After the bell, Mom takes a look at the collages on the wall. She pauses politely before each one, nodding slightly, as if she’s been struck by some deep insight in “Blue Chad” or “Summer Sky,” as if we are all mini Monets soon to be immortalized in museum collections. When she gets to mine, her shoulders sag. She tosses back her hair in a show of nonchalance, but I know better. She doesn’t like it when I bring up my father in conversation. Nor, it seems, in my art.
She doesn’t say anything to me, though. Not then. Instead, she corners me and whispers, “I’m going to have a cup of coffee with Mr. Hodge in the faculty lounge. I’ll be waiting in the parking lot after school to give you a ride home.”
“Okay,” I say. “See you.”
Next is English, the last class of the day. Whitney has the seat next to mine.
“How did it go?” she asks.
“Could have been worse,” I say. “At least she didn’t wear one of her artist outfits.” When she holds an exhibit, she always shows up in caftans and turbans or outrageous gowns.
“I think your mom has great fashion sense,” she says.
I roll my eyes. Sometimes I wish she was frumpy and fat. And I wish she didn’t try so hard to stand out. In books and movies, Japanese women are always polite and demure. I often wonder if Mom had been more low-key and didn’t try to draw so much attention to herself, if my parents would still be together. And then maybe we’d all be living in Japan, where my Asian looks would be normal, not like here where just about everyone is descended from the Dutch or the Poles. The only minority students in the eighth grade are me, Linda Green, who was adopted as a baby from Korea, and Jason Tran, whose parents were boat people from Vietnam.
Being an artist myself, I understand my mother’s need to create. And I get that if not for her art, we might be foraging for roots and berries. Those sculptures put food on the table and clothes on my back. But wouldn’t it be cool if she could have a dual identity? Sort of like Clark Kent/Superman or Selina Kyle/Catwoman? Or even Lisa Cook, the high school girl in my magnum opus who morphs into Gadget Girl when her superheroine skills are needed? My mother could be an ordinary mom when she picks me up from school, and switch into some flashy wig and costume when she changes the world with her sculptures.
I know that it’s possible to make a splash while keeping a low profile. Gadget Girl’s month-old web page already has 250 hits, but I only printed one hundred copies of the last edition. No one knows that I’m her creator. Well, except for Whitney, that is. And her brother, Nathan. Of course people are curious. They want to know who’s drawing the manga. They post questions: “Are you male or female?” “Where do you live?” But I never reply. I like being mysterious. Plus, my life is nobody’s business. I’d rather have the work speak for itself.
In the same way, I’m sure Mom’s work could get by without her evening gowns and her magazine interviews. I’ll bet if she tried hard enough, she could blend in here. I’ll bet if she toned her act down and I learned how not to limp, we could even fit in over in Japan.