Bitter Melon (30 page)

“Oh, I’ll be attending Harvard this fall,” Derek replies. “Then I’ll probably go to law school and eventually join their firm. In the meantime, I vent by winning contests speaking out against what they do—all the way to nationals.”

“Does your family know what your speech is about?”

“No. It’s my own dark secret.”

“So you’re living a double life,” I say. “Speech is where you can be a better version of yourself. Like Clark Kent versus Superman.”

Derek nods.

“I understand,” I say. “But what if your family is like a small, cramped house, and what if speech is a window giving you a view to the outside? What if, one day, that window opened and you could just fly out?”

Derek reaches for my hand. His is hot and dry. In contrast, mine is embarrassingly cold and clammy. I think he will pull his hand away, but instead, he rubs my fingers to warm them.

After dinner, we walk hand in hand back up the hill to Derek’s car. By now, the sun is beginning to set. Derek turns towards the ocean and points to a labyrinth of rocky paths that are partly submerged in water.

“That’s the Sutro Baths,” he tells me. “It was this huge swimming facility that burned down years ago.” I try to imagine how the building must have looked when each rock path was the foundation of a wall. “And there are some cool caves over there,” he says, pointing to the right of the baths. “I’ll take you there sometime.”

The wind whips my hair in all directions. Derek brushes my hair out of my face and rests his palm against my cheek. His eyes pierce into mine. He leans in and touches his lips to mine. They are soft and hot, just like his hands. At that moment, I no longer feel the cold of the wind. The roar and crash of the waves go silent. So do my thoughts. So do my worries and everything that has ever made me unhappy.

Derek drives me to the St. Francis hotel. From the parking lot, we walk towards the banquet hall, where the loud bass vibrates
against my chest. The entry is decorated with gold and white balloons.

A long line of people snakes from the entrance to the banquet hall, where the prom is held. My eyes travel to the head of the line, where a couple is posing for pictures. The photographer is cracking jokes to make them smile before snapping his flash. I imagine myself posing before the camera with Derek’s arm wrapping around me.

“Let’s dance first,” Derek says. “We can take pictures later, when the line is shorter.”

As we pass the photo line, a few of the girls gawk at my dress. Suddenly, I become hyperaware of my large round white lace collars and the shortness of my hem. In fact, out of all the girls here, I have on the shortest dress. I become paranoid that my underwear is showing. I consider excusing myself to the restroom to check, but decide against it. If it is indeed showing, there is nothing I can do about it, so it is best not to know.

On the way to the banquet hall, Derek is greeted by his friends. He introduces me to each of them, even Dave, the friend who took him to the Chinese restaurant. Inside the banquet hall, there are round tables and chairs lining the periphery of the room. At the center of the room is a large dance floor. The room is dimly lit, just bright enough so that you can see everyone in their formal attire.

It is then that I notice that the disco lighting makes my white lace collars glow neon violet. Embarrassed, I cover them with my hands.

Derek leads me past the tables to the dance floor. I feel awkward, hearing the thumping beat of the bass and not knowing how to dance to it. I look around to see how others are dancing. They just bob up and down, not touching each other. Derek peels my hands from my collars and begins moving as though dancing to a big band song. He doesn’t worry about not looking like the others. I decide to let go and let him swing me. He spins me around counterclockwise and then clockwise. As my body becomes warmer, the mothball scent in my dress becomes even stronger. I hope that the distance between us is wide enough that he can’t smell it. We dance several songs like this, never stopping to catch our breath.

Eventually, a slow song comes on. Derek slowly brings me towards him until our bellies are touching. At first, I am self-conscious about the mothball smell and the sweat dripping down my back. Then I notice that the back of his coat is also warm and damp. Though my dress is drenched, he does not move his hand or shrink away from me. A thin line of sweat runs down his cheek in front of his ear. And to my utter relief, the perfume in his deodorant is actually overpowering my mothball smell. We are perfect in our collective imperfection.

Just as I think this, we bump into a couple behind Derek. Derek turns around and so does the boy we bumped into. He is a heavyset Asian with metal-framed glasses. He is wearing a dark suit and a boutonniere of white roses that are red at the tips. He looks strangely familiar.

“Hey, Derek!” shouts the boy over the music.

“Alfred!” Derek replies.

Alfred. Immediately, my body tenses up.

Derek and Alfred shake hands.

“Hey, I want you to meet Frances,” Derek says to Alfred.

As Alfred offers his hand, he squints and frowns, as though reading through a foggy lens. “Have we met before?” he asks me.

“No, I don’t think so,” I say, shaking his hand firmly, to communicate certainty.

“So, who’s your date?” Derek asks Alfred.

“Oh, uh …” Alfred turns around and steps aside. “This is Theresa,” Alfred announces. “Theresa, this is Derek and, uh, Frances.”

Theresa is wearing the exact knee-length slim-fitting navy blue velvet dress that I picked out for her at Macy’s. She is wearing matching pumps. A corsage of white rosebuds with red tips decorates her dress. Her thick black hair, which is clipped back with a matching rosebud barrette, cascades past her shoulders in long, loose tendrils. I’ve always thought of Theresa as childlike, but suddenly she looks glamorous and sophisticated—unlike me in my sixties minidress and white collars.

But what is most striking about her is how she is staring back at me, her eyes wide and her mouth in an
O
of shock.

I paste on a smile. “Hi,” I say.

Theresa’s mouth slowly closes. Her round eyes narrow.

“Well, good to see you,” Alfred says. He turns his back to us and continues slow dancing with Theresa. Derek puts his arms around me, and we start swaying again. But I’m unable to melt back into my previous happy state.

“What’s the matter?” Derek asks.

“Can we take a break?” I say.

Derek guides me off the dance floor to one of the round tables. We both sit down. I turn my seat so my back is facing the dance floor.

“What’s wrong?” Derek asks again.

“Nothing,” I say. Then I ask if we can leave.

“Now? Don’t you want to stay for the last dance?”

“I don’t feel too well.”

Derek looks disappointed, but he goes along with my request. On the way home, my heart is fraught with worry. How will I repair my friendship with Theresa? Will she squeal on me to my mom? A couple of times, Derek asks me if I’m feeling okay. I tell him that I just have a bad headache but it’s getting better.

When Derek turns onto Balboa, I ask him to stop a couple
of blocks away from my apartment. Derek turns off the engine and gazes at me. He is expecting me to get out of the car and go home. Mom is expecting me not to come home. What to do now?

“Derek, I have a confession to make,” I say.

“Don’t tell me you have another boyfriend.”

I smile. “No. My mom doesn’t know that I’m at the prom with you. She thinks that I’m spending the night with a friend.” I conveniently leave out that the friend is Theresa.

“So she would wonder why you were coming home when you’re supposed to be at your friend’s house,” Derek says.

I nod. Derek rubs his chin and frowns.

“How about this?” he says. “Let’s just hang out for the night and I’ll drop you off in the morning.”

“Are you sure?” I ask. “You won’t get in trouble with your parents?”

“I can just tell them that I was hanging out with friends,” he replies. “That’s what I did last year and they didn’t mind.”

Last year? Who did he take to the prom last year? I suppress my jealousy and force myself to think of something else.

“What will we do all night?”

“Let’s play it by ear. I’ll surprise you.”

Derek drives me towards Downtown. He then makes a turn into the tunnel leading to Chinatown. Derek keeps driving until I no longer recognize my surroundings. I see a tall, skinny, loud blinking sign showing a scantily clad blond woman. She has two red blinking lights where her nipples would be. I look
away and blush. There are a lot of Western restaurants and cafés brimming with people. They remind me of Paris, though I’ve never been to Paris.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“North Beach,” he replies. “You’ve never been?” He sounds surprised. I shake my head, embarrassed by my ignorance. Though I’ve heard of North Beach, I’ve never thought of San Francisco as consisting of more than Richmond, Sunset, Downtown, and Chinatown.

As we pass certain restaurants and landmarks, Derek tells me stories about them. Some stories are personal, like the one about where his dad proposed to his mom. Other stories are historic or legendary.

Derek manages to find parking, and he takes me to a café for a cappuccino and a dessert called tiramisu. I’ve never had coffee before. I feel deliciously naughty, like I’m having a beer or a cigarette.

Afterwards, we get back in the car, and Derek drives me to the top of a very steep hill. As I look down, I notice that the street is composed of a series of hairpin turns. As Derek drives down slowly, it dawns on me that we are going down Lombard Street, the famous “crookedest street in the world.” Until now, I’ve seen it only on postcards. I can hardly believe that this street is lined with houses. I try to imagine what it is like for the residents to bring their groceries home every week. Once we reach the bottom of the hill, we continue north until we get to the water. Derek points out Ghirardelli Square,
Fisherman’s Wharf, Pier 39, and the Bay Bridge. Everything glitters with yellow lights that sparkle like jewelry. He finds a place to park and we walk along Pier 39, even though it’s closed and deserted, even though it’s cold. Derek lets me wear his jacket. He puts his arm around me to help me keep warm. We stay at the pier, where the sea lions hang out, and watch the sun rise.

Derek drives me back to the Richmond District. We have breakfast at Mel’s Diner. I order pancakes. Derek orders bacon and eggs. We both order coffee. My eyelids are heavy, but my heart is still giving off fireworks. I can’t tell if it’s from the coffee or from being with Derek.

After breakfast, Derek drives me home. We park along 32nd Avenue between Balboa and Cabrillo.

“Thanks,” I say.

Derek grabs my hand. “Is your mom home?” he asks.

I shake my head. “She’s working,” I reply. “Why?”

“I want to see your place,” he says.

On one hand, I’m excited that he is curious about where I live. On the other hand, I’m worried about what he’ll think. He drives a BMW. He probably doesn’t live in a dilapidated one-bedroom apartment.