Bitter Melon (23 page)

“Oh, it’s okay,” Theresa replies. “I wasn’t really that hungry today.”

That evening, Mom notices that the last banana is missing. Her solution to the problem is to deny me breakfast the following morning. That way, the number of calories for the week can remain the same.

The following afternoon, I notice that Theresa’s lunch, a thermos full of wonton noodle soup, is three times its usual size. I am able to eat to my heart’s delight and still leave enough food for her. By Wednesday, Theresa is inviting me over after school. Nellie is waiting at home, where she happens to have leftover rice, vegetables, meat dishes, and pastries waiting for me.

Unfortunately, this means that the numbers on my chart stay
almost the same week after week at my Saturday weigh-ins. This vexes Mom to no end, especially because she is hungry and losing weight. On the fourth week, she announces that she will cut lunch from my daily meal plan to see if that will help. Now when I see my face in the mirror, my cheeks really do seem swollen. When I turn to the side and inspect my belly, it does seem to protrude a little. My thighs seem to jiggle when I jump up and down. I wonder why I never noticed these flaws before.

In addition to the diet, Mom has added other features to my beauty plan. Every evening, she cuts a lemon in half and makes me rub it all over my face. This is supposed to get rid of acne. I don’t notice my acne getting better, but I do notice how much my skin stings afterwards, especially the pimples. I also notice how red and irritated my face is, which only makes my acne look worse.

Every now and then, Mom complains about my eyelids, which has caused me to have recurrent nightmares about botched surgeries. When I wake covered in sweat in the middle of the night, I comfort myself by touching my face and reminding myself that we are too poor to afford a plastic surgeon.

We have one more speech competition, the Saturday before Christmas break. Ms. Taylor has scheduled an after-school practice for today. I don’t want to go. What’s the point? Instead of focusing on my speech, I’ll be obsessing about my eyelids,
weight, and acne. I’ll be wondering if my audience is really listening to me or if they’re just counting my flaws. I’m reminded of this every day in speech, because I have class with Diana, the embodiment of everything I’m not. To make matters worse, Derek will be at the competition. Between him and my mother’s beauty regimen, my enjoyment of speech has been squeezed out.

It’s Friday morning. I’m at home, looking at myself in the bathroom mirror. I scrutinize my eyes. Do others think that I look disfigured because my eyelids have no crease? I cut skinny pieces of Scotch tape and apply one to each eyelid right above the lash line. It forces an unnatural crease to appear on each lid. Does this look better than no crease at all? Is this how my eyelids would look if I got them surgically fixed? It is certainly a safer alternative to surgery.

I walk into the kitchen for breakfast. Mom has already left for work. Sitting at my place setting on the kitchen table is my green banana. I gulp it down quickly, so as not to taste it. Then I go to the fridge to get my sack lunch. My chart, which is still stuck to the fridge, mocks me. I can’t stand looking at those numbers. I jerk open the fridge door, only to see an empty shelf. That’s when I remember that Mom is no longer making me lunch.

That afternoon, I do a run-through of my updated speech in Ms. Taylor’s room. Now that Mom has decided that I will be
a TV newscaster, I’ve had to change my lines about becoming a doctor. Normally, Ms. Taylor smiles after my delivery. This time, however, she frowns slightly.

“Frances, I keep feeling like something’s missing,” Ms. Taylor says. “You’re saying all the right words in the right order, but your spirit is missing from those words.”

Ms. Taylor has done so much for me. I shouldn’t disappoint her. “Sorry,” I say, trying to muster more enthusiasm. “I’ll try harder.”

Ms. Taylor’s frown deepens. Then she beckons me over. I drag my feet to a desk next to hers and plop myself down. Ms. Taylor places her hand over mine. Her pale hands are soft and cool.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

I want to tell her, but how? Where can I start? I sigh and look down. Ms. Taylor startles. I look up to see what’s wrong. Her face registers alarm.

“Frances?” she says. “Am I mistaken or are you wearing Scotch tape on your eyelids?”

Embarrassed, I look down again, but I know that that only makes the tape more obvious. I turn red and hot right up to my ears. Too mortified to speak, I nod.

“I’ve noticed some other Asian girls doing that lately. Why?”

“It’s because … we don’t have folds in our eyelids.”

“What are you talking about?”

“See?” I pull the tape off my right eyelid. The adhesive stings and makes my eyes water. I blink and show her. “See how one eyelid has a crease and the other doesn’t?”

Ms. Taylor looks closely. “Oh. I never noticed that before.”

“Don’t you think the right one looks weird?”

“No. In fact, I think it looks better than the left one, because it looks real.”

“That’s just a nice way of saying that it’s ugly and that it looks even uglier with the tape.”

“Frances! I’ve never heard you talk like this before.”

Uh-oh. Did I overstep my bounds? “Sorry,” I say.

“No, I like it. You’re challenging me,” Ms. Taylor says. “That means I’ve done my job. Let’s examine this further. Go on.”

“I’m five feet four and a hundred twenty-seven pounds, and I have a thirty-inch waist. I have freckles and acne,” I say.

Ms. Taylor rolls her eyes. “First of all, you are not fat,” she says. “Second, who in high school has never had acne? Third, no one can see your freckles unless they’re close up. Besides, what’s wrong with freckles? I have freckles.”

I do a double take of Ms. Taylor’s face. Up close, if I look carefully, I can see a light dust of cinnamon freckles across her cheeks and nose. Why didn’t I notice them before? I’m embarrassed now. I hope I didn’t insult her.

“You can get away with them,” I say. “At least you’re pretty. I’ll never look like those girls in
Seventeen
or
Cosmo
or those female anchors on TV.”

“Why do you need to look like those people?” she asks.

I open my mouth to speak, but I cannot supply a good answer. The more I try to explain, the more ridiculous I feel.

Ms. Taylor sighs. “Frances,” she says, “I hate to say it, but in
many cases, you’re right. A lot of people do care about superficial things. But you don’t have to buy into that just because they do. Okay?”

I grasp at Ms. Taylor’s words as though clawing through a mist, feeling its cool moisture but unable to grip it with my hand.

I do not want Mom to weigh me right before my competition. It will only destroy my confidence. At the same time, I do not want to get into a fight with her. Mom’s hysterics were bad enough right before my first competition. I don’t need a repeat performance.

Instead, I neglect to mention that my competition is this Saturday. I wake before Mom does so that I am dressed and ready to go by the time she has pulled out the scale. Then I casually mention that the competition is today. She scowls at me. I make myself look flustered and disorganized, sorry that not only had I forgotten to tell her, I had even forgotten that I had forgotten. After all, what is she going to do about it, stop me from winning another trophy and hinder me from moving one step closer to a TV news anchor position?

“We’ll do it tomorrow,” she finally says.

I eagerly agree and slip out the door.

The December competition is at Washington High School, just a block from home. As I walk there, I give myself a pep talk. Maybe Diana is prettier than I am, but that doesn’t make her a better person. She can’t speak as well as I can. Her grades, though good, aren’t as good as mine. Besides, who needs a
boyfriend, anyway? Ms. Taylor is single, and she’s intelligent, beautiful, and happy.

It takes me a while to find the meeting room, which is located in the school library, but once I do, I join Ms. Taylor, Salome, and Diana. Diana scans the room anxiously. Several minutes later, Derek arrives. My heart jumps from my chest to my throat. Diana gazes at Derek. Derek stares at me. I look away. Then Diana squeals, runs towards him, and throws her arms around him, almost knocking him over. They remind me of an octopus smothering a scuba diver. Ms. Taylor looks a bit uncomfortable. Salome rolls her eyes.

I used to see Diana as this poised dancer, a swan gliding across a still lake. Now all I see is a gawking, squawking goose. Feeling embarrassed for them, I look away again, only to see the other person I least want to see today: Sally Meehan, the dreaded red-haired girl.

Fortunately, I am able to pass two rounds without having to face Derek or Sally. After the second round, my stomach is growling. I follow the scent of hot dogs to the cafeteria and get in line to buy, only to realize at the head of the line that I don’t have any money for lunch.

“Two, please,” says someone behind me. It’s Derek. He reaches over me and hands some cash to the girl selling the hot dogs. She gives him two hot dogs and he hands me one.

My pride tells me to reject the hot dog, but hunger takes over. “Thanks,” I say.

Derek looks around the room and motions for me to follow him. We leave the cafeteria, pass a trophy case, and continue out of the building. Derek leads me to a set of bleachers facing a track field, where we sit down. Though it is sunny, the air feels cold. Even my hot dog is turning cold. We eat in silence as we watch sprinters and casual joggers run along the track.

“Can I ask you a question?” Derek says.

“Sure.”

“Why did you give me a fake number?”

It takes a few seconds for his question to sink in. “What are you talking about?”

“When we exchanged numbers, on the last day of Princeton Review, you gave me a fake.”

“No I didn’t.”

“I called you,” Derek says. “The woman who answered said that there was no one there by the name of Frances.”

“Could you have dialed wrong?” I say.

“That’s what I thought at first, so I called again,” Derek says. “The same lady answered the phone again and told me to stop calling.”