The first thing I notice as I walk inside my parents’ house is the smell. It’s not an unpleasant smell, per se—a mix of laundry and cleaning fluid—but it’s so ascetic, not at all the scent one would associate with a home. It’s clean; I’ll give them that. That’s one thing my parents have going for them. There are no pictures hung up on the wall, no decorations. They have always said “Don’t do anything that would bring the house’s value down in case we decide to move.” They’ve lived here for over thirty years now, but still they insist on never sprouting roots, never letting themselves get attached to it. They haven’t changed a single thing about the house since moving in. It still has the same light fixtures and everything. If my parents were to die, it would be as though they were never here. As though they were just ghosts passing through.
I know that this is part of their immigrant identity. They are so scared of making waves because it might upend the little ship they’re forever on. Whenever anything happens, their reaction is: Keep your head down and stay out of trouble. Pretend not to see the fire until itengulfs you, and when it does, try to burn as quietly as possible. Do not make a fuss.
Sometimes I wonder if this is my future I see before me. That I might end up like them, afraid to leave my mark in the world. It’s probably one of the reasons why I write. Writing is my quiet little way of leaving something behind, so I know that all this isn’t just a dream. So I know that I’ve existed.
The second thing I notice about Mom and Dad’s house is the silence. There is never any music playing in here because we might disturb the neighbors. In the evenings, they watch TV while they have dinner, but they do so with subtitles on and with very low volume, so low that I always have to strain my ears to hear what the actors are saying. Even when Mom and Dad fight, they do so in hisses, like snakes warning predators away but never striking, always saving their venom for another day. Their lives are like a held breath, everything hanging in stasis. Growing up, I sometimes found myself randomly holding my breath when my parents were around, as though my body was waiting for something to happen. Then I’d notice and think: What the hell? Why was I holding my breath? And I’d have to consciously tell myself to breathe normally.
“How was the drive?” Dad says under his breath, like he’s half hoping I wouldn’t hear.
“It’s good. Long.” I lug my bags across the living room and notice Mom wincing as they drag across the polished floor, but she doesn’t offer to help me with them.
“I’ve prepared your old room,” Mom says. Coming from her, this is as close as it gets to a tight hug.
I acknowledge the effort with a smile. “Thanks, Mom.”
She hesitates for a split second before nodding. She’s never gotten used to me calling her “Mom.” When I was little, she’d asked me once to call her “Mama,” but I’d said, “What if the other kids hear and make fun of me?” and she’d backed down immediately. “You’re right,” she’d said, “it would call too much attention to us.” I still think back on thatmoment and wonder what our relationship would’ve been like if I’d just agreed to call her Mama. I still haven’t forgiven myself for not doing it. She so rarely asks me for anything. But I didn’t know, I want to tell her: I was too young, I didn’t understand what it meant. And anyway, if I brought it up now, she’d probably feign ignorance and tell me she’s forgotten about the whole thing.
My old bedroom is the only space in the house that has some semblance of personality. As a teen, I saved up and splurged on removable wall hooks so I could hang all sorts of posters. They’re mostly of Green Day and other emo rock bands from the early 2000s, like My Chemical Romance, because, like every other teen, I really thought I was something different and unique and so I couldn’t possibly like the mainstream stuff. Not me, misunderstood Fern Huang. I smile at the memory of my high school self. God, I was insufferable.
I’d planned to take a shower as soon as I got home, but once I drop my bags, I immediately feel so incredibly exhausted. I flop onto my bed and breathe out slowly. It’s as though my entire being is deflating, admitting defeat. Here I am, after all these years of working my ass off, back at square one. I stare at the popcorn ceiling for god knows how long before I take out my phone and unlock it.
I avoid opening Slack. Ever since I found out that Lisa and Jenna talk behind my back, the sight of the Slack app icon makes me feel nauseated. I still participate in our three-person channel, but every time I do, I get so self-conscious that I end up second-guessing everything I write. Instead, I open Instagram. Thanks to my efforts in the past one and a half years, I’ve grown my follower count from three hundred to over two thousand now. Every time I look at the number of followers, my heart does a tiny skip of joy. That’s all my efforts, I want to crow to the world. I’ve been posting diligently, once a day at least, and my page is a beautiful mix of scrumptious-looking baked goods, me holding up books I’ve read and loved, and little snippets of my own upcoming book. And over two thousand people have seen it and thought: She seems cool, I’ll follow her! Isn’t that amazing? For once, I am gratefulfor all the crap I’ve had to go through with Annette, because it means I now know how to edit photos to get the best possible lighting and colors to catch the eye.
But then I go to my alternate profile’s feed, and the top post that gets pushed to me is Haven’s content. It’s Haven’s mom, sitting on a comfortable lounge chair and saying to the camera, “Reading my baby’s AR—wait, what is this called?”
Off-screen, Haven says, “Mooom, I told you, just call it a book.”
Haven’s mom: “Aiya, what is the proper name?”
Haven: “ARC. Advance reader copy.”
Haven’s mom: “Oooh, so fancy.”
Haven giggles.
Haven’s mom: “Okay, reading from my baby’s advance reader copy. This is an advance copy because the book is not out yet. So this is a very special copy.”
Haven: “Mom, just read it!”
The video is so cute I could just die watching it. Their love and adoration for each other is palpable, even when they’re bickering, and it’s not even real bickering, it’s the type where you can hear the good-natured smile behind the words. It’s impossible to watch it without smiling. And when Mrs. Lee starts reading, it is impossible to tear my eyes off the screen. I watch it all the way through, and when it replays automatically, I don’t scroll up. I watch it again. Then I tap on Haven’s name, and my stomach drops because Haven has been busy too.
Like me, she’s been posting on her account diligently. Except while I was growing at a steady pace of a handful of followers a week, she’s basically blown up. She’s started a new account for her writing and now has 1.2 million followers. A proper book influencer. And every post has hundreds of comments along the lines ofWho do I have to kill to get an ARC of this book!!! I cannot wait to read it!!!Her followers, unlike mine, are passionate—rabid, almost. I know that people exaggerate online, that emotions become overblown on social media, but it’s still so jarring to see.
I tap on her previous post. It’s of Haven holding up a fellow debut’s book, her beautiful face grinning into the camera. The caption reads:Happy book birthday to this gorgeous creature! You guys, if you buy just one book this month, let it be this one. Ugh, how do I describe the brilliance that is @Yunawriteseverything?? I cannot! My babe Yuna is so talented that if we weren’t such good friends, I would be writhing on the floor with jealousy. Seriously, do yourselves a favor and get this book. Get it now. You can thank me later!!
The pinned comment is from Yuna, and it says:You are the best
I know it’s utterly ridiculous to feel jealous or weird about this in any way, and yet part of me still feels like Yuna and I have a special connection because of how we first interacted with each other on Slack. I was her friend first, I want to whine at the universe. I click on my profile and look at the photo I posted about Yuna’s book. I’m not as photogenic as Haven, so I’d taken the time to arrange Yuna’s book artfully, with a plate of homemade jam thumbprint cookies on one side and a cup of milky tea on the other and flowers here and there. It’s altogether a beautiful image, both calming and inviting. My caption reads:Happiest of publication day to my dear friend @Yunawriteseverything! I’m so proud of you and your book. Secrets of the Blind Mouse is a beautiful story about a scam artist who falls in love with her mark, and after a decade of marriage, slowly comes to learn that all is not what it seems within their relationship.
The post garnered only three comments. The one from Yuna says:Thank you so much, Fern!It’s perfectly nice, but it’s nowhere near the same level asYou are the best
I switch back and forth from my post to Haven’s until they blur together in my mind. I see now, how compared to mine, Haven’s comes across as more genuine. Mine is a well-thought-out book review. Hers is pure word of mouth, someone grabbing you by the shoulders and going, “Trust me, you are going tolovethis!”
How does Haven do it? How does she convey closeness and familiarity with everyone? How is she everybody’s bestie? She is the type to greet people she’s just met with a heartfelt hug, and you can just tell from her posts. I’ve always envied those people, the ones who greet unfamiliarity with open arms. So many times I’ve told myself, Greet them with a hug. Greet them with a hug. Greet them—and then I meet them, whoever they happen to be, and my arms stick to my sides, and I end up giving them an awkward wave instead.
I look at Haven’s other recent posts—there seems to be a lot more involving her parents—then I make myself close Instagram for my own sake and open up Slack instead. I remind myself that Lisa hadn’t said anything mean about me to Jenna. She was probably just feeling weird about reading Haven’s new manuscript and didn’t want to hurt my feelings. Everything is okay. I should stay active in the private group chat. There is no good reason for me to lose my two closest friends over this. Taking a deep breath, I click on the private channel and send a message.
Fern:I’m back in Cali. (Sad face)
