There were those at school who smelt of tomato sauce, others of garlic. And of course there was no avoiding the stench of BO after the cross-country run. But Mimi had a curious smell that no one could recognise.

Mimi Lu lived in a two-storey shop that seemed to float on a cloud of strange smells. She was embarrassed enough that her home stank like a compost heap on a hot day, but the odour seeped into everything – her clothes, her pigtails, her skin – and could even be detected on her breath. Her parents forced her to drink all kinds of disgusting brews. The only way to get them down was to hold her nose until the very last swallow.

At school she was called Smelly-Loo. Kids complained if they were asked to share a desk. She never told her mum or dad about the bullying. They wouldn’t understand. They might as well have come from Mars.

‘Remember, Mimi, you are Chinese. Be proud of it.’ The words rattled around inside her brain. They were empty words that didn’t belong to her.

How can I be proud? They speak English with a funny accent that makes them sound really dumb. And other kids live in a proper house with grass and a garden. All I have is the footpath out on the street.

Mimi sat at the old laminex table in the kitchen staring at her navy blue school hat. She was remembering what Miss O’Dell, her art teacher, had told her that day about chiaroscuro – how to paint light and dark. The more she looked at her hat, the more it looked like a mountain range with hills and valleys.

Through the red curtains that separated the shop from the living quarters, Mimi could see her father putting on his clinic coat ready for the first patient.

Ding ding-a-ling. The shop door opened.

‘Dr Lu, I’m in a bit of a hurry. Can you see me now?’ came a voice used to giving orders.

Uh oh. Mimi hid behind her maths book.

‘Of course, Miss Sternhop,’ replied Mimi’s dad.

Miss Sternhop rapped her walking stick on the concrete floor. She was a solid lady with short, straight brown hair and two massive trunks for legs. The only thin part of her body was her lips. If Miss Sternhop ever collided with a car, it would be the car that suffered the most damage.

She placed her wrist on a small cushion. Dr Lu felt her pulse. Was it weak or strong, stringy or full? He wrote on a pad in Chinese characters.

‘See your tongue please,’ said Dr Lu.

Miss Sternhop opened her mouth wide and poked out her tongue. It was purple and thick and swollen at the edges.

She looks like an iguana from the Galápagos Islands. Mimi stifled a giggle.

On the back wall of the shop stood an antique wooden cabinet, with one hundred box-like drawers. The cabinet once belonged to Mimi’s grandfather in China. He was a herbalist too. Dr Lu didn’t know how old it was but he was always finding secrets from other people’s lives. Once he found a carved jade bracelet hidden in a secret panel at the back of a drawer. It was so tiny only a child could have worn it. There was a letter too, folded into the shape of a bird and pushed through the centre of the bracelet.

‘Aiya, family so poor, have to give away precious baby daughter. Before in China many people like this.’ Mrs Lu touched her heart.

Mimi wondered what it would be like to live in China. If I was born there I’d look like everyone else. I’d fit right in.

Dr Lu pulled one drawer halfway out and grabbed a handful of dried mistletoe. From other drawers he pulled out slices of fragrant angelica, licorice root and creamy white grains of Job’s tears. He weighed each herb separately, then divided them evenly into four paper packages.

‘This good for arthritis,’ said Dr Lu. ‘Drink two times every day’

‘How’s Mimi doing at school?’ asked Miss Sternhop.

Mimi slid down in her chair.

‘Not good,’ Dr Lu replied, shaking his head. ‘She draw too much.’

‘That was her trouble when she was in my class last year.’ Miss Sternhop hardly moved her tight, thin lips. ‘Never concentrated. In my experience you’ve got to come down hard on children like that.’ She banged the counter with a clenched fist, as if she were squashing a helpless bug.

‘See you in a month, Dr Lu.’ Miss Sternhop strode out to join the stream of life on the street.

When Miss Sternhop was well out of earshot, Mimi yelled from the kitchen, ‘I hate old Stir-em-up. She never liked me.’

‘Hate not good word, Mimi.’

‘But I do. She’s mean. The whole school was glad to see her go.’

‘Why you late today?’ Dr Lu wiped the counter with a feather duster then walked through the red curtains.

‘I told you already, Dad, Miss O’Dell is giving me special art classes after school. She says I have real talent.’ Mimi hadn’t made a big deal of it. She knew her dad would be angry.

‘You need to concentrate on school work . . . not painting,’ he said, suddenly breaking into Chinese. He did this whenever he was serious or angry. ‘Painting is not a respected profession.’

‘But I love drawing and painting, Dad,’ she replied in English. Two years ago, Mimi had decided never to speak Chinese again. ‘I’m Australian not Chinese,’ she had said defiantly. She knew it made her parents angry, but it was the one thing in her life she had control over.

Her dad waved his hand towards the yellowing photograph hanging above the altar table in the hallway and frowned at her. ‘Your nai nai and gong gong are watching, waiting for you to honour the family name. You have no brother, so it is up to you to please the ancestors.’

‘Oh phooey,’ Mimi said softly, then looked up, hoping the ancestors were hard of hearing. She felt the disapproving stare of her grandmother and grandfather on their ancestral cloud. Isn’t burning incense every day enough for you? Don’t you know that other kids’ parents say, ‘well done, you did your best’. They’re always being told how great they are. I get 98 for a maths test and Dad says it’s not good enough. All he ever does is criticise . . .

‘Tell your teacher you are busy after school. No more wasting time.’ Mimi’s dad broke into her thoughts.

‘But Dad, that’s not fair,’ she replied angrily.

Dr Lu sat down at his desk, his back blocking the conversation. It was no use. He had shut her out as usual. Mimi had learnt long ago that Chinese children never argue with their parents.

She stared at her maths book as tears melted the black digits into blurry grey blobs. Why did I have to be born into a Chinese family?