Chapter 30 - I'll Be a Home for You

Chapter 30

there’s a visitor in my room

(do not tell my parents)

JJ

The Nationals participation medal for fourth place is hidden in my closet. I’m lying on my bedroom floor, and my laptop is propped on my chest. I’m analyzing every frame of the routine. Did I jump in too early? Did I stand up too early? Did I not shift my hips forward? Did I—

Doorbell.

I perk my head up. No one knocks on our door at ten a.m. in the morning on a Saturday. My parents are at work, pulling more shifts so they can have tomorrow off for Palm Sunday. Like this month could not get any worse.

Doorbell again. I groan and get off the floor, walk down the stairs, and open the door.

Aang is hopping from leg to leg on my front porch. “Hello! Do you need me to mow your lawn?” He points to my pretty pink wildflowers.

“What are you doing here?” I didn’t even text him this morning. I assumed he’d be treating his competition hangover alone, like the rest of us.

Wait. He’s at my house.

“Actually, a more important question is how are you here?” He’s aware of where I live, but I’ve never told him my full address.

“Monique has your address from when she sent you a postcard from Cape Cod.”

“And she disclosed that information to you willingly, without being under duress?”

He puts his hands up. “I just texted her.”

And she responded? She must be suffering from a mental breakdown caused by the competition loss. I’ll worry about her sanity later. “Okay? What are you doing here, then?”

“You invited me over.”

I blink. “When?”

“September, in front of your locker, when I agreed to join cheerleading.”

“That wasn’t—”

“I’m not staying long.” He looks at his watch. “Because we’re going to Boston.”

“Excuse me?” This is the most confusing conversation I’ve ever had in English.

“When we were in Boston for Chinese New Year, we said we’d go to the Polish restaurant after Nationals.”

My hand tightens on the doorknob. “That was if we won.”

“Let’s go anyway. It’ll be fun. To get away from here. With you.”

Going to a Polish restaurant after losing twice doesn’t sound particularly fun. Frankly, it sounds like the final nail in the coffin. But he has this hopeful look on his face, and my mouth waters at the thought of pierogi. A Pavlovian response I still haven’t trained my mind out of.

“Fine,” I concede. “I’ll go.”

His smile ignites a spark of hope that this day might not be a complete loss. I open the door fully so he can step in. “I just need to change.”

He takes me in. His face flushes red, his eyes fly upward, and he walks into the doorframe.

My eyebrows shoot up. “What are you doing?”

He waves vaguely at me, his gaze still on the ceiling.

I inspect my thin tank top and pajama shorts. I’m not wearing a bra. “For someone who grabs my butt three times a week, you’re such a prude. You caught me by the boob once, remember? That was fun.”

He puts his hoodie over his head, but that doesn’t hide the crimson cheeks. “I’m not a prude.”

“Oh yeah, I can see how sexually promiscuous you are. Come, take me on the floor, right now.”

“You’re literally the worst.” His face gets even redder, and I giggle. Maybe this day will get better because he’s here.

He steps into the corridor and takes his shoes off. Thank god. I might have had to break up with him if he was one of those. I walk through the hallway to the first step of the staircase before I realize he’s not following me. He’s staring at the table in the living room. “What is that?”

My heart rate spikes in alarm. I could say it’s my mom’s weird neurosurgery thing. Or a gift from one of my dad’s patients. But no matter how hard my mind is begging for a lie, my mouth chooses the truth. “Palma wielkanocna.”

“What?”

“Palma wielkanocna,” I repeat. “I guess the literal translation would be Easter palm tree.”

He blinks at me.

I sigh. “It’s …” I don’t know any English words to explain what it is. “Wait, I need to translate …” I unlock my phone. “So many things.”

He waits silently until I google what I need.

“Okay, so this is made from multiple willow branches, but you can also add other types of branches, like birch and currant, and then you tie the branches together to create a thick stick. You wrap it with colorful tissue paper and decorate it however you like, usually with dried flowers and ribbons. But you have to add pond grass at the top. Most people in Poland buy them already made, but that wasn’t an option for us, so we had to make it from scratch with what we had. So it doesn’t look exactly right.”

I cringe at the poorly glued purple-and-orange tissue paper covering a third of the branches and the wobbly daisies attached in the middle. I need to show him an actual palmę online because our creation doesn’t do justice to how beautiful they can be. But he doesn’t mind the lack of artistry. He moves closer, admiring it, which makes me keep talking.

“It’s a blend of Polish paganism and Catholicism.” I repeat what my grandma taught me in kindergarten. “In pagan religions, the willow signified rebirth and warded off evil spirits. I don’t know how much you know about Christianity, but a week before his crucifixion, Jesus rode into Jerusalem, and people greeted him with palm tree branches. So, early Christians in Poland adopted the pagan willows as a symbol of those palms. And now, one week before Easter Sunday, people in Poland visit the church to bless them.”

“This is beautiful.” He walks around the palm.

It’s not, but we did what we could. Frankly, we did more than ever before for this holiday. Niedziela Palmowa. How colorful the streets looked with people carrying palmy wielkanocne. You couldn’t look away, whether you practiced the religion or not.

Heat builds behind my eyes. I push the memories away. “Let’s go upstairs. I need to change, and we don’t have all day.”

This time, he follows. But his gaze darts around the house. The Kalabari tribe’s wooden masks hang on the first part of the staircase wall. The second part displays Polish decorative plates with flowers, roosters, and a couple dancing kujawiak. In the corridor leading to my room, the left wall is decorated with black-and-white photos of my dad’s childhood in Bakana and a massive world map with pins marking all the places where the family has settled. South Africa, Italy, the UK, Canada, to name a few. I wonder if they all feel the desperate need to belong to the place where they live.

The right wall has photos from my childhood in Poland. My mom teaching me to ice-skate. My dad and I learning to rollerblade. My grandma and I mushroom-picking in an autumn forest. Aang stops in front of a photo of a twelve-year-old me in a pink leotard, holding a gold gymnastics medal.

“Your house is so cool.” He looks at me, beaming. “Let’s see your room.”

We enter, and a pinch of disappointment runs through his expression as he takes in the light-pink room. There’s nothing Polish or Nigerian in this room. There are only English books on the shelves. The walls are filled with cheerleading photos and posters of American films. Bring It On. Mean Girls. Heathers. The most interesting thing in this room has to be the New York shrine above my desk. He studies it while I grab pink cargo jeans and a white sweater with daisies that my grandma knitted for me off a shelf in the closet. If I’m going to a Polish restaurant, she might as well come with me.

When I exit the closet, he’s not staring at the collage. He’s fixated on the two flower bookmarks that have been sitting on my desk since the first day of junior year. He touches them gently. “I only gave you one flower.” His voice wraps around me like silk.

“No. You gave me two.”

He spins toward me. “I threw the other one into the garbage.” His voice descends into a low timbre that vibrates through my chest. And I know that, whatever he asks me to do with that voice in the future, I’ll do it. Immediately. Enthusiastically. He has so much power, and he hasn’t realized it yet.

I drop the clothes on the floor. “I fished it out.”

He’s in front of me in a heartbeat. He grabs my cheeks and kisses me everywhere. My nose, my temples, my neck, muttering something. Of you? Ove you? I don’t know. My fingers scratch his scalp, and he groans against my skin.

At some point, I start walking, or he starts walking, or we both start walking, until we end up on my bed. He’s barely propped up on his elbow, every centimeter of his body solid against mine. All the cells in my body buzz, begging for more of him. His right hand slides up my leg until it hits the hem of my shorts.

Which, through the fogginess of my brain, makes me realize how little clothing I’m already wearing.

He must have the same thought, because his hand twitches on my hip and his lips freeze on my collarbone. And then he’s moving away from me, propping himself up on his hand instead of his elbow. Not the smartest decision on his part, because now he can take in more of me.

His eyes slide down from my face to my chest. Red creeps down his neck, and he purses his lips. But his hand is still on my hip, and his eyes are still focused on my braless chest. He looks like he’s short-circuiting. Maybe internal heatstroke is a thing, and I could diagnose both of us with it.

I force out a breath. “You okay?”

“I … um …” His eyes rush between my face and my chest. Like he can’t decide which is more crucial to look at. “I … um … hi?” He settles on my face.

I giggle. “Hi.”

“Hi.” A slow smile spreads on his face.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

Yup, his brain is definitely not working correctly. Neither is mine, but someone with a driver’s license has to get us to Boston. “Okay, let me change.” I lift myself up.

“Wait.”

My heart skips a beat.

“I just …” His thumb is making circles on my hip. “I think …”

My eyes soften. “It’s okay. We don’t have to do anything.”

“No—I mean yes. Yes, we don’t have to do anything, and I want us to go to Boston … but …” He sucks in a breath, his hand traveling up from my hip bone to play with the spaghetti strap of my top. My heart hammers against my chest.

“You’re so pretty—no, not enough.” He jerks his head before finding my eyes, his gaze sharpening. “You are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. I can’t believe I’m actually with you.”

I love y—my eyes snap wide in alarm. What was the beginning of that thought?

He slides off me, and the sudden lack of pressure makes me cold. “I’ll let you change.” He walks to the door, but not quite in a straight line.

I dress with shaking hands, trying not to think about my last thought before he moved.

When we get to my driveway, once he hears the beep of the car unlocking, he nudges me out of the way. He grabs the handle of the driver’s door.

“You know you can’t drive, right?” I ask.

He doesn’t respond. He opens the door fully and puts his hand out to me. Oh.

I stumble up to him on jelly legs and put my palm in his. I’m not quite sure how I’m standing, because I’ve lost feeling in my muscles, tendons, and bones. Everything’s gone. He’s consumed every corner of me and is now holding me up with his eyes.

“Thank you for driving us to Boston.” His lips brush my knuckles.

I love you.

My heart crushes in and explodes out, and if I open my mouth right now, the thought will escape, and he’ll hear it. I get in the car without a word, and he closes the door behind me.

It’s way too soon for love declarations. I mean, if I were Bryn, I would have said it the second he kissed me on Valentine’s Day. If I were Monique, I wouldn’t have gotten myself into a situation where I wanted to kiss someone on Valentine’s Day. But I’ve never said I love you to a guy before. How long do you wait? When do you know it’s actually love? What if he doesn’t say it back?

I focus on the road.

The early spring sun makes the car wonderfully warm. I slap away Aang’s hand when he tries to put the AC on. Air-conditioning makes you ill; everyone knows that. When we stop arguing about that, we start arguing about who will have a higher GPA at the end of the year, since we’re tied now. Tied to three decimal places, and we agreed we won’t go any further than that. We argue about which university is better, Columbia or Stanford. We argue about whether Brad and Remy have gone on a first date already and just haven’t told us.

I haven’t thought about the fall and the loss since he rang my doorbell. I haven’t worried that I’m going to a Polish restaurant. I haven’t thought of anything but him and me, arguing. It’s so much fun.

As crazy as it sounds, it stays fun in the Polish restaurant. We sit down at a yellowish wooden table, him on a massive pine chair, me on a wooden bench pressed against a dark-red wall, covered in photos of famous Poles who have visited. Polish folk music—a mix of high-intensity violin, fiddle, and accordion—plays in the background while Aang takes his time attempting to pronounce every single thing on the menu. Where are all the vowels? How is “barszcz” a word? He tries to guess what the dishes are. Rosół. Is it tomato soup? Chicken soup. Pierogi z kapustą i grzybami. Is it meat dumplings? Dumplings with sour cabbage and mushrooms. Golonka. Is it chicken? I don’t actually know how to translate it, so I just say it’s meat. And as I anticipated, people do turn their heads, and they do stare, but that’s because I’m laughing so loud. I hope.

When our food comes, Aang points to his rye soup with sausage, bacon, and boiled egg, served in an edible bread bowl. “Again, what did I order?”

“Żurek.”

“What?”

“The first letter, ‘Ż’? It’s like the ‘S’ in pleasure. ‘U’ is like the ‘OO’ in book. Round your lips slightly, tongue pulled back.”

He repeats the first syllable after me.

“Okay, now roll your ‘R.’ ‘E’ like in bed. And then just ‘K.’”

“Zu-ek.”

“No, no. Zhoo-rek.”

“Zhu-ek.”

“No.” I grab his mouth and squeeze so it looks like a duck face. “Say it now.”

“Zhoo-ek.”

“That sounds better.” I pat his cheek. “You haven’t rolled your ‘R,’ but I don’t think your tongue is capable.” I snort and take a drink of water.

“I should start training my tongue, then.”

I choke on my water so hard it shoots out of my nose.

“What?” He looks at the water dripping from my nose. “How am I going to learn Polish if I can’t roll my ‘R’?”

I cough harder.

His eyes crinkle at the edges, the cogs whirring in his brain. “Oh my god.” He turns crimson. “That’s not … that’s not what I meant.”

“Sure.” I dry my nose with a napkin. “Is this because I called you a prude earlier?”

“No! Really! That’s not what I meant!”

I give him a pointed look.

“Oh, what the hell!” He throws his hands up. “Yeah, I’ll literally do anything for you. Anything that ever crosses your mind. I’ll do it. Happily. And if I don’t know how, I’ll learn. Whether it’s speaking Polish, cooking your favorite meal, braiding your hair, or taking photos that might finally capture how beautiful you are. And yeah, having sex with you. I’ll learn to do it the way you’ll enjoy it. So stop annoying me.” He grabs his spoon, grumbling about how one day I won’t be calling him a prude anymore.

Who knew the feeling I get when flying could be recreated on the ground? And that he would be responsible for both of them? I don’t think I can last much longer without telling him I love him.

I’m grateful for the distraction when he tastes the first spoonful. His eyes widen. “This is so good.” More soup travels to his mouth, and it hits me how devastated I would have been if he didn’t enjoy Polish food.

Instead of pierogów, I decided to order racuchy28 because I haven’t had them since I left Poland. When I bite into the first of four pancakes, I know it was the right call. The cook made the batter with shredded apples instead of sliced ones. Racuchy are pillowy and warm, and the restaurant didn’t skimp on the powdered sugar dusted on top. I moan quietly. Tastes like home.

“Would you like to tell me about Poland?” He asked me this question many times in our freshman year. It always felt like he was gathering evidence, ammunition, that neither of us belonged here. But he has the luxury of rejecting this place because he’s from here. Even if he doesn’t want to be.

Today, for the first time, he sounds like he wants to know about Poland without an agenda. So I tell him.

I don’t even mind speaking English in here. I remember times when I would be on a bus in Poland, and I would pretend someone was calling me and speak loudly in Polish so people around me would know. Listen to me! I am Polish. I speak the same language as you! I would never, ever have made the mistake of speaking a different language anywhere near Polish people. But here? My mind’s protests aren’t quite as strong when he’s smiling at me.

Every fact I share makes me lighter. I tell him about Marzanna, a straw doll my preschool would make every year that represented winter and death. And how on the first day of spring, we would drown her in the river. Or, in the case of my preschool, an outdoor swimming pool. “It’s like ending winter and saying hello to spring. Most people don’t do it anymore, especially in the cities, but my preschool loved it.”

“Yeah, what’s not to love about drowning a woman?” he mutters. “That’s psychotic.”

“Don’t judge my culture!” I laugh. Good thing I didn’t add that we set her on fire first.

I tell him how Polish was banned for 123 years of Austro–Prussian–Russian occupation, and how hard people worked to preserve the language until we regained our independence. I tell him how in Polish, you don’t say It makes sense. You say It has sense.29

“And you know, it makes more sense to say it has sense than makes sense!” I chuckle at my own joke. That laugh is the first time I’ve stopped talking in … how many minutes? My throat is dry, and my food got cold. “How long was I talking for?”

Aang shrugs. “Like an hour?”

“An hour?” My eyes pop open. “Why didn’t you stop the rambling?” I grab the fork to finish my racuchy.

“Because I love you.”

My fork clatters on the plate. Aang goes rigid at the realization of what he just said. Out loud.

“You … what?” I gape at him.

He loves me. He said it. Say it back. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. He’s staring at me. He’s staring at me, and I’m not saying anything, and he probably thinks …

His phone pings, and he lunges for it. No, wait, I was going to say it!

As his phone lights up, I get a glimpse of the wallpaper. It’s me with a scrunched nose, closed eyes, and green eyeshadow on. That’s from Brad’s party. When did he take it? When did he set it as his wallpaper? It wasn’t on his screen yesterday.

His eyes scurry over the screen. “It’s an email from Chinese school.”

My heart stops. The email.

As he reads, his forehead creases more and more. Panic builds in my core. I should have told him about this earlier. I shouldn’t have sent that message in the first place.

His head whips up from the phone. “You told Ms. Leung that Michael and the others were bullying me?”

My throat is arid, and the only thing I manage is a nod.

He stares at me for ten seconds. Without blinking. Then another ten. His knees hit the table when he stands up. He marches out of the restaurant.

“Aang, wait!” I run after him onto the sidewalk. I try to grab his hand, but he shakes me off.

“Do not touch me.” Each word cuts like a cold knife.

“I’m sorry.” I wrap my arms around myself. “I’m so sorry. I know you asked me not to do that, but …” I take a tiny step toward him.

He jumps away from me. Something clicks in his expression. The color leaves his face, and he stumbles even further back. “Is this why you asked about Chinese school? To find out if they got the email? You didn’t actually care about what I was telling you?”

“No, no.” I shake my head frantically. “I mean, at the beginning, yes, I asked because of the email, but then I kept asking because you seemed happy, and please believe me, I didn’t write anything that bad in the email—”

“It’s not about the fucking email!” His voice cracks. “You have everything I’ll never have! You speak the language! Your house is your heritage! You know the history and the customs, not because you looked them up but because you’ve lived them!” He jabs a finger at his own chest. “But me? I have nothing to show for my culture but my fucking face. Even my name. I’m named after an American cartoon. Because that’s who I am. A cartoonish version of Hong Kong. But you …” He points to me. “You throw away your home like it’s nothing. I call you by your actual name, and you act like I punched you. Why do you hate your own identity?”

The accusation cuts straight to the bone. Shame curdles my stomach now that someone has finally said it out loud. For a moment, I can’t breathe. But then fury comes, white-hot and blinding.

“You don’t know what it was like! In Poland, when I introduced myself as Józefina? People thought I was lying. Clearly, the Black girl can’t have a Polish name. And Ibifubara? That was a punchline to them. My names—a lie and a joke.” Tears blur my vision. “And you speak of home?” I take a step toward him, but this time his feet are cemented to the ground. “My home rejected me every time I left my house. Shouting at me to go back to where I came from, taking photos of me on the street like I was an exotic animal. Seeing my existence as a threat to what it means to be Polish. Can you imagine? Loving something that doesn’t love you back? That will never love you back?”

“Yes, I can.” He swallows hard. “But I still try. Not only do you run from your culture, but you sent that email to drag me away from mine. To drag me from what I love.”

“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes. “You don’t love Hong Kong. You don’t love Chinese culture. If you did, you wouldn’t tear down Chinese Americans, snicker at Asian fusion, or cling to some idea of Asian purity. You know what that makes you closer to?” I look him dead in the eye. “An American.”

His face contorts. “Like what you’re trying so hard to be?” He steps into my space, eyes cold. “I’ll let you in on a secret. You’ll never be an American. They’ll make sure you’re not.”

I clench my jaw. “Good luck going to Hong Kong. To home. They’ll take one look at you and call you a foreigner.”

“Won’t be anything new.” He turns around and starts walking away. “I’m taking the bus.”

“The bus?” My stomach drops. “You’ll get home in the middle of the night.”

“Better than being stuck in the car with you.”

“But … no, come with me. Please.”

He stills, and a wave of relief almost knocks me off my feet when he turns and walks back to me. It’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.

He reaches into his pocket, takes out his wallet, and puts a hundred-dollar bill in my hand. “For the food.” He disappears around the corner.

I start to run after him, but the restaurant door creaks. The waitress peeks her head through. “Przepraszam? Musi pani zapłacić.”30

I go back into the restaurant to pay. The woman points to the bill in my hand, but I clutch it to my chest. “No. Not with this.” I take out my card instead.

In the car, it takes me two hours to stop crying and calm down enough to drive back.

28 Polish apple pancakes

29 To ma sens.

30 Excuse me? You have to pay, Miss.