Except when he’s whispering about me to his friends,she reminded herself.Or making fun of me in his sketchbook.
She took her pencil and drew across the countertop. “Here’s your side, and here’s mine. Don’t cross it.”
A darkness touched Kenji, hardening the tanned lines of his face. He took the fetal pig tray and placed it in the dead center of the line. He took the tools, too: scalpel, forceps, scissors, laying each with a purposefulclank.
He was angry with her.Good.
She ignored him, yet as she turned to her notebook, there was a sour taste in her mouth. It would linger longer than she cared to admit.
That Friday during their weekly lunch, Marigold complained about Kenji to her sisters.
“You told him you hate him because he’s Japanese?” Rosie exclaimed. She covered her face with her hands. “My God, I can’t believe we’re related. How can you say things like that?”
Actually, Marigold hadn’t said any such thing. “Dad says it all the time.”
“Dad was raised in China. This is America: love and peace. No hate.”
Marigold sipped her milk. “You don’t know Kenji like I do.”
“Oh yeah? Has it ever occurred to you that maybe you find him annoying because you like him?”
Marigold sent her sister a withering glare. “There isnothingabout Kenji Yamamoto that I like. Nothing at all.”
“Is thereanyboy you like?” Rosie pressed. “Or are you bringing a slide rule to prom?”
“At least a slide rule shows signs of intelligence. Can’t say the same about the four dummies you kissed this month.”
“Be nice, you two,” said Peony.
Marigold closed her lunchbox lid. Most days she looked forward to lunch with her sisters, but lately, all they wanted to talk about was boys.
Even Peony had been infected. Her older sister had met Paul Wong over winter break at a family dinner. Paul was twenty and had dropped out of high school to become a plumber like his father. On Saturdays he joined the Yuens for dinner, bringing a box of rice noodle rolls from Sam Wo Restaurant instead of flowers. He let Helen and Philip win at mahjong and insistedon helping wash the dishes. Both sets of parents had already blessed a future union, but Marigold didn’t approve.
“How can you go out with him?” Marigold complained to Peony later that day. “He doesn’t even know the difference betweenyourandyou’reorthereandtheir.”
“Neither do our parents. Do you hold it against them?” Peony folded Paul’s newest letter into her pocket as if it were a hundred-dollar bill.
Marigold bit her lip. She couldn’t hold it in. “Boys ruin everything.”
Peony wiped her hands on her apron. “Where is this coming from?”
“I thought you were going to apply to Merritt.”
“I changed my mind. College is your dream, not mine. I’m happy where I am.”
“Don’t you want more than this?” Marigold spread her arms at the bakery. “Don’t you want more than to be someone’s wife?”
“Ah,” said Peony, suddenly understanding. “This is about Paul.”
“Not just Paul. It’s about losing your sense of self.”
“I’ll still be me. Right now, the only thing that makes your heart race is a pop quiz, but that’ll change. You’ll see.”
“No it won’t,” said Marigold with all the passion of a misunderstood teenager. “Do you know why only five percent of physicians in this country are women? Because once we get married, we’re expected to quit our jobs and have babies. That won’t be me.”
“If it isn’t, then I’m happy for you,” said Peony, patiently, “and if you change your mind, I’m happy for you too. Won’t you be happy for me?”
This was her sister’s gift, the ability to subdue any storm with a few earnest words. Marigold felt her resistance ebb away, and she lowered her shoulders, humbled. “I will.”
