Chapter 24 - I'll Be a Home for You

content warning: premarital handholding

JJ

When I open the door to Aang’s house, smoke hits my nostrils.

I sprint to the kitchen, where I find him waving a dish towel in front of the smoke alarm. He’s wearing a white apron that he definitely got from Remy’s mom, considering the Sweet as Peach Pie embroidered across it.

“Are you trying to burn your house down?” I ask.

Aang lowers the towel. “Hi.” His smile turns dopey as he takes me in. Like the simple fact that I’m standing in front of him fills him with overwhelming joy.

The smoke alarm shrills.

“Not again!” He swings the towel at the ceiling.

I open two windows and grab another cloth. “What happened?” I ask as I wave the cloth at the alarm, too.

“I was steaming fish—I mean yú19—in the oven, and bōu jái … bōu jái …”20 He sighs. “… claypot rice on the stove, and then I was chopping spring onion, but I cut myself …” There’s a bandage around his right index finger. “So went to get the first aid kit, butut I couldn’t find it, and the fish was steaming too much, and the rice was supposed to be burnt at the bottom, so I didn’t bother about the smell until this started ringing …” The alarm stops mid-shriek as the smoke dissipates. We stop waving.

Aang uses the towel to take a rustic brown pot off the stove. He puts it on the counter and opens the lid as I look over his shoulder. He grabs a wooden spoon and scoops rice out of the pot. More than half of it is stuck to the bottom. The mushrooms have turned black, and the bok choy has wilted.

A choked sound escapes him.

I take the spoon from him and salvage whatever I can, but it’s like scraping a sidewalk. “It’s okay, we can start again or …” The words die in my throat at the look on his face. The color has drained from it, and his eyes are empty. Without the blare of the alarm, I realize how silent the house is. This is how quiet my house is. Not his. “Where are your parents?”

He stares at what remains of the rice, the hollowness consuming his eyes. “They didn’t want to celebrate properly.”

I’m not sure what he means, and I don’t get to ask, because he grabs the pot and hurls it into the trash. The sound ricochets off the bin like thunder.

A flash of memory.

Christmas, freshman year, when my mom tried to make bigos, because they obviously didn’t sell it at the supermarket here. I ran into the kitchen, shouting about wanting to go to a cheerleading summer camp. She startled and tipped the pot over. It broke into seven pieces on the floor.

I’d seen my mom survive multiple night shifts in a row, and I’d seen her survive multiple dead patients in one night. But I never saw her break down until that first American Christmas. She was sobbing on the kitchen floor over the broken wedding gift from her mom, asking why we were even here. Pieniądze nie są tego warte.21 My dad cleaned the floor and drove us to Boston to celebrate at a restaurant in the Polish Triangle.

The haunted look on my mom’s face eventually dissipated. But that same haunted look is on Aang’s face. It hurts to see it now as much as it hurt seeing it then.

I take out my phone and google how long it’d take us to get to Boston. That’s doable. I check to make sure the stove and oven are off and pull him upstairs.

“What are we doing?” he asks.

I don’t say anything until we get to his room. “Where do you keep your T-shirts?”

He frowns but points to a chest of drawers. I spot the T-shirt I need immediately. The bright red stands out against blacks and blues. I unfurl it. Parallel lines have so much in common. It’s a shame they’ll never meet. My heart swells. He still has it.

I throw the T-shirt at him. “You need to change.”

He glances at the black T-shirt peeking out from under his apron. “I didn’t get this one dirty.”

“It’s the first day of the Chinese New Year. Aren’t you supposed to wear red to improve your luck for the year ahead?” I read up on the holiday before I came here.

“I don’t feel like celebrating anymore.”

“Then wear it to amuse me, Peach Pie.”

He groans. “Fine, I’ll change.” He pokes my shoulder. “But do not make ‘Peach Pie’ a thing.”

“No promises.” I smile and turn around. His bookcase is in front of me. Cantonese textbooks are stacked on top of each other. There are thick tomes about the history of Hong Kong. A bright yellow book draws my eyes. It looks brand-new. Buddhism in Hong Kong. I open it and find every other sentence highlighted, the margins full of questions. I’ve seen fewer annotations in my grandma’s Bible, and she’s had that thing since Poland overthrew the Soviet regime.

“I think I’ve grown since freshman year.”

I look up. The book drops from my hands and hits the ground with a thud.

The T-shirt used to be baggy. But Aang has gotten taller since freshman year. My eyes trace the hard lines of his shoulders and arms, the definition that wasn’t there before. His chest stretches the fabric where it once hung loose.

“You look like you’re about to laugh at me. I’ll just take it off.” He raises the hem.

“No!” I force my gaze away from the curve of his hips where his jeans sit low. “I mean … this is the only colorful item in your closet!” He lowers the T-shirt, but now my eyes find his flexed bicep. “And it’s important to wear colorful things. For Chinese New Year. And for no other reason! You don’t want to have bad luck. What if that means we lose cheerleading Nationals? And Mathletes Nationals?”

He holds up his hands in surrender.

Veins run through his forearms, and I want to know how it would feel to slide my lips along them. My body burns so hot it feels like I’m in Hell again, but this time, I’d be happy to stay.

I beat the thought down with a baseball bat.

“We’re … going out.” I’m trying for nonchalance, but my voice comes out choppy.

“I don’t feel like going anywhere.”

“I don’t think you have a choice, Peach Pie.” I grab his coat and pull him out of the house and into my car. I type our destination into the navigation.

His eyebrows shoot up. “We’re going to Boston? That’s two hours away! What on Earth are we doing?”

“We’re going to celebrate Chinese New Year.” I shift into reverse and back out of the driveway. “In Chinatown.”

The buzz of different languages permeates Chinatown. English mixed with dialects of Chinese. And something neither English nor Chinese. Korean? Vietnamese?

And the smells. Smoky pork. Fried onion. Soy sauce caramelizing in hot oil.

The air is hazy from burnt incense. Mandarin trees line the streets. From every lamppost, red lanterns hang in rows, swaying in the winter wind. I stop to admire the Chinese calligraphy on them as people jostle around me. I’d ask Aang what they mean, but he probably doesn’t know. But that’s okay. We can find out together. I look around for him.

My stomach drops. Where did he go? I dart my head around until I spot his ruffled hair. He’s a few meters in front of me, frantically searching the crowd. I squeeze through the people and tap him on the arm.

“Oh, thank god.” His shoulders relax. “What happened?”

“Sorry, I stopped.”

“You stopped? You can’t just halt in the middle of busy foot traffic.”

“Okay, foot traffic police.” I roll my eyes. “Do you want to hold my hand so I don’t commit any more pedestrian violations?”

His eyes find mine, and time stops following the rules of physics—a heartbeat stretches into eternity as people push around us. His fingers slide against mine, interlacing them. “In case you decide to stop again.”

“Yeah, just in case.” I nod quickly.

He looks around. “Where should we go?”

“The shop you bought the soap from?” I want to stock up so he never runs out.

“I’m not sure where it is. There weren’t this many people here when I came.”

“What general direction?” I squeeze his hand.

He points south, and we start weaving through the crowd. He grabs a red menu flyer written in Chinese characters from a tiny elderly woman. There’s an English translation at the bottom. Year of the Dragon.

After searching for thirty minutes, we give up.

“That’s okay. I can drive us next week when there are fewer people.” I stroke his hand. His cheerleading calluses are rough against mine, and his warm skin protects my fingers from the freezing cold air.

“You’ll drive two hours one way for my soap?” He frowns.

I’d drive longer, but that’s an inside-the-mind thought. “Isn’t this America? If I burn enough gasoline on the highway, I should get my citizenship, right?”

His frown deepens.

Is it too much for a friend to do a four-hour return trip for a block of soap? I’d do it for Bryn and Monique. Of course, Monique’s family doesn’t do their own shopping, and Bryn steals Monique’s shower gels. But I’d drive Bryn two hours so she could commit petty theft. So, yes, that’s normal friend behavior.

Our interlaced hands beg to differ.

Fine, so I have a crush.

God forbid a girl has hobbies.

“JJ?”

Ah yes. I need to respond. Or deflect. “How about some food? I’m starving.”

We pick up some spring rolls. The woman hands them to Aang, speaking Chinese. I decipher something like hwung jin,22 but I don’t understand what it means. Neither does Aang, because he parts his mouth like a fish and freezes. I hand her the cash and drag him to the next food cart. We munch on fried sesame balls and steamed dumplings. I grab a slice of General Tso pizza. It has a sweet-and-spicy glaze instead of tomato sauce.

I extend it toward Aang. “You want some?”

“Ew, no.”

I shield the slice from him. “Why not?”

“General Tso isn’t even a proper Chinese dish. They don’t eat it there. So why is it here? And why is it in pizza form?”

“Maybe because it’s Chinese New Year in Boston.”

“It’s not authentic Chinese food.”

“I don’t think it’s trying to be. It’s probably more than happy being authentic Chinese American food.” I take another bite, and he winces. Why does he not appreciate what he has here? Not everyone gets the privilege of mixing cultures together. My fingers flatten the edge of the pizza crust. “We’re not in Hong Kong, and I don’t think anyone but you is trying to be.”

“But …” He spots someone behind me. “Huh?”

I turn around. The same guy who was at Brad’s party, Michael, is exiting a boba shop with three other kids our age. They stop laughing and drinking their bubble tea when they notice us in front of them.

Aang steps around me. “What are you all doing here?”

Michael and a girl in a red coat exchange a look. A short girl shifts from foot to foot while another guy plays with his boba straw.

Finally, Michael says, “We organized a CNY trip. What are you doing here?”

“I came to celebrate too.”

“Yeah? It must not be without its difficulties.” Michael slurps his bubble tea.

My eyes narrow. What is that supposed to mean?

Aang’s hands ball into fists. I’m still annoyed about the pizza, but I cough loudly, shifting the attention to me.

Michael’s face lights up. “Hey! It’s Aang’s girlfriend!”

The girls’ eyebrows shoot up their foreheads while my body gets heatstroke from its internal temperature. The red-coat girl eyes my pizza. “I see girlfriends are spared the torture of the General Tso chicken monologue.”

I shake my head. “No one’s spared the monologue.”

The girl cackles. “Have you gotten the lecture on the evils of Panda Express, or is it too early in the relationship for that?”

I open my mouth, but Aang grabs my arm. “See you all in class,” he tells them while pulling me down a different alley. The rest of the pizza slice slips out of my hand and lands on the sidewalk.

“Hey!” I shrug out of his hold. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m sorry.” He adjusts his glasses. “Just … we need to see part of the parade, right? It’ll finish soon.” He doesn’t meet my eyes and shoves his fidgeting hands into his pockets.

I purse my lips. A part of me wants to push, but I’m scared it’ll end in a fight, and we’ve fought enough for this lifetime. I want to enjoy the parade and find an excuse to hold hands again. So I let it go. “Okay. Let’s find a good spot.”

Five minutes later, sulfur tickles my nostrils and smoke stings my eyes as people dressed in yellow, red, and pink papier-mâché lion costumes dance and protect themselves from firecrackers on the ground.

“This is so cool!” I shout over the gongs and cymbals.

“Imagine how much better it must be in Hong Kong. The real thing.” Aang watches a pink lion creep closer to a child. The boy hides behind his dad, but the man only laughs. He crouches down and hugs his son, and together they stroke the lion’s head.

All of this looks pretty real to me, but I don’t have the option to respond, because Aang’s fingers snap around my wrist. A massive smile splits his face for the first time since we entered Chinatown. He points to a person carrying a red banner with Chinese characters on it. “I know what that means. That character. Right there. It’s at my grandmother’s altar.” I follow the direction of his finger and see 家.

“It’s pronounced ga. First tone.” His voice is pitched higher than normal. “It means family. Or home.” He squeezes my hand, the smile still there, but wistfulness creeps into it. The way he said family and home. Like they’re both a comfort and an ache.

I squeeze his hand back.

When the clock hits five, we decide to walk back to the park-and-ride lot.

We stroll and chat. I still need to choose a major for the pre-med track and can’t decide between biochemistry and bioengineering. He wants to live in San Francisco if he gets into Stanford. They have Cantonese immersion programs, and maybe he can find one for adults.

We don’t hold hands. But the back of his hand brushes the back of mine at every step. Each touch feels accidental, but there is more than enough space on the sidewalk, and he still stays this close.

He didn’t correct Michael when he said I was his girlfriend. Again.

Hope lights up in me. Maybe he doesn’t think it’s a crazy idea anymore. Although … weeks ago, he had me on his lap in my car and didn’t make a move to kiss me. Has cheerleading numbed him to the point that he thinks this amount of body contact isn’t a big deal? And why did he barely text me during Christmas break? Was he not replaying the car moment over and over again, trying to find a way to bring it up? Oh my god, did he really only hold my hand today to steer me through the crowd? Did Michael say girl friend instead of girlfriend?

I halt mid-step when I spot the first flag, and my Aang-related freak-out flies out of my brain.

White-and-red flags hang in rows from the buildings lining the street. A chill spreads through me when I realize where I am. I’ve been here before.

“Hey, that’s a Polish restaurant!” Aang grabs my hand, but this time, I feel no warmth. “We should go in! We can make it a Hong Kong–Polish day! And after, let’s find a Nigerian restaurant! Chinese–Polish–Nigerian day!” He pulls on my hand.

I don’t move my feet. I’m not going in there again. They’ll stare. They’ll point. They’ll make surprised faces when I speak Polish. I’ll explain I’m Polish and they’ll nod politely. But where are you really from?

And for a second, I will wish I were White, that I were blond, with straight hair and blue eyes, so that when I speak my language, the sound that is my home, I don’t have to explain how I know it. I don’t have to justify why I know it. And after that second, I will feel guilty. I will feel guilty toward my dad, toward the other half of me that I don’t know shit about except for the fact that Ibifubara means “good luck.”

Aang tugs on my hand. “Want to go in?”

No.

“We shouldn’t make more stops,” I say instead. “I have a long drive in front of me.”

“Okay.” He smiles at me. “We can come back another time? Maybe after we win Nationals? I wore the T-shirt, so now we have all the good luck we need to win.”

I nod, backing away from the restaurant.

In the car, Aang falls asleep, clutching the Year of the Dragon flyer. I drive, listening to a Thinking in English podcast.

19 魚

20 煲仔飯 (bōu jái faahn)

21 Money is not worth it.

22 黃金萬兩 (Cantonese: wòhng gām maahn léuhng). 黄金万两 (Mandarin: huáng jīn wàn liǎng). Loosely translates to a ton of gold.