

“You don’t need to be sorry,” I say. “You tried to do a good thing.”

Derek’s eyes soften. “Thanks,” he says quietly.

We’ve run out of things to say, but I don’t want to part, and he doesn’t seem to either, so we just stand awkwardly in silence.

“I wanted to ask you …,” Derek says. “I know I shouldn’t, considering the wrath of your mother, but … would you like to go to the prom with me?”

My heart starts pounding. I give him the answer that will get me into deeper trouble, the answer I can’t stop myself from giving.

I am so happy about Derek’s invitation to the prom that I have to exert tremendous effort to suppress my joy at home. It isn’t until I go to bed that I realize what a hole I’ve dug myself into. I will have to take the sneaky route to the prom, which means overcoming a few obstacles. For example, how will I get a dress? And what will be my alibi for Mom?

As I ponder the first question, it occurs to me that though I have neither a job nor an allowance, that does not mean I don’t have money. I have a bank account. I should have more than enough money to buy a dress at Macy’s.

I move on to my second problem, the alibi for Mom. I could tell Mom that I am sleeping over at Theresa’s. That would mean Theresa would have to be in on the plan. But how can I possibly ask Theresa for another favor regarding Derek, especially after how things worked out between her and Alfred?

I delay problem solving, hoping that a solution will magically materialize.

A few weeks pass. The magic solution does not materialize. Derek’s prom is tomorrow. I must think fast.

Maybe I should rethink the assumption that asking Theresa for help is the same as taking advantage of her. Getting Theresa to go to the prom could be a great way to make up for standing between her and Alfred. After keeping them apart, I would now have the chance to bring them back together.

In the locker room, before first period, I ask Theresa, “Are you free after school?” I already know the answer to this question. Her social life isn’t any more active than mine.

“Sure!” she says. “What do you have in mind?”

“I thought we could go … downtown!” I infuse my voice with enthusiasm.

“Downtown? What for?”

“I thought we should be adventurous and venture out of our neighborhood,” I say. “What do you say?”

After school, Theresa and I take the 38 Geary bus to Downtown. Downtown tends to be sunnier than the Richmond District. That is the certainly the case today. Nonetheless, it actually feels colder than home, because the tall buildings block the sun and form long tunnels for the icy wind, which cuts through my pants and blows my hair in all different directions. As we walk by Macy’s, we conveniently pass a window with two mannequins wearing prom dresses. One is wearing a formfitting knee-length
velvet navy blue dress. The other is wearing a silky ankle-length black dress that reminds me of Audrey Hepburn.

“Wow, how beautiful!” I say, eyeing the dresses.

Theresa’s eyes sparkle in agreement.

“I think you’d look great in the navy one,” I add.

“Wow. You think so?”

“Absolutely,” I say. “We should go inside and check it out.”

Suddenly, Theresa becomes hesitant. “Oh, I don’t know.”

“Come on.”

“Well … maybe for just a little while.”

We enter the store and ride the escalators to the juniors level. The whole juniors section is the prom version of Disneyland. The dresses are clustered into groups based on style and color. Each group of dresses has its own size-two mannequin modeling the style. The dresses come in mostly dark colors, like black, navy, royal blue, burgundy, and emerald green. I can’t resist the urge to touch the various materials. Many of the dresses are silky and shiny. Some are crinkly and rough. The velvet dresses remind me of pets—you can stroke them one way but not the other. The sequins remind me of fish scales. They sparkle like Christmas tree decorations.

Other girls are shopping for their prom dresses with their moms. These girls look giddy with excitement. The moms look at their daughters, some with girlish enthusiasm, some with bemusement, and some with annoyance. Nonetheless, they are all there, helping their daughters. Most of them hold their daughters’ dresses as they follow them around. A few of the
girls are heavier than I am, but their mothers aren’t berating them about it. They just select larger sizes in a matter-of-fact manner. Can these girls confide in their mothers about school or even boys? Will these mothers let them go to whichever colleges they choose? I feel a stab of envy that hints at depression, the way heavy clouds signal rain.

I quickly brush away this feeling. I seek out the navy dress that most resembles the one worn by the mannequin. I grab one in Theresa’s size and one in my size and hold the smaller one up to Theresa. “Hey, this looks like the one we were admiring,” I say. “Why don’t we try it on together?”

Theresa backs away from the dress. “Oh, that’s okay. You can try yours on. I’ll just wait outside.”

“You don’t have to buy it,” I say. “Just try it on for fun.” I hold the dress up to her face the way one might hold a bone to a dog’s nose.

“I don’t understand,” Theresa says. “What’s the point of looking at prom dresses when we aren’t even going to the prom?”

“Well … I was thinking that”—I take a deep breath—“maybe I was wrong. About the Alfred thing.”

Theresa winces. “I-I’ve already forgotten about him,” she says. Her tone, however, suggests the opposite.

“What if he lost your phone number and was hoping that you’d call?” I say.

“But … that was five months ago,” Theresa says. “I don’t understand. Why are you bringing him up now?”

Should I tell her about Derek now or later? I hesitate, unable to decide.

“Because this is your last chance ever to do a formal,” I say. “You won’t get that chance back. You wouldn’t want to wonder what if, right?”

Theresa crosses her arms in front of her chest. “I thought you were my friend,” she says.

“I am!” I say.

“Then don’t make me feel worse.”

“What do you mean? I’m only trying to help.”

“Yeah. By telling me not to call him when it would have mattered and now telling me to call when so much time has passed that he won’t even remember my name. Thanks for your help.”

I plop the dress back on the rack. “Fine. We can do something else,” I say. Though I try to make my voice cheerful, it ends up sounding hard and flat.

“No, I don’t feel like it anymore. Let’s go home,” Theresa says.

“But we just got here! We just wasted our time coming all this way!”

“It was your idea!”

Theresa walks away. My eyes dart between Theresa’s receding back and the navy dress draped over my arm. If I don’t buy this dress now, I will have nothing to wear tomorrow. But if I do buy it, I won’t be able to catch up with Theresa before she boards a bus home. Besides, how will I explain the new dress while trying to placate her?

Panicked, I hang my size-eight dress in the size-two section
of the rack and race past the openmouthed stares of the prom girls and their mothers. Theresa nimbly runs down the escalator like a mouse while I gallop after her.

“Theresa,” I say.

But Theresa ignores me. I follow her out of Macy’s and all the way to the bus stop. Theresa stands with her back to me, her arms crossed and her foot tapping.

“I’m sorry,” I say to the back of her head. “Don’t be mad, okay?” I hate the whining, begging sound in my voice, but at the moment, I don’t care.

Theresa’s head bows. Her shoulders slump. Finally, she turns to me. “No. I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes it is. It’s not your fault that Alfred didn’t ask me to the Winterball,” she says. “I shouldn’t be taking that out on you.”

I avert my eyes from her contrite gaze.

“You were just trying to help by suggesting that I go to the prom with him,” Theresa says. She sighs. “It’s bad enough that he rejected me the first time. If he rejects me again … I’ll just die of humiliation. I just want to forget about the whole thing and put it behind me, okay?”

I am so grateful to have her friendship back that I give up pushing her further. I banish the possibility of telling her my true predicament. Instead, I take the bus home with her, silently wondering what to wear and what my alibi will be for Mom.