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To my sister,
for all the times you said,
“Let’s read.”
PART I:
Rejection
This was senior year
Someone had written WHORE
in bright orange lipstick
on my locker.
It was waiting for me
after third period,
like an old friend
hanging
around after class.
For the past three weeks,
I have filed down these halls,
opened this locker,
stuffed textbooks
and slightly damp rain jackets inside.
I’ve regurgitated facts,
aced exams,
daydreamed about life
at an Ivy like Princeton,
and sometimes I’ve thought
about Ben.
It was life in a holding pattern,
circling around an airport
where you can’t yet land.
I glanced over to Jordan’s locker
and saw its pristine state.
No bright orange lipstick.
Was there even a male equivalent
to the word “whore”?
There were words,
but none that carried
the same weight.
Maybe I would have cried
if I were
a different girl.
But this was senior year,
and my life was more than
a series of letters
scrawled on a locker, vying
to break me.
This happened once before
Two years ago,
shortly after my mother
disappeared.
I tried
scrubbing the lipstick
off with toilet paper.
Tiny bits of tissue
crumbled in my hand,
but the letters remained intact.
Two years ago
Jordan was there.
“Who did this?” he demanded.
Two years ago
Ben was there.
“My girlfriend’s not
a whore,” he said.
They both hulked out,
pacing in front of my locker.
When the bell rang
and students streamed into the hallway,
Jordan and Ben glared
at each and every one of them
who dared to glance
in my direction.
“Hey, ass face,
you think my girlfriend’s a whore?”
Ben assaulted a freshman.
“Guys. Knock it off.
Somebody go get
a wet paper towel.”
Jordan obeyed.
Ben stood by my side.
“Why would someone
write that?” he said.
“Don’t worry about it.
It’s probably a mistake,”
I said, but
I thought about my mother,
and the women
who whispered
about her.
I thought about the words
they used in replacement
of her name,
words that were never meant
to be associated with someone
I called “Mom.”
If my mother had known
what people were saying
behind her back,
if she had known
what someone would write
on my locker,
would she have left?
I wondered if the rumors
were true
about my mom,
and people my classmates
called “Dad.”
I wondered
who else believed
these rumors.
I wondered
what
people believed
about me.
But what can you do
when someone writes WHORE
on your locker,
except wipe away the lipstick
and move on.
This time
It wasn’t a mistake.
This time
I didn’t have Ben or Jordan
around
to defend my honor.
I armed myself
with a dampened
paper towel and scrubbed
fruitlessly.
A green glob
landed on my locker
and dribbled down the front.
Behind me
a boy
held out a bottle
of dish soap.
“Do you always carry that around?”
I asked.
Green goop mingled
with the lipstick.
Letters began to fade.
“Don’t question. Just thank me.”
He held out a dry paper towel.
“Thanks?”
I returned to scrubbing.
The lipstick slid off easily.
“Girl, you of all people should know
that a wet paper towel
isn’t gonna remove
a petroleum-based lipstick.”
“Huh?”
I stopped scrubbing.
“Last year
you were the top student
in AP Chemistry.
“You beat me
by .25 percentage points.”
He handed me
another paper towel.
“And I’m damn good
at chemistry.”
I should have known
his name,
but at some point I stopped
paying attention
to details that didn’t matter
for GPAs and college admissions.
“Why are you
an expert
on removing lipstick
from lockers?”
I asked.
“My sister used to think
it was so hilarious
to use lipstick
on my car window,
as if writing from a supposed
secret admirer.
“That shit ain’t funny.”
He squirted more dish soap
onto the locker.
“Lipstick is a bitch
to clean off.”
I opened my mouth
to say something snarky
but stopped.
“Thanks,” I said quietly.
He glanced down at his watch.
“I’ve gotta get to class.”
The bell rang five minutes ago.
“What are you still doing here?”
I asked.
“Dunno,” he said,
and walked away.
To the last period of the day
I was early,
but so was half the class,
already seated,
with textbooks out, because
we were nerds who liked to get crackin’
on mitochondria and mitosis.
Someone was in my seat.
That guy,
the one with the dish soap.
He wore fluorescent orange sneak
ers,
with two silver stripes,
like a safety cone.
“You’re in my seat,” I said.
“Nope. It’s my seat now.”
The boy nodded
toward words
on a screen
that read
“New seating assignments.”
Projected above
the best seat in the class
was the name
“Ashok.”
Ashok, I repeated.
He looked up at me.
“Yeah?”
Shit.
I didn’t mean
to say it out loud.
“Do you ever go
by a nickname,
like Ash?”
I tried to recover.
“Why would I go by Ash?
That sounds like
a white boy’s name.”
“I have a white boy’s name,” I said.
He snorted. “That you do, Nic,
but you’re also not white,
and you’re not a boy.
So you just have
a weird name
like me.”
“Okay, Ashok.”
I hovered over his seat.
“Tell me where I’m supposed to sit.”
He scanned the air with his finger
and motioned to the desk next to him.
“Welcome, neighbor.”
I slumped into
the subpar seat.
Jordan Parker
Entered class
with his hand raised.
“Who can describe for me the process
of embryological development?”
We looked down at our textbooks,
flipping through pages
for an answer.
“The embryological development process
begins with fertilization
where an egg is fertilized by a sperm
and a zygote is formed,”
Jordan said.
“Mr. Parker, answering this question
does not excuse
your tardiness.”
Jordan raised a finger
and pulled a piece of paper
out of his back pocket.
Our teacher shook his head.
“Okay, fine,” he said.
“Please take your seat in front of”—
he scanned the room, his gaze landing
on the empty desk in front of me—
“Ms. Chen.”
Jordan saw the empty seat.
“Of course,”
we both muttered.
You racist
Jordan leaned back in his chair,
imposing on my desk space.
“Can you help me with my homework
for Japanese?” he whispered.
“I’ve never taken Japanese, Jordan.”
I didn’t know why
Jordan was talking to me
now
after weeks
of silence.
“But you speak it, right?”
“You know I’m part Chinese, Jordan.”
I didn’t know why
Jordan needed
anyone’s help
with anything
other than
the quality
of his character.
“It’s like the same thing—
Chinese, Japanese, Korean,”
Jordan said.
I couldn’t see his face,
but I imagined
a sheepish grin
with arrogant eyes
that still read,
Ben doesn’t go here
anymore,
like it was
all on
me.
I kicked his seat
hard.
Jordan lunged forward,
laughing.
“I only know Spanish, you racist,” I said.
The class turned in our direction.
Jordan stifled a laugh.
I felt my face burn
like a house to the ground.
But I raised my hand
to answer
the next question
on ectoderm
and mesoderm
and endoderm.
I was still going to be
the girl
who aced
this goddamn class.
Lifetimes ago
It was just the three of us,
Jordan, Ben, and me,
friends—
not lovers or enemies.
When I was little,
I didn’t understand dolls.
I didn’t like dressing things up
and forcing plastic toys
with shiny blond hair
to drink tea
or go on dates
or drive around in a pink Corvette.
I liked hanging out with Jordan and Ben.
We stood around Jordan’s backyard,
the three of us in our rain slickers.
Jordan would hand each of us a shovel.
“Today we’re digging to China,”
he would say.
Then he would turn to me,
“You can visit your relatives.”
Ben would start digging,
always the loyal sidekick.
I knew better.
“This is ridiculous, Jordan.
It’s impossible
to dig to China.”
Jordan would shake his head.
“What’s ridiculous is not trying, Nic.
How do we know what’s possible
if we don’t try?”
“Science,” I would mumble.
“Science tells us this is impossible.”
But in spite of my protests,
I’d pick up a shovel
and start digging straight into the corner
of the Parkers’ perfectly manicured lawn,
because
maybe today
it wasn’t so
impossible.
Tires screeching #2
Jordan Parker’s Range Rover
idled
behind my parked car
after seventh period.
A blond sophomore hung
on to the window
like a lemur,
her eyes big and black
and foolish
like a lemur’s.
I laid on my horn.
The sophomore turned around
and glared.
Jordan leaned closer
to the wheel.
He waved with his fingers,
as if to say “Toodles” or “Cheerio.”
“Move your fucking car!”
I yelled
out the driver’s-side window.
He flashed a smile.
“Jesus, Nicky.
Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”
I thought about the sound
of metal against metal,
of black paint
chipping off a shiny exterior,
of the shrill screams and obscenities
that would follow
if I acted upon
what I saw in my head.
I kept it in neutral.
“It’s Nic.
My name is Nic, Jordan.
Not Nicky,” I yelled back.
You of all people should know this,
I wanted to say.
There was a time when I was a Nic to Jordan,
like one of his buddies,
not Nicky,
like one of his conquests.
Jordan’s mouth curled slightly,
knowingly.
Then he continued on
with his business
with the lemur.
I slumped back,
watching the two of them flirt
through the rearview mirror.
With one final toss
of her hair
,
the sophomore hopped
into the SUV.
They sped away,
tires screeching around a corner.
I hated that sound.
It gave me that feeling
in the pit of my stomach
that’s not quite nausea
but not quite
not.
That sound
reminded me
of Ben.
Ben moved away
And I felt so empty.
I missed him so much,
like the feeling of forgetting a sweater
in the middle of winter,
like the feeling of having no one to sit with
in a crowded cafeteria,
like the feeling
of being restless,
and so deeply alone.
Almost every part of me wanted him back.
The heart, the skin,
the tired and achy muscles.
But my rational brain kept telling me
what an idiot I was
for thinking that it would ever
come true.
There already was
an end,
between Ben
and me.
Except
there was a place
in my broken heart
where possibility still remained.
Hope sat
On a back burner,
in a teakettle,
warming
but never boiling.
Never screaming.
Never wailing.
Only mildly percolating.
Rumbling just enough
to remind me
of possibilities,
of hope.
“How was school?”
Was one of those questions
that adults asked
just to get you talking.
“It was fine,” I would say to Xiaoling
every afternoon when I arrived home
from school.
My stepmother would shuffle around
the kitchen and make me a snack,
neither of us saying
anything more.
When Mom was around,
she didn’t ask me questions.
She already knew all the answers.
“I heard
that Jenny and Jordan
are dating.”
“The winter formal is coming up.
You should go.”
“I don’t understand
why Meydenbauer parents
condone sending their children
on unsupervised
spring break trips to Cabo.
You’re not going.”
When Mom was around,
she knew the names of my classmates,
she knew all their mothers,
and she knew of the gossip
that spread around town.
But it wasn’t what happened in Cabo
that any of the mothers cared about.
It was the rumors
of covert affairs,