Hot, Sour, Salty, Sweet (3 page)

5

A
na wakes up in the station wagon, in the parking lot of the Monterey Park 99 Ranch Market. Her face is hot from the sun. She shakes her head. “Where's Nai Nai?”

“Inside,” her mom says. “Good grief. I cannot find a space here. It's like the whole world's shopping today.” Ana looks around and sees that they're idling behind a line of other searching cars. Ana catches her mom watching her in the rearview mirror.

“You all right, honey?” her mom asks.

Ana sighs. “Yeah. I guess I kind of wish I'd gotten to read my speech.” Her mother frowns. Ana wants to smooth away the little furrow between her mother's brows. She leans over the front seat and kisses her mom on the forehead.

Her mother chuckles. “I thought it went very well. Even the water show. You're too hard on yourself sometimes, Ana. Today's your day. Relax.”

Ana collapses back into her seat. Even with the AC on, the sun is heating up the car through the windshield. She lowers her window. “My day, right.”

“Don't tell me you're not looking forward to tonight.”

“I guess.” It's hard to sort out the anxiety from the excitement, Ana realizes. She leans back, looking at the ceiling of the station wagon. The thin, fuzzy cloth is starting to sag in pale blue waves.

The car has moved five inches in the past five minutes.

“Come on!” her mom mutters, tapping the steering wheel in frustration. The cars ahead of them roll another two inches. “Your grandmother is going to give me hell for this one.” She talks to Ana over her shoulder. “Hon, will you please go in there and help her? I swear she'll think we've driven off and left her behind.” Ahead of them, the lane is a row of taillights surrounded by a wall-to-wall carpet of sports cars and old sedans, Asian families pressing through the rows with shopping carts in front of them. “Why did I agree to take her here?” Ana's mom shakes her head and sighs.

Ana squeezes her mother's shoulder as she sits up. None of them would be here if it weren't for Chelsea's big mouth and Ana's small one.

“I'll go.” Ana yawns. “I”—she stretches and yawns through her words—“need (yawn) dumpling (yawn) stuff too.” She opens the door.

Her mother turns around and gives her a smile. “That's my girl. You know how to deal with Nai Nai.” She reaches out and pats Ana's hand. “Tonight will be fine. I promise. Now go find your grandmother.”

Going into the 99 Ranch Market is like stepping into a grocery store on the other side of the planet. Ana stretches her arms over her head, suppresses another yawn and lets it turn into a smile. She loves it when Nai Nai takes her here. Being in the Chinese market is like leaving Los Angeles for an hour, like leaving the whole United States. The spicy scents of ginger and pepper float through the air, along with the faded ocean scent of seaweed, and stranger smells, like dried shark fin, with its musty parchment and bouillon scent. It's strangely comforting to feel so transported. Like there isn't a whole crowd about to descend on your house, like the boy you have the hots for isn't about to come over and maybe, just maybe, make your summer worthwhile.

Ana grabs a small basket and heads toward the produce section. The eggplant alone comes in more shapes and sizes than in an American market. Ana walks past the speckled purple and green shapes to the bin of ginger-root. For the number of dumplings she's got to make, three per person for fourteen people . . . that's forty-two dumplings. That's one and a half batches. Ana picks up a small piece of the gnarled tan root and takes a sniff.

“Blech.” She puts it back and looks for a fresher piece. Ana's favorite dish is dumplings—it's the only thing she can make without a recipe. So what if she hasn't quite got a handle on shaping them? Nai Nai and her dad make it look so easy: a flat circle of dough in one palm; stuff, fold and pinch with the other hand. Ana shakes her head. She wasn't kidding when she said hers come out funny. Maybe her hands are too small or something, but it doesn't matter. Today they have to be perfect.

She goes through several knobs of ginger before finding the one. It smells peppery-sweet and fresh. More than enough to add a lot of flavor to the pot stickers, and plenty left over for the dipping sauce of soy sauce, sesame oil and vinegar.

She spends almost as much time finding the crispest Napa cabbage she can. Except for the ground pork, they should have the rest of the ingredients back at home.

Halfway down the next row, Ana sees the smiling faces and flowery packaging that say she's in the toiletries aisle. She pauses to pick up a bar of soap that claims to be made of ground pearls. It smells like Ivory and a hint of fake flowers. She puts it back on the shelf and moves into the shampoo section.

“Sunset Gold
^TM
.” Ana stops. She's in front of the hair dye, a solid row of boxes bragging shades of hair, from blond to red, and a few deep browns and blacks. Sunset Gold
^TM
is the most striking.

Ana glances up and down the aisle. She's alone. She picks up the box.

The girl on the package could be Amanda Conrad, tall and slim with waist-length honey-colored hair cascading over her shoulders. Except that here at 99 Ranch Market, the model on the box is Chinese.

The thing is, the color looks good on her. Her almond skin looks exotic beneath the deep blond hair. Her face looks . . . mysterious.

Ana turns the package over, her basket forgotten at her feet, free hand reaching for her own dark curls, now completely undone from her haphazard braiding.

Ana drops the box into her basket and hurries off to find Nai Nai.

Halfway to the butcher counter, she stops to look at the bruise-colored chicken in the poultry case beneath the sign that declares it black chicken. “Huh. That's new,” she says to herself.

“That makes good soup,” Nai Nai says over her shoulder. Nai Nai's bracelets jingle as she reaches past Ana to grab a pound of the blue-skinned meat. “It's good for the blood.”

“I was just looking for you,” Ana says. “Mom's still trying to find a parking spot.” She hands her grandmother the shopping list and kisses her on her delicately powdered cheek. Nai Nai gives her cart-pushing duty. Ana puts her shopping basket in with her grandmother's groceries.

“Thank you, dear. Now, help me find the meat man. I want my pork ground fresh.”

Ana rings the bell for the butcher. Her grandmother frowns at the young guy who comes out from the back. He can't be more than twenty-five, with a pierced eyebrow and hair that's been bleached auburn.

“How is your pork?” Nai Nai asks him in Mandarin. The butcher tells her it's good. Nai Nai looks surprised.

“Oh, you speak Chinese, do you? With hair like that, I didn't know.” She orders her meat, ground medium so there's more fat in the mix. While he works, Nai Nai turns to Ana, who is fiddling with a package of pigs' ears.

“See, he speaks Chinese pretty well for a kid your age.”

Ana runs a finger along a pig ear's edge, feeling the cartilage. She shakes her head. “He's not my age, Nai Nai. And I speak better Chinese than Dad.”

Nai Nai flushes beneath her face powder. “Well, you'll speak it even better when you come back from Taiwan.”

Ana tweaks the ear and puts it back in the case. “Right, one day.”

Ana's grandmother takes the package of pork from the young butcher with a nod.

Ana sighs, shaking her head. Nai Nai always talks about taking Ana and her cousins to Taiwan. Ana herself has only been once, when she was a toddler, and that was with her parents.

Nai Nai turns toward the butcher and says in English, “This is my granddaughter. She just graduated first in her class.”

Ana grits her teeth. “Second, Nai Nai. Second.” The butcher is smiling at her in a way that says he's got a grandmother like Nai Nai, too. A woman who would rob him of his only chance at dating and kidnap him during the last summer he might ever spend with his best friend for the sake of a few language lessons.

“She she,”
Ana thanks him in Mandarin, and quickly pushes the grocery cart away. Nai Nai follows, unfazed.

At the checkout counter, Ana slips the box of hair coloring in with the rest of the groceries. Nai Nai is too busy to notice.

“Do not shortchange me,” she admonishes the cashier, a gum-chewing Chinese girl a couple of years older than Ana.

“This celery is a day old,” Nai Nai says, shaking the wilted leaves at the girl. “It shouldn't be full price.”

“I'll have to call the manager, ma'am,” the girl says with a half-yawn.

Nai Nai clutches her purse and pulls herself upright. All five foot three inches of her.

“You do that. I'll wait.”

“Oh God,” Ana moans to herself. Behind them, the growing line heaves a collective sigh. Ana turns around to give them an apologetic smile and immediately looks away.

It's like Nai Nai has been cloned. Five older women, each with a death grip on her handbag and an unsatisfactory piece of produce, make up the rest of the line.

“Manager to register two,” the girl says over the intercom.

The poor man who shows up turns pale at the sight of the women. He pats his clip-on tie and straightens his short-sleeve dress shirt before assuming a fixed smile.

“Ladies,” he says in placating Mandarin. “The produce truck was delayed. But we are having a sale! Half off on everything.”

“Everything?” Nai Nai asks in English.

The manager's eyes flicker across the checkout lines. Ana tries not to smile. By speaking English, Nai Nai has just extended the discount to the handful of teens and non-Asians in the line as well. And the manager knows it.

He actually breaks into a sweat. “On produce, yes,” he says, also in English.

Nai Nai shrugs and nods.

“So. Okay.”

The manager's shoulders relax and the line moves forward again.

In all the drama, Ana's hair dye goes unnoticed at the checkout stand. She pulls it out of the bag on the way to the car and tucks it into her graduation gown. Purple or blond, by the time Jamie comes over, she'll be a total knockout.

6

“H
ere we are!” Ana's mother says brightly, pulling into the driveway. The SUV is already at the house, parked on the street. Ana gathers her graduation gown with the package of hair dye wrapped safely inside.

“I still say you should have exited at Centinela,” Nai Nai insists. “It was a waste of time to take the freeway all the way. Your house is closer to Centinela.”

“You might be right, Mei,” Ana's mother says patiently. “I should time it on the next trip.”

From where she's sitting, Ana can see her mother's hands gripping the steering wheel tight enough to crack it. Ana sits up to clear the air.

“Well, we're home now, Nai Nai,” she says, and unlocks her door. “Time for you to work your kitchen magic.” Ana's mother looks at her gratefully. “Come on, Mom. I'll help you with these groceries.”

Ana hops out of the car, with the idea that if she moves fast enough, Nai Nai won't have time to argue.

“Next time, I'm driving my parents,” Ana's mother says with a meaningful look at Nai Nai. Before Ana can respond, her mother kisses her on the forehead and shoves two bags of Chinese greens into her arms.

“You can carry more than that,” Nai Nai says from the tailgate, and swings an entire chicken, head and all, toward Ana.

Ana learned long ago to ignore the instinct to duck. The bird is dead anyway. Poor thing. Now it's going to be soup. Nai Nai's soups are good enough to make Ana philosophical about the bird. She grabs another bag, this one containing warty green bitter melons, and stiff-legs it into the house, groceries slapping at her thighs.

Ana's house is one of a handful of two-story houses on a tree-lined block less than a mile from the ocean. The Shens' house was once a 1930s bungalow, but it was added on to until it became the top-heavy building it is today. As with most of the houses on the street, the backyard is much larger than the house and lies hidden behind a wall covered in jasmine vines. On certain days, Ana can smell the ocean's seaweed scent from the front steps. She likes to open her window to the breeze and, if she's lucky, in the late spring and summer, the scent of night-blooming jasmine from the front walk drifts inside. Today it's too warm for the ocean breeze, but the flowers are sure to open when the sun sets.

“Where's the Samoan?” Ana mutters. “Sammy, get out here!” She drops her bags on the faded vinyl floor of the eat-in kitchen and runs back up the hall and outside again, pausing to tuck her graduation gown with its box of hair dye under one arm. It's always better to help unload the car than it is to unpack the bags. Despite their differences, all three of the older women in Ana's family have a talent for buying exactly twice as many groceries as can actually fit in the refrigerator. How they ever pack the fridge and the freezer is a mystery. Ana wants nothing to do with it. Normally, she'd scurry away after unloading the car, but today she has to keep the peace. She sighs. No reason she has to do it alone.

“Sammy!” she calls out, carrying in another load. The Samoan does not show up. Neither does Ye Ye nor her dad.

“Great,” she mutters, and grabs one last load of bags. This time, her mother and Nai Nai follow her.

“That's it, honey,” her mom says, kicking the front door shut with her toe. “Want to help unpack?”

“Sure,” Ana says, fighting another sigh. She throws open the kitchen door.

“Surprise!”

Ana almost drops her bags and stumbles back out the door.

Everyone is in the kitchen—Ye Ye, Grandpa and Grandma White, Ana's dad and Sammy. They've all changed out of their dress clothes and into T-shirts or polos, shorts and khakis, except for Grandma White, who is as coiffed and composed as ever. And all of them have goofy or smug smiles plastered across their faces.

Ana gives them an untrusting look. “What's going on?”

Ana's mom takes her bags from her.

“Happy graduation, kiddo,” Ana's dad says. “Sit down, Madame Graduate. We've got some presents for you.”

“Oh!” Ana relaxes. She scampers to the place of honor, one of the vinyl-cushioned chairs at their tatty old Formica kitchen table. Her parents bought it at the Pasadena Flea Market right after they got married. “It's a 1950s vintage dinette set,” her dad would say, proud despite the faded gold sparkles set into the pot-scorched white tabletop.

Ana's dad pulls out her graduation cap and plunks it on her head.

“Painstakingly dried with a hair dryer,” he explains. “So it's just like a birthday, but with a commemorative square hat.”

“It's the birth of a smarter, more mature you,” Ana's mom says. It sounds goofy, but Ana finds herself grinning.

“Our own little Ana Mei, strutting her stuff onstage!” Grandpa White exclaims. “You've got a whole future ahead of you, baby girl, full of opportunities your old grandparents never had.”

Grandma White nods. “Head of her class.”

“When we first came to the States, we could not even rent an apartment in this neighborhood,” Nai Nai says. “And now here you are, standing up in front of everyone. It is very impressive.” She shrugs. “Too bad about your speech.”

Ana's grin fades. Her dad clears his throat. “It's gift time. The Samoan's the youngest, so he goes first.”

On cue, Sammy pulls a small box wrapped in the Sunday comics page from under the table.

“Thank you, Sammy.”

Sammy giggles. “You're welcome.”

Ana starts to unwrap the box. “Don't tear it,” Nai Nai says. “It's still good paper.”

“It's newspaper, Ma,” Ana's dad says. Nai Nai doesn't care. Ana's too happy to roll her eyes. She carefully peels back the tape and lets Nai Nai fold the paper up again.

Ana takes the lid off the box . . .

“A sock? Socks?” She lays them out on the kitchen table. Nine socks, none of them a matching pair.

“They're not socks, they're
puppets
,” Sammy explains. He pulls one onto his arm to demonstrate. Sure enough, the face unfolds, complete with eyes on the heel and a felt nose on the end of the toe.

“Cute.” Ana slides one onto her own hand. “Hello, everybody,” she says in a dopey puppet voice.

“He worked all week on those,” Ana's mom explains.

“One for each of us,” Sammy adds. “That's Nai Nai and Ye Ye, me and Mom, Dad, you and Grandma and Grandpa.”

Ana can't say there's much resemblance, but she nods. “So who's the ninth sock supposed to be?”

Sammy shrugs. “It's just a sock. For your foot.”

Ana laughs. “Thanks, Sammy.” She gives him a hug and puts the sock family back in the box.

“Next,” Ana's dad says. Her parents look at each other and her mom nods.

“Since you'll be starting high school in the fall and it's too far to walk, we got you—”

Ana's eyes widen. Her heart skips a beat. “A car?”

“No!” her mom says. “You're too young to drive.”

“A scooter?” Ana asks.

“No.” Her dad sighs and pulls a small envelope out of his pocket.

“A bus card?” The disappointment is more than a little obvious and she knows it. “I mean, hey, a bus card.”

“It's a monthly pass,” her dad adds lamely.

“I knew that one was a dud,” Ana's mom says. “Your dad thought you wouldn't want us dropping you off at school anymore. Said we'd embarrass you.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Ana nods. “Thanks, Dad. Good idea.” She stands up and gives him a kiss.

“Wait, wait, wait,” her mother says. “We also got you”—she pulls two cards from her shirt pocket—“gift cards for the mall and the movie theater.”

Ana's eyes go wide again. “Hey, thanks, Mom! And Dad,” she adds, hugging them both.

“You'll need your back-to-school wardrobe, after all,” her mom says.

“Thanks.” Ana sits back down with a satisfied sigh. The day has taken a good turn. “Well, I guess I'll get started on the dumplings.”

“Young lady, you are in some kind of a hurry,” Grandma White admonishes. “You don't really think your own grandparents forgot about you on your big day?”

Ana blushes. “I didn't want to be greedy.”

“Good girl,” Grandpa White says. “You should be grateful every day. Honey, tell her what to be grateful for today.”

Grandma White breaks into a smile. “Ana, remember those Mississippi steamboats you used to love so much?”

“Yeah,” Ana says.
When I was, like, ten,
she thinks.

“Well, pack your bags, baby. Next month, we're taking you on a cruise! A musical heritage cruise down the Mississippi River, St. Louis to New Orleans. We'll even stop and meet some of your cousins and relations along the way.”

“Um. Wow,” Ana says. She suddenly feels split in two. Embarrassing as it is, the cruise sounds like fun. Not the uninterrupted summer full of Chelsea and Jamie Tabata she's been dreaming of, but she has to admit a trip to New Orleans is pretty cool. Especially a musical tour—Ana might only be second in her class, but she's the first chair alto saxophone in her school band.

“Wow.” She says it again, this time with a smile. She looks at her parents. Her mom is grinning from ear to ear, and Ana is too. Her dad suddenly looks worried. Then Ana knows why. Nai Nai is whispering to Ye Ye rapidly in Chinese.
Oh dear God,
Ana thinks.
The bigger the grin now, the bigger it'll have to be for Nai Nai and Ye Ye's gift. Why does life have to be so complicated
?

“Don't look so worried, honey. You won't get seasick on those big old boats, I promise,” Grandma White says. Ana smiles again but tries not to grin, and gives them each a hug. Grandpa White chuckles and pats her back.

“We know how much you like playing saxophone and all,” he explains.

“Yeah. That does sound really cool,” Ana admits.

“Our turn?” Ye Ye asks Ana's dad. He nods, the look of worry on his face poorly concealed.

Ye Ye smiles broadly and pulls a small red envelope from his pocket.

Ana smiles back. It is a
huen bao,
or red packet. Her father's parents have been slipping these to her on holidays ever since she was old enough to hold an envelope. When she was little, just the act of tearing it open made her smile. Now Ana blushes even thinking about it.
Huen bao
are gifts of money, the red envelope signifying good luck and prosperity.

Ana accepts the envelope with a little bow.
“She she,”
she says, thanking them in Mandarin. The envelope is stamped with a gold foil dragon wrapped around the name of her grandparents' bank. Some of the branches give the envelopes out during the Chinese New Year. Nai Nai probably hordes them by the handful each year.

“It is nothing great,” Ye Ye says in his careful voice. “But we are very, very proud of you, Ana Mei.”

Ana smiles and slips the envelope into her pocket. She learned long ago that it's rude to open the little packet in front of the giver. She also learned that her grandparents always call it a small gift when it's usually very generous. Ana gets up and gives them each a hug and a kiss. Nai Nai still seems unhappy, but Ye Ye is unfazed.

“Perhaps you will use it on your trip down the Mississippi,” he says amicably.

Ana smiles. “That'd be great. Maybe I can even put it toward a real New Orleans saxophone or something.”

“Would you listen to that?” Grandma White says. “Isn't that nice? She's excited already.”

“I told you she would be, Mama,” Ana's mother says, and pats Grandma White on the shoulder.

Ana can't help feeling happy. “Thanks, everybody. This is really cool.” She looks around the room, smiling. Everybody smiles back, even Nai Nai, although her smile is a little crooked. Ana shrugs inwardly. At least nobody's shouting.

“So, um, shouldn't we get cooking?” she asks, glancing at the clock. Three hours and counting. Her heart skips a beat.

Everybody moves at once.

“Do you want a sandwich, Ana?” her dad asks. “We had some PB&Js earlier.”

“I don't think I can eat just yet,” Ana says. Maybe it's butterflies left over from this morning's speech, or maybe it's Jamie's fault, but the thought of wasting one more precious peaceful family minute to have a sandwich kills any idea of eating before dinner.

“I'll start the dough for the pot stickers.” Ana goes to the sink and washes her hands.

Her mother grips her shoulder. “You want to shower and change first?”

Ana kisses her mom on the cheek. “Right. Thanks, Mom. I'll hurry.”

She runs for the stairs, cap in hand, brushing past the paintings and family photos her mother has hanging on the staircase wall.

“Stop running!” Nai Nai shouts after her. “Always rushing around like a horse, tromp tromp tromp. You are not a horse!”