I don’t really understand it. I only know that the thought of the near future—of having to climb out of bed, put on my makeup, brush my hair, go to school, talk, smile, scheme, eat but not too much, work out tomorrow and tomorrow and the tomorrow after that—fills my chest with such dread that it practically pins me down.
Get up, do something,I urge myself.
Do something.
You’re running out of time.
But the prickling sensation I’ve been trying to ward off all day sharpens into a burning, and I taste the salt of tears. At least I’m alone right now. Couldn’t bear to let anyone at school see me this way—they all love being around me when I’m happy, the life of the party, not when I’m too deep inside my own head.
The key turns in the door.
My mom steps inside—or staggers, more like, kicking off her boots by the door with none of her usual grace. When she removes her sunglasses, I notice the mascara smudged around her eyes, the tiredness in her face.
I quickly wipe away my tears and pad over to her. “Mom? Are you okay?”
She doesn’t say anything for a long time. “Yes, I’m fine,” she replies at last, in a distant, strained voice. But she continues tomove as if in slow motion, setting down her bag, then her keys on the marble counter, then the cream-white gift box in her hand. “I think I might sleep early tonight.”
“Okay, yeah, that’s a good idea,” I say, desperate to make myself useful. “Go get some rest—is there anything you need, though? I can order you some chicken vermicelli salad for dinner first. Or some herbal essences for a bath—”
“No, that won’t be necessary,” she says. Then, still in the same strange voice, not really looking at me, she asks, “Did you see your father yesterday?”
I freeze. “What?”
“In one of the articles.” Her expression is impossible to read. “It said you went to his club last night, and he was present. I’m a little surprised, that’s all. I suppose I wasn’t aware that you two were still in touch.”
“I’m not,” I rush to say. “I haven’t spoken to him since you... And I bumped into him by accident. It was a pure coincidence—”
“You bumped into him at the club he owns?” she says mildly, turning into the living room. I hurry in after her, my stomach twisting. “You needn’t sound so defensive, Chanel. If you wanted to see him, you have the legal right to. I do, however,” she goes on, an edge to her words, “advise that going forward, you are more careful about your behaviors in public and what people might say. When you’re out and about, you’re not just some random teenager, you know. You’re Chanel Cao. You represent this family. Anything you do reflects not only on you, but me as well.”
All I ever do is think about what people might say, and I’mexhausted.But my throat closes over the protest. “I’m sorry, Mom. I promise, I’ll be more careful.”
She presses her lips together. “You have to be.” A pause. “Did anyone at school ask you about the situation? You didn’t say anything, did you? You can’t trust them,anyof them—not even your friends. Who knows which one of them will go blabbing to the press?”
“I didn’t,” I say. “Really.”
She nods, but I know she isn’t satisfied. She never is. “I’m going to shower,” she says, walking away.
I hurry to clean up after her, storing her boots away, straightening out her coat and hanging it properly so it won’t be wrinkled tomorrow. Then I pick up the gift box. Some kind of care package. All of my mom’s favorite face masks and lip products and teas are inside it, with a printed-out message tucked inside the wrapping paper. I’m about to store it away when I glimpse the sender’s name, and my heart stops.
Dear Coco,
I’ve been meaning to get in touch for a while. I was very sorry to hear the news about your marriage, and I sincerely hope you’re doing okay. Please be kind to yourself, and do let me know if you’d ever like to catch up. This is my new number: 13610439745.
Kindest regards from your old friend,
Long Ge
The sensation of pressure building inside my head, my chest, the buzz of dread. Like standing alone on a shore, helpless,watching the tsunami come in, the sheer force and scale of it infinitely greater than I am. It feels absurd to even try to stop it, but then I hear the creak of the bathroom door from the other room, the hissing of the shower curtain being drawn. The spray of water.
If I don’t do anything, my mom will be—
Can’t even think it. I have to act, now. Trembling, while the shower is running at full blast, loud enough to muffle my voice, I call Henry.
He picks up immediately. “I was just about to call you,” he says. “I would have done so sooner, but I’ve been in meetings with my father the entire day.”
“No, no, that’s fine.” I’m barely aware of myself talking; I keep staring at the name written on the card, the skin on my face numb.
“I was looking into drowning out the article about your parents from the trending searches on Weibo,” he continues, and this might be one of the things I appreciate most about Henry Li: He’s not the kind to offer empty words of reassurance. He offers practical solutions.
