Girl Overboard (33 page)

Striding toward me now is a man on a mission to save his job.

“Hey, hey, Syrah Cheng,” Ralph of RhamiWare says, and I can’t help but replay his snub in my head, how I was too much of a liability to contemplate being sponsored. Ever. Now, with the full-force of the Cheng family behind me, not to mention with the camera crews and journalists teeming, I’ve proved that I can draw a crowd. And according to Ralph’s accounting, that catapults me to asset status.

Age has a point about keeping snowboarding pure; it’s a passion, not a job. Once you’re on the payroll, you become a corporate marketing tool, a cherished one so long as you’re good for the bottom line. If I doubted it before, now I’ve got confirmation. I don’t need a sponsorship, or want it, if this is the measure of success.

So when Ralph says, “We need to talk about getting you on the Am-ster team,” I know exactly how to answer his offer to join RhamiWare’s amateur riding team.

“Thank you so much, but I’m going in another direction,” I tell Ralph in my yes-but-oh-aren’t-I-polite-when-I-say-no way. As The Ethan Cheng Way points out, never burn bridges, especially when I’ve got the second annual Ride for Our Lives to plan, and guess who I’m going to hit up for an even more generous contribution?

“Really?” Ralph looks crestfallen.

I gesture to Mobey and B.J. “But I have two friends you really ought to watch.” My walkie-talkie crackles and Meghan’s familiar voice beckons: “Eaglet, fly home. Roger that?” Smiling, I respond, “Roger. Eaglet is on her way.”

The best charitable events,
Mama explained to me when we called on the Dillingers a week ago, are the ones that build to an emotional pitch. They connect people to the cause and show how their participation matters. And that tiny, minuscule little task is what I’m supposed to accomplish with my speech.

Watching my parents kick off the event from the side of the stage with me is Lillian, who is so green, she matches her beanie. My hands are slick as footage of Amanda rolls, ending with a close-up of her big hazel eyes. The crowd applauds, so loud I have to cover my ears.

“Lillian, you’re up,” hisses Grace.

“Oh, God,” Lillian mutters. Looking as panic-stricken as I feel, Lillian begs, “Go out there with me.”

“Nope, it’s your moment,” I tell her.

Naturally, Lillian is flawless as she talks about how important it is for her little sister, who just wants to be able to snowboard, to get a bone marrow transplant. From where I stand, I can already see a couple of people breaking off to wait in line at the Bone Marrow Registry tent. I hate to say this, but Lillian has just jeopardized her newspaper career. She’s got future anchorwoman written all over her.

“And now,” Lillian says, grinning, “I am privileged to introduce the girl who started this all, Syrah Cheng!”

If I thought that toast at Baba’s birthday party was bad, it’s nothing compared to making a fool of myself in front of thirty million viewers, more if I have the right sound byte.

“Omigod, Grace,” I mumble.

“Go,” says Grace, all no-nonsense, and she gives me a gentle but brisk push that would make Bao-mu proud. As I step onstage, she whispers into my ear, “You’re going to do great… Mei-Mei.”

Mei-Mei.
At last I hear that word. Two syllables, one sound, that’s all, yet that “little sister” propels me onstage with pride and confidence as I approach Lillian and my parents, who are waiting for me.

My eyes skim this vast audience collected here in the DiaComm parking lot—the Leongs in the front, kids from my school, my crew—and land on Jared. From the stage, I can feel his hunger and remember what he’s coveted:
I want that final. I want that podium.
Funny, isn’t it, that it’s me, Syrah Cheng, who’s standing at this podium.

With a shock, I realize it’s not so funny, because I belong up here.

My words, my ideas, and my actions—those are what I want my legacy to be, not my snowboarding. Here’s the thing, my grandfather was killed in the Cultural Revolution for his words because they were that powerful. I pause, filling my lungs with the cold, clean winter air, before I share my words: “It took a three-year-old spitfire to teach me the difference between being a victim and being a victor.” When the applause stops, I talk about how with one insignificant test, we can make a significant difference in someone’s life. “Hundreds of people are waiting right now for a bone marrow match. Think about it. They could be waiting for you.” As I look toward the tent where an even longer line is now queuing, I say, “Thank you so much for getting tested today. In tandem with Ride for Our Lives, blood banks are open in San Francisco, Los Angeles, Chicago, and New York, waiting for people to register.”

Unscripted, my parents come to stand on either side of me. Baba, future telecommunications ambassador to Asia, announces, “The same is true in the major cities throughout Asia: Tokyo, Taipei, Hong Kong, Seoul, Shanghai, and Beijing. Blood banks will be open during business hours for the simple test.”

My eyes are wide with shock, especially after Mama takes the podium and adds, “The Cheng Foundation will pay for all costs to register on the bone marrow database, regardless of race or color, for the next thirty days.”

“You’re kidding me,” I whisper, my eyes filling up with tears. “I had no idea.”

My parents beam at me, leaving an empty space in front of the podium for me. Instead of panicking since I haven’t prepared, I remember Grace’s advice on speeches. Hook them with a great first line and end with a bang.

“You know,” I say, “this great woman—who happens to be my beautiful and brilliant sister, Grace—says, ‘If you’re going to do something, do it big. And do it right.’ That’s The Grace Cheng Way. So please help us do something. Let’s do it big and do it right, and find that donor for Amanda.”

Under the flash attack by the photographers, I bolt out of my inner circle onstage and grab Grace’s hand, hissing at her, “If I’m getting photographed, so are you,” and drag her with me to stand in the middle of Mama, Baba, and Lillian. Afterward, I ask one of the photographers, “Could you please send me a copy for my scrapbook?”

“Make that two copies,” says Mama before she goes hand-in-hand with Baba to the bone marrow registry station, where they stand in line to get their DNA tested with a cheek swab.

A tune debuting from
the new Mack Dawg snowboarding video soundtrack—Grace’s brilliant idea—crescendos, signaling the start of the jam session. In groups of ten, the snowboarders take two runs each with Erik Johanson, Jared’s big brother, kicking off the session to deafening cheers.

Snowboarder after snowboarder hits the rail, riding it from its kinked edge to the rounded staircase rail in the midsection and ending on the up-and-down ledge. The veterans are all doing something cool, but the best thing is that they’re having a great time and all for a good cause. I mean, they’re smiling even when they fall. It’s the same way Age snowboards, as if there’s nothing more important than enjoying the ride. When was the last time I felt that way, or the last time I allowed myself to just revel in the moment instead of chasing after my pro-riding dreams?

The Boys can’t believe the tricks that all these riders are throwing down. They keep gripping my arm and asking, “Can you do that?” and “What about that one?”

Honestly, I’ve got to laugh. All these guys, who live and breathe snowboarding, are in a totally different league from me. Honestly, I was always good, but not good enough to go pro. And that’s perfectly fine, because I’m good enough for me.

The event winds down
to the amateur jam session, where local kids are invited to have a go on the rails for a donation. I wave to Mobey and B.J., who are heading my way, looking as pumped as the old guard.

“Where’s your board?” asks Mobey, pausing in front of me and my parents.

“I’m on hostess duty, so I’m living through you guys today. You better be good,” I tell my crew of two.

“Chengs don’t live vicariously,” says Mama, horrified.

“Excuse me?” I say.

“Take your snowboard,” says Mama.

“My snowboard?”

Materializing next to me is Meghan, holding a new Vera Wang snowboard. Who would have thought that a designer known for her couture bridal gowns could fashion something as kicking as this iridescent mother-of-pearl snowboard? “Mama,” I gasp as the snowboard shimmers in the light, “this is gorgeous.”

“Betty,” says Baba, his mouth turned down into the “no” position.

“Oh, Ethan,” says Mama, touching his arm and smiling winningly up at him. “Nothing in this world is totally safe. You run more risks gallivanting around the world without a bodyguard.”

“I don’t know about that,” says Baba, somewhat sheepishly, but he nods his approval at me.

What Age told me was true; when it comes down to it, I don’t need my parents’ blessing to do anything I truly want. Not really. But their unspoken “yes” feels awfully good.

It’s my turn on
deck, and as I trudge my way up the stairs on the scaffolding to the top of the ramp, my name—Go, Syrah! Go, Syrah!—reverberates, more war cry than chant, thanks to The Boys, whose arms are thrashing in the air with each syllable.

“You pack your own cheering squad, Sarah?” asks the official at the top of the ramp, squinting at the name badge around my neck.

“Syrah,” I correct him. “As in my dad’s favorite wine.”

His eyes widen at his gaffe. “You’re Ethan Cheng’s kid?”

“And Betty Cheng’s.”

The yelling below gets louder, if that’s possible. The Boys have progressed from waving their arms to full-body slamming each other, and I can almost hear Auntie Marnie threatening them if they move one more time, they’re banished to the car. Jocelyn and Auntie Yvonne have unfurled a banner with my name on it, and behind them, on their own bench, sit Mama, Baba, Grace, and Mochi. First thing this morning, Bao-mu called, telling me, “You do great! Tell everybody, just get tested for blood. It only cotton swab. They not feel.” I’m at peace with Wayne’s absence, knowing that whatever he’s dealing with are his issues, not mine. Age’s no-show is harder to accept, maybe because it’s my issues that are keeping him away.

Now that the official at the top of the ramp with me knows who I am, he looks uncomfortable, like he’s in the presence of a social better. Here’s the thing. Even with my trust fund, I’m just a girl, no better or worse than any other.

So I read his name tag, meet his eyes and tell him, not unctuous, not condescending, but truthfully, “Hey, Scott, thanks for helping today.”

“You’re welcome,” says the official, flattered that I noticed him. Isn’t that all we want? To be noticed and needed?

When the wind picks that moment to rush hard at me, knocking off the official’s cap, I hear Bao-mu:
See, that sign. You, survivor, just like your name.
I’m not the Old Syrah anymore; I left her somewhere up in Whistler. And I’m not Shiraz; as cute as she was, she’s only a paper doll when it comes right down to it. The New Syrah is stronger, wiser. A sweet, savory and sassy survivor.

“You ready?” Scott asks, his eyes meeting mine.

Am I ready? My hands are sweaty. I feel like I’m going to pass out, since my family is watching below, never mind some of the pro riders who are curious about all the amateur upstarts and the press who want to see Ethan Cheng’s kid. This on-the-edge feeling is familiar. I realize what it is: nerves before an adventure whose ending I have no way of predicting.

“Yup, I’m ready,” I tell him. And then in the VIP stands, I see a beanie, red and well-worn and being waved in such large, sweeping arcs, there’s no way I can miss its owner the way I have so many opportunities. Grinning, I think to myself, my parents have a point. I could get used to the view from atop Mount Cheng. From where I stand and what I see, joy so expansive fills me until I can almost believe I’m already flying down this ramp and soaring toward Age.

Hong Kong is six months away. Six months. Anything can happen if I’m open to the possibilities. Just look at all that’s happened in the last half year. Heck, the last two weeks.

I nod and tell Scott and myself and everyone who’s watching me, “Ready or not, here I come.”

In snowboarding, there’s a fine line between overthinking and underthinking. How many times have I visualized this moment in my head and in my manga-journal? Trusting myself, I simply drop down the ramp. The chants of my name fade into the background, and all I hear is the scream bubbling inside me, not out of fear, but fearlessness. The wind rushes on my face as I pick up speed, sliding down my Gold Mountain. This is my mountain, my home mountain, the one I will keep returning to, the one I’m so lucky to have.

With my arms spread wide as though I’m embracing every possibility, I leap into the air and hit the rail, perfectly balanced on those scant three inches of iron. I know exactly what I’m aiming for: the snow glittering like hope. I read once that snow isn’t actually white, but every single color in the spectrum. Our brains just can’t comprehend what we’re seeing, so we distill it down to one understandable hue. I slide along the rail and let out my exultant scream. And in front of me, the snow catches the sun and refracts it into a billion pieces of good fortune.

T
he next morning in
bed, with one sweaty hand clenching my cell phone, I watch for its clock to tick to 6:29. On the dot, I speed-dial Age, ready to count the rings. Instead, he picks up immediately. He’s been waiting by the phone, too.

“Hey, it’s me,” I say.

“I was just about to call you,” Age says.

With those words—proof that Age being at Ride for Our Lives yesterday wasn’t just some strange fluke—I release my breath. Then, in a confident manner that would make Grace proud, I tell him, “I know.”

Age laughs. “What? Am I that predictable?”

“Trust me, when it comes to guys, nothing is predictable.”

“Right back at you. So what’s up?”

“I figured it’s my turn to check in on you.”

“Hunh,” says Age, but I can tell he’s pleased.

More relaxed now, I lean back into my pillows. “So in the spirit of me checking in, what are you doing today?”