She stopped, and I knew what she was about to say: when her mother sent her upstairs without dinner.
“Anyway, Prince Cannonball loves it.”
“Prince Cannonball,” I repeated. As I said it, the cat’s ear swiveled forward. “Is that his name?”
“For how he shoots out of the bushes. It’s like an explosion.Boom!You should see him pounce on mice, he’s terrifying.”
I had to laugh—I could certainly picture it. “He looks hungry.”
“He’s always hungry. We were going to share a can of luncheon meat before you barged in.”
“You were going to eat straight from the can?” I wrinkled my nose. “At least let me cook it for you. Come down, no one’s in the kitchen. Tingting went to Bastion’s with your mother, and Susu’s at the market. There should be meat floss buns, too.”
“They’re Baba’s favorite, not mine.” Lily put her hands on her hips, but her stomach made a tellinggulugulusound. Sullenly, she scooped the cat under one arm. “Fine,” she said, as if she were doing me a favor.
The kitchen was in a separate building from the house, and I put on a pair of wooden clogs before entering through the sliding door. Inside smelled of kerosene from the stoves and chicken stock simmering in one of the pots. I added some lettuce and carrots while Lily peeled the can of American pork open.
The meat inside was pink and gelatinous, and she wriggled it with two chopsticks until it came shuddering out. I sniffed, unable to hide my revulsion.
“Americans call it Spam. During the occupation, they sent it to our soldiers because it keeps forever.”
“Does it really?”
“Long enough. Tingting says that some days, it was all she ate.” Lily cocked her head to one side. “You look skeptical.”
“It doesn’t look appetizing,” I replied.
“It is. You can trust the Americans to create a miracle food. These little cans fed hundreds of thousands of people.”
I believed in visions that told the future, in breaths that could turn one invisible, and curses that could actually be blessings in disguise—not preserved pork in a can. But I couldn’t tell her that. “My mother told me a story about a man who fed a thousand people with one loaf of bread—”
“And turned water into wine?” Lily finished for me. She put her hands on her hips. “Are you a Christian, Jeh Jeh?”
“My mother is. Are you?”
“Mama likes the idea of church. It gives her an excuse to wear lipstick on Sundays. That’s why she sends me to Saint Maria’s. Most of my teachers are missionaries, and they talk about Jesus every chance they can. I like their stories, but not the lessons. If someone slaps your cheek, turn the other cheek. I wouldn’t do that. I’d slap them right back, and put chili in their eyes.”
I laughed. “You’re brazen.”
“I go to an all-girls’ school,” said Lily. “It’s the only way to survive. Which reminds me...” She fished something out of her pocket. “This is yours.”
It was my wooden comb. I’d spent hours looking for it but had given up. “Where did you find it?”
“I took it,” she said. “I steal things from people I don’t like. Nothing worth much, just small things that’ll annoy them when they go missing.”
I held up the comb. “So you don’t like me.”
“I don’t like anyone who adores my mother,” Lily said plainly. “But you don’t know any better, so I can’t blame you too much. Also, you didn’t have much to take.”
I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or humbled. “Why don’t you like your—”
“Is the soup ready?” Lily interrupted.
“Almost,” I replied, tasting a spoonful from the pot. I swished a chunk of the pink meat in my mouth before I finally dared to chew. Miracles upon miracles, itwastasty. It had the savory saltiness of fermented black beans, yet it was smooth and spongy like tofu. I searched the soup for another piece. “How many of Baba’s socks have you stolen?”
Lily scoffed. “What’s the fun in taking something that’s already lying around?” She smiled deviously. “I have some of his other things, though. Oh, and Mama’s favorite red lipstick. She’s been searching for it for months.”
I ladled Lily a bowl of macaroni and luncheon meat. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll get caught?”
