Finally Seen, page 6
And until I know for sure that’s not going to be my fate, I vow never to speak in class again.
Chapter 18
Thankfully, Mom’s too distracted by a custom order request we received from a customer named FunkyVeganMama to dig into me about my first day when I get home.
“How’d it go today?” she asks, distractedly clicking on graduation hat molds on Etsy.
“Fine,” I say.
“Did you make friends?”
“Yup!” I lie.
“How was the food?” she asks, glancing over.
I nod enthusiastically. The enchilada turned out to be pretty good. And they gave me so many cookies and sliced apples, enough to feed a family of four in Bei Gao Li Village! I don’t mention the fact that there was nowhere to sit and no one to sit with. I finally ate on the grass, under a tall eucalyptus tree, far, far away from the lunch tables.
It was the most delicious, lonely lunch I’ve ever had.
“That’s great! What do you two think of this request? FunkyVeganMama’s offering us twenty dollars to make her daughter a custom bath bomb—in the shape of a graduation hat,” Mom says. “I found a mold online for twenty dollars!”
“Oooh! We can make the tassel gold!” Millie says.
“But it won’t get here until next week,” Mom says, frowning.
“And twenty dollars is a lot,” I say. “Won’t that eat into our profit?”
I may not know much English, but thankfully I could keep up in math. All those mountains of homework I had to do in China paid off. Today in class I got a 92 percent on my math test. That’s compared to a 22 percent on the vocabulary quiz, and a pitiful 5 percent on the spelling test. I don’t even want to think about the Book Tasting homework sitting in my backpack.
“We could reuse it?” Mom suggests. “The next time someone else has a graduation hat order… we’ll be all set.”
If someone else orders one. If they don’t, we’ll be out twenty dollars, plus the cost of making the bath bomb. I twist my body, glancing over at the powdery white balls on the kitchen table. They look like tiny white canvases to me. Suddenly, I have an idea.
“What if we just paint a graduation hat on them?” I ask.
“Paint them?” Mom asks. “With what?”
“There’s gotta be some kind of paint that’ll work,” I say, reaching for Mom’s phone to look this up.
But Millie grabs the phone before me.
“I’m head of product design,” she reminds me.
I roll my eyes.
She takes the phone, her fingers typing effortlessly on the screen. I marvel at my sister’s speedy search skills, the fact that she knows all the right words.
After just forty-five seconds of searching, she announces that it’s not possible to paint on a bath bomb. The paint will simply mix and react with the citric acid.
“Let me see that,” I say, reaching for the phone.
Millie tries to hold Mom’s phone away. “What for? I’ve already looked!” she says. We wrestle for the phone.
When I can’t pry it away from my sister’s sticky fingers, I shoot Mom a desperate look.
“Let your sister have a turn,” Mom says.
“I’m just going to Baidu it from my own computer,” I inform Millie, patting my new school Chromebook in my backpack. It was by far the highlight of my day—getting a Chromebook. If only Lao Lao had one too.
Millie hands over the phone. “It’s called Google.”
I roll my eyes, swiping into Mom’s phone. As I’m tapping into every app, I can hear Millie urging Mom to get the graduation mold, not waste another second!
“With expedited shipping, it could get here earlier!” Millie says.
“Expedited shipping will cost even more, though.” Mom grimaces.
“Look!” I declare, holding up the phone. I show Mom and my sister beautifully painted bath bombs on something called Pinterest. “It can totally be done! We just need something called mica.”
Mom gets up. She and my sister crane their necks as I show them a video of a woman painting a gorgeous metallic butterfly onto a pale pink bath bomb. We all stare at the kaleidoscope of colors.
“Mica it is!” Mom grabs her keys. “Let’s go to Michaels!”
* * *
Michaels, as it turns out, is heaven on earth. It’s a huge arts and crafts store the size of a Beijing hutong! As Mom goes to find the salesclerk with her plain bath bombs in tow, my sister and I linger in the paintbrush section.
“Do you realize what this means? If this works, I can paint all kinds of designs on the bombs!” I tell Millie, reaching for the paintbrushes. I can already picture it in my head—I can paint birthday cakes, wedding rings, people’s initials! This is even more exciting than Bart Simpson accidentally discovering a comet!
But Millie’s still sour on the idea.
“What if it stains? Then people will complain about their bathtubs,” she says.
I frown, tired of Millie’s shade. I decide to confront my sister.
“Why you always gotta be breaking my noodles?” I ask her.
“I’m not breaking your noodles.”
“Yes you are.”
“I don’t even know what that means,” she says.
It means don’t you think you’ve had it your way for long enough? The words sit on the edge of my tongue as I watch Millie, rocking to a song in her head, swaying her hips, touching everything on the shelves. A woman walks by and says, “Work it, girl, you got moves!” To which Millie hollers back with a smile, “Thanks! I’m @milliegao8 on TikTok!”
As she chats with the lady, still dancing, I stare at her total lack of self-consciousness. And the fact that she can just talk. Millie doesn’t need to think and translate in her head. She just talks.
I think of this morning in class and reach for my lips. I tug them apart with my fingers, just to make sure they’re not permanently sewn. I’ll get there.
As Millie’s yakking and dancing, I suddenly notice her hands are bare. What happened to her mittens?
“Millie!” I call out. “Your mittens! Did you lose them?”
I start searching the aisles frantically.
“No, Hazel has them,” Millie tells me.
“Wait, you gave them to her?” I ask.
“I lent them! Relax!”
But I am not relaxed. I am fuming. Lao Lao worked on them for a whole month. She continued to knit even when her hands hurt and her eyes were getting blurry. I put my hands on Millie’s arms and try to get the importance of those gloves through to her. “They are precious. Lao Lao may never make another pair! Do you understand?”
“All right! Geez!” Millie exclaims in English, wriggling away from me.
A few people look over and stare at us. Mom walks over with a bunch of mica paints and asks what’s going on. Millie hisses in English, “Lina was just being a drama queen.”
I wish I had an equally powerful comeback phrase for Millie in English. But I do not yet know enough English.
Instead, I stick my tongue out at her. Which is definitely not as satisfying, but at least it’s the same in every language—Millie’s being an armpit.
Chapter 19
In the car, on the way to Pete’s, I protect the precious mica from my sister with my hand—in case she tries to lend that to Hazel too. The mica turned out to be quite expensive, ten dollars for three colors. We had no money left for the new brushes, which were five dollars a brush at Michaels, so we’re counting on Pete to have some lying around his garage.
As it turns out, he does have some. But he wants to charge us four dollars a brush for them.
“Four dollars?” Mom asks. “C’mon, Pete, I’m trying to make money for back rent. It’s due less than six weeks! I already spend ten dollars on paint!”
“You want to fulfill your order or not?” Pete asks.
Mom gazes hesitantly at her thin wallet. I immediately jump in with an idea.
“Mom! Tell Pete we’ll work—me and Millie. We’ll help Carla for a free brush!” I blurt out in Chinese.
Mom doesn’t translate this right away, but Millie tells him what I said. Pete considers the offer. No doubt, he’s doing the math in his head. Two farmhands for four hours, versus two brushes at four dollars. Finally, he nods.
I grab the mica from Mom, and the brushes from Pete’s hand, and run out the back and onto the field.
* * *
Sandwiched between the tall leaves of the leek plants, I paint in the sun, while Millie and Carla cover me.
“How’s it looking? You done yet?” Millie asks me.
“Last part,” I say, inhaling deeply. I’ve already painted the black hat. Now, deep in concentration, I dip the paintbrush in gold mica for the tassel. Millie helped make the special solution with rubbing alcohol, which Carla had in her tiny home.
Millie and Carla watch as I work. When I finish, Carla starts gushing.
“Oh, that’s so good!” she exclaims.
I give her a grateful smile.
“You think so?” I ask in English.
“Let’s show Mom! We’re out of here!” Millie squeals, jumping up. She reaches for my bath bomb and takes off sprinting.
I watch as Millie stops to say bye to Dad. The two of them do their elaborate high-five routine again. I try to decide if the left-out vinegary feeling feels any better as I watch them today. Carla interrupts my thoughts with a compliment.
“You’re a really good artist,” she says.
I blush.
“Thanks.”
“Did you learn to draw like that at Winfield?” she asks. “I hear it’s a nice school.”
I shake my head. “Not nice school,” I tell her. For some reason, when I talk to her in English, my invisible thread disappears and all my feelings come out, no problem. I don’t feel scared or nervous.
“Why not?” she asks.
I search around for the words. It’s like pulling the weeds from deep in the soil. Finally, I say, “Other kids not nice. Not like you.”
Carla wipes the sweat from her brow and gazes at me in the late-afternoon sun.
“What are they like?” she asks.
I think of the disgust on Jessica’s face as she complained that I was reading too slow.
“They not like me,” I tell her. “Because my English bad.”
“Your English is not bad,” she says. “Come here. Let me show you something.” She gets up and holds out her hand. I take it hesitantly. She pulls me up and leads me to the greenhouse. I peer at the little seeds growing in delicate cups. “Do you know the key to transporting seedlings?”
I peer at the tiny, fragile seedlings and shake my head.
“Gotta be extra delicate,” she says. “And real patient. It takes them a while to find their footing in their new home. But once they do, they shoot up like a beanstalk.”
Carla reaches under one of the tables and produces a gigantic stalk of celery. She takes a bite and throws it to me. I laugh and take a bite too.
“Give yourself time,” she says. “You’ve just been transplanted. You’ll find your root system again.”
“Thanks,” I say to her. “You very smart.”
She gives me a toothy grin. “My mom says it’s because I’m always reading about plants. Guess I’m an old fern!”
I smile. I ask Carla why she doesn’t go to regular school. I’d sure like her sitting behind me rather than Jessica Reads-Too-Fast.
“My mom says it’s so she can teach me more in science.” Carla shrugs. She lingers. “But I think it’s because we’re always moving.”
“Why you always moving?” I ask. It fills me with hope that I can actually follow along with this conversation.
“Ever since my dad died, we just don’t want to stay in one place…,” she says in a small voice. “Otherwise we’ll feel sad.”
When Carla says that, I feel a tug at my heart. I want to give her a hug. I want to tell her I know her grief. I went through it with my lao ye and now I’m headed there again. It’s like I’m in a big waiting room, one I hope I never leave. But Lao Lao’s getting older and older, and there’s nothing I can do to slow it down.
And now I’ve run away from the only home I’ve ever known, which has made things worse for Lao Lao. And that makes me feel like a coward.
But I don’t say all that. Instead, I take a seedling and gesture to Carla, Can I?
We walk over to the soil together and, as gently as possible, transplant it into the dirt. We’re careful not to touch or damage the root system. Then we pat the soil with all our best wishes and hope for the seedling.
And for a brief second, I feel a little less alone.
Chapter 20
Mom shows me the message from the customer on my way to school. Last night, after the paint dried, she took a picture of my bath bomb and Millie’s (she insisted on painting some too) and sent it to FunkyVeganMama.
“Look at that! She loves it!” Mom announces. “Read it out loud! Go on!”
I glance hesitantly over at my sister, but she looks just as eager to hear what the customer said about our painted bombs as I am. In my shaky English, I start reading.
“Hi, JML. These look beautiful,” I read. “I would like them very much for my dater’s graduton.”
“Daughter’s graduation,” Mom helps me.
“Oh, sorry.” I blush.
“Nothing to feel sorry about, keep reading!” Mom encourages.
“She is turning eighteen next month and going to Cal Poly. I am so proud of her. She is the light of my life.”
I finish reading and turn to my sister, who claps her hands together and does a happy dance. “We killed it! KA-CHING!”
I can’t help but laugh, even though I’m still a pea mad at her for lending Lao Lao’s mittens out.
“You think we’re going to get more?” Millie asks Mom.
“Well, now that we have our resident artist, I hope so.” Mom beams at me.
Millie clears her throat.
“I’m sorry, resident artists,” Mom corrects with a smile.
Despite the correction, I feel myself glowing from ear to ear at the confirmation that I am not completely useless in this country. I can do this! I can help my family not just in the Imagination Hotel but in real life, too!
Getting out of the car, I vow to try hard today at school and not let Jessica or anyone else get to me.
Unfortunately, when I walk into class, the first thing Mrs. Carter asks for is our Book Tasting homework.
Uh-oh.
In my eagerness to paint more glittery bath bombs when we got home, I completely forgot to do my homework.
“Oh no…,” I mutter from my desk.
Finn turns to me. He’s in a new Rams shirt—this one looks about two sizes too big on him. He gets out his homework from a plastic Rams folder. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
I glance down at my backpack. “I not do.…”
“It’s okay!” Finn says, glancing over to see if Mrs. Carter’s looking. “Just pull it out now and I’ll help you do it. Real fast.”
He turns his body to block the view from the front of the room and I dig into my backpack. Jessica’s prying eyes stare curiously at us.
“What are you guys doing?” she asks.
“Nothing, mind your own business,” Finn tells her.
I grab my homework and we turn back, whispering between ourselves and huddling close so no one can see.
“What’s rating?” I whisper.
“Like… if you go to a restaurant,” Finn whispers back. It takes me a minute to register restaurant, and Finn blurts out “fan guan.”.
My pupils widen. “You know Chinese??” I ask. Unfortunately, I forget to whisper, and Mrs. Carter looks over.
Finn blushes. “Some. I had a Chinese au pair when I was little,” he says.
“You did? Oh, that’s perfect!” Mrs. Carter cries. “Finn, I want to see you at recess, after I’ve had a chance to talk to Lina!”
Chapter 21
As the rest of my classmates pile out for recess and Finn waits awkwardly outside the classroom door, I walk up to Mrs. Carter’s desk. I try to guess Mrs. Carter’s awesome idea, taking inspiration from every episode of The Simpsons I’ve ever watched.
She’s decided to have a school play and she wants to cast me as Mulan.
Better yet, she wants to take us on a class field trip to Beijing!
Or maybe she found out I make bath bombs and wants me to paint a custom one with her favorite book on it. But she can’t decide which one is her favorite, so she orders five hundred bath bombs. And we no longer owe any more back rent.
I’m still smiling about the last one when Mrs. Carter reaches for my vocabulary quiz and spelling test from yesterday—the ones with a big red 22% and a cringey 5%. The smile on my face dissolves faster than baking soda.
“So, Lina, I was looking through your tests from yesterday,” Mrs. Carter says.
Here we go. I’m getting kicked out, I know I am. The tears start welling in my eyes as I think about my mother’s fingers caked in baking soda, and all the weeds Dad had to pull and the mulch he had to lay down to get me into this school.
“Oh no no no,” Mrs. Carter says, grabbing a tissue when she sees my moist eyes. “You’re fine! I’m sorry if I’m making you worried. You just need a little help with vocabulary and reading, that’s all! I had a chat with the district, and guess what? They’re sending over a special teacher for you!”
I peek at her from behind my tissue. A special teacher?
“Her name is Mrs. Ortiz. She’s our English Language Learner instructor. I wrote all this to your mom in an email, and she just emailed me back and said she’s fine with it!” Mrs. Carter says. “And the best part is, you’ll be working with Mrs. Ortiz one-on-one!”
I don’t know what one-on-one means but if it’ll rescue me from embarrassing read-alouds with my impatient classmates, I’ll try it.
