Bitter Melon (19 page)

After speech class, I approach Ms. Taylor. I tell her about how I ended up in her class by mistake, about how I loved it and couldn’t leave. I tell her about my mother’s plans for me and about how I had hidden speech from her, how that blew up in my face last night, and how that precludes my involvement in this Friday’s competition. I leave out that I ditched Princeton Review to rehearse with her. I also leave out that Mom beat me with my trophy.

I brace myself for Ms. Taylor’s reaction. Will she be angry, hurt, disgusted? I’ve never seen her upset before and am frightened of what that might be like.

Ms. Taylor blinks a few times. Then she takes a slow, deep breath. “Well, that’s dedication,” she says, more to herself than to me. I can’t tell if she is referring to my dedication to speech or my dedication to my mother.

“It was wrong of me not to tell you sooner. I accept whatever consequences come my way,” I blurt out.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Frances,” Ms. Taylor says.

“If you decide to kick me out or flunk me or report me to the principal, I totally understand,” I say.

Ms. Taylor waves away my proposed punishments with her hand. “Don’t worry about any of that,” she says. “I’m not upset. I can see why you did what you did. I feel honored that you trust me enough to tell me the truth.”

She’s not mad at me? What has gotten into her?

“Honesty is the best policy, but keep your actions in perspective. There are worse offenses,” Ms. Taylor says. She places her
warm, gentle hand on my back. She’s silent, deep in thought, for about a minute. Finally, she turns to me and says, “It seems a shame not to compete, after how hard you’ve worked. Just come and rehearse anyway.”

“But—”

“I’ll talk to your mother. She has your best interest at heart. If she doesn’t approve of speech, then it’s because she doesn’t understand its value. It’s perfectly natural for people to fear what they don’t understand. I’m positive she’ll turn around once I explain what you’re doing.”

I have a vague suspicion that despite Ms. Taylor’s good intentions, her intervention may make things worse instead of better.

“Don’t worry, Frances. Everything’s going to be all right.” Ms. Taylor squeezes my forearm as a gesture of reassurance. She doesn’t realize that she is squeezing my bruises from last night, bruises that I have hidden underneath my sweater sleeves. I fight the urge to wince as tears flood my eyes.

All afternoon, I can’t concentrate on my studies. I keep expecting Ms. Taylor to call. But she doesn’t. By five o’clock, I start to suspect that maybe she has changed her mind. I am simultaneously relieved and disappointed.

Then, at 5:07, the doorbell rings. I run to the window. It’s Ms. Taylor. I buzz her up the stairs. Assuming that it is Theresa,
Mom opens the door. Instead of Theresa, she sees Ms. Taylor smiling back at her, right hand extended for a shake. I stand behind Mom, peering over her shoulder.

“Hi, I’m Shannon Taylor, Frances’s teacher. I wanted to talk to you about Frances. Do you have a moment? May I come in?”

Afraid of appearing rude to a teacher, Mom lets Ms. Taylor in. As the two shake hands, I notice for the first time how young Ms. Taylor looks. Next to me and my classmates, she looks grown up, poised, and in control. In contrast, next to Mom, she looks eccentric and naïve, with her rhinestone cat-eye glasses, violet velvet shirt, and black boots.

“Very nice to meet you,” Mom says, her voice and smile saccharine.

“Oh, it’s an honor to finally meet you in person,” gushes Ms. Taylor. “How well students do is often a reflection of parental support, and Frances is such a stellar student.”

She’s hitting all the right targets. Maybe this won’t go as badly as I think.

“Would you like something to eat, some tea?” Mom says.

“No thanks. I just ate.” Ms. Taylor looks at me. I shake my head ever so slightly. “But tea would be lovely,” she adds.

I show Ms. Taylor to the couch. Then I join Mom in the kitchen to prepare the tea as she cuts oranges. She pulls out the
long jeng cha
, her most expensive tea, used only when special guests come over. She sprinkles the wrinkled dried leaves and pours boiling water into her special clay teapot from Li Hing in eastern China. As the tea brews, Mom gets out the egg roll
cookies and lays them on a fancy plate. We bring the food and tea to Ms. Taylor and sit on hard fold-out chairs. Mom pours Ms. Taylor’s tea first.

“Wow, that smells amazing!” Ms. Taylor says.

“It’s a special tea from Hong Kong. One bag costs a hundred dollars,” Mom says. I’m embarrassed that Mom would flaunt how much she spends on a guest.

“Oh! I’m so honored that you’re sharing this with me. Thank you.” Ms. Taylor inhales the steam and takes a tentative sip. “Mm, it’s so fragrant.”

“Be careful,” Mom says. “If you drink it too fast, you might burn yourself.” Mom emphasizes the word
burn
and stares at Ms. Taylor in a way that sends chills up my spine.

Our couch is so old that Ms. Taylor is sinking in it. Her bottom is probably half a foot off the floor. When Nellie sits in it, she looks like Humpty Dumpty in an egg crate, but Ms. Taylor is so petite that she looks like she’s being swallowed.

“First, I have to take responsibility for Frances’s involvement in speech,” Ms. Taylor says. “Frances meant to attend calculus class and ended up in my class by mistake. She was too polite to walk out in the middle of class, and silly me, I just added her to my list of students. I didn’t even think to check with her or her counselor.

“But you know, I must confess that even had I known that she wasn’t supposed to be in my class, I wouldn’t have wanted her to leave, because she has such a special gift. Her writing skills are excellent, and she has stage presence, charisma. Her
delivery style has that perfect balance between sophistication and authenticity.”

I look down at the floor, pleased and embarrassed by her glowing praise.

“Straight As and high SATs are a dime a dozen these days,” Ms. Taylor continues. “What really sets one student apart from another is her extracurricular activities. Colleges aren’t just interested in bookworms. They want to know if the student is well rounded. Speech definitely wins brownie points in the area of extracurricular activities. Without it, Frances’s chances of getting into Berkeley would not be as strong, even if she had taken calculus.”

Mom lets out a small gasp. “Really?”

“I’m serious. Anyway, I’m here tonight to invite you to attend Frances’s next competition.”

Mom startles at Ms. Taylor’s invitation.

“Again, I have to take responsibility,” Ms. Taylor says. “Frances really respects your authority, and she told me that she had to withdraw from this contest, but I told her to stick it out. I want you to see what she can do, Mrs. Ching. If you just saw her, you would feel so proud.” Ms. Taylor’s eyes are glistening with emotion. “This is no ordinary competition. It’s the Chinese American Association’s first ever speech tournament. Frances has the opportunity to make history.”

“Really?” Mom says again, quietly.

“Yes. And do you know who’s going to be on the judging panel?”

“Who?”

“Wendy Tokuda, Emerald Yeh, and David Louie, just to name a few.”

Mom watches the news and recognizes the names of these TV journalists. She has fallen under Ms. Taylor’s spell—I hope.

“Imagine how that would look on her curriculum vitae. Wouldn’t it be a shame if she had to miss it? Wouldn’t it be a shame if
you
had to miss it?” Ms. Taylor pauses, letting Mom soak this up. “Theresa’s competing too. It would definitely be a shame if Frances couldn’t join her.”

That pretty much clinches the win. If Theresa got an opportunity that I didn’t get, Mom would never be able to live it down.

“Anyway, I have to go now, but can I count on you to be there with Frances tomorrow?” Ms. Taylor’s bright eyes shine on Mom like a spotlight.

Mom smiles sweetly. “Of course.”

“Excellent.” Ms. Taylor rises and holds out her hand. Mom shakes it. “Again, it is such a pleasure meeting you.” Mom nods and bows slightly. Taking that to be a cultural gesture, Ms. Taylor bows too. Responding to Ms. Taylor’s gesture, Mom bows lower, and Ms. Taylor does the same, still clutching Mom’s hand. Once past the doorway, Ms. Taylor bows one last time and departs.

As Mom closes the door, she mutters, “Idiot. She thinks we’re Japanese.”

My heart falls. Does that mean that Mom was lying to Ms. Taylor, that I can’t compete?

“Look at how she dresses,” Mom says. “Those showy glasses, that hippie shirt, those giant, punky boots. What kind of teacher is that? That’s someone who doesn’t take herself seriously. If she doesn’t take herself seriously, how can her students take school seriously?”

What she is saying about Ms. Taylor is untrue and unfair. But Mom is relentless. “And her manners, so nicey-nicey, so fake. She barely even drank my tea. How wasteful, not to finish a hundred-dollar tea. And she didn’t even eat my oranges, after I went through all the trouble slicing them.”

Ms. Taylor probably took Mom’s words and actions at face value. She’s probably driving home right now, thinking that the meeting went well, not realizing all the trash Mom is talking about her.

“I sensed all along that something in you had changed. Now I know where the source of that change lies. You’re so foolish, lying to me to follow her. How you squander your trust. But she’s not on your side, Fei Ting.”

A chilly fear runs down my spine. At the same time, I feel impatient. Am I competing or not?

“But she has a point,” Mom says. “I believe she was telling the truth about the benefits of this speech thing you’re doing. I know of the Chinese American Association. Nellie’s husband is a member. It would be good for you to attend. You don’t realize it now, but this woman is using you. But that’s okay. We can use her back. We’ll go tomorrow. That will make us even.”

I fight to contain my excitement. I get to compete tomorrow!

“Hopefully, she’s not exaggerating your talent and you won’t make a fool of yourself,” Mom adds. “And if you don’t get into Berkeley, you’ll have yourself and her to blame.”

Her last sentence punctures some of my enthusiasm. Speaking in front of Mom will be harder than speaking in front of strangers. What if I totally mess up? It will provide her with endless ammunition for humiliating me.

But I can’t think about that now. I have a chance to compete. I must rise to the occasion.

Nellie is driving Theresa, Mom, and me. I’m wearing what has become my speech uniform: black flats, black tights, a black sheath skirt, and a white button-down long-sleeved blouse. Theresa is wearing a similar outfit, only hers has white tights and a brown pleated skirt. Mom is wearing her respectable work clothes: camel slacks and a lavender cardigan sweater. Nellie is wearing her favorite outfit: a hot pink jogging suit with black jaguar patterns. Her over-permed hair looks like an Afro.

Nellie drops us off to search for parking. Theresa, Mom, and I step out into the whipping night wind and then into the Chinese American Association Building on Stockton Street in Chinatown. It’s a big, heavy-looking building with two big doors out front. Mom struggles to open one, and Theresa has to help her.

The inside of the building reminds me of a large church. It is austere, with a high ceiling and yellow chandelier lighting. There are rows of metal fold-out chairs facing the stage, with an aisle down the middle. In front of the chairs is a long metal fold-out table, where the judges are seated. It’s hard to recognize them from behind, but as they turn their heads to speak to each other, I can tell they’re Emerald Yeh and Wendy Tokuda.
Off to the side are TV cameras from Channel 26 and journalists with cameras from the Chinese newspaper. The sight of famous people and cameras causes a lump to form in my already constricted throat. Mom notices them too. A sparkle flickers in her eyes. On an adjacent table are the large, medium, and small trophies, indicating first, second, and third place respectively.

Several feet in front of the judging panel is the stage. It’s huge, elevated so that climbing onto it would be impossible. There are twelve chairs forming a half circle. This will be different from the state tournaments, where we can sit back in anonymity until it is time for us to compete. Like Ms. Taylor said, we’ll be herded in like cows, then lined up like prisoners for the firing squad. Theresa and I look at each other and simultaneously swallow.