In the morning, I resist the urge to run into Tina’s room to shake her, to tell her to stop what she’s doing to our brother, what she’s doing to herself…. I have Shu-Ling’s warning in mind: Be patient. Tina stays home because she’s still not feeling well, and I catch a ride with Ma. She’s in a particular mood this morning, face pinched as she hurries Denny to the car. He’s dawdling as always, distracted by something in the alley. She sharply calls out to him to get in.

Denny puts on his headphones to listen to music, and that gives me a chance to talk to my mother. Without the risk of Tina being close by, overhearing my conversation, and then accusing me yet again of sticking my nose in where I don’t belong.

“Ma, does Tina seem…different to you?” I ask, broaching the topic tentatively, wondering what she’s noticed lately. Or if she’s noticed anything at all.

“Different? You mean her getting sick?”

“No…” Then I decide to come out and say it. “Different, like not herself. Like she’s changed.” The noises in the middle of the night. The weird things turning up in Tina’s room. The chanting that plays nonstop from her computer.

“Not herself?” Ma huffs as she turns her head to check for traffic coming behind us before changing lanes. She’s always been a nervous driver, so I don’t know why I thought it was a good idea to talk about this with her right now. I regret it. “The two of you always cause my blood pressure to go up. Constantly trying my patience. Your Auntie Tseng always warned me. Teenage girls, they’re going to cause you so much grief, and I tell her all the time—my girls are good girls, they listen, they do their work, but now I’m not so sure.”

I sigh. Sometimes when I talk to my parents, it reminds me again that they don’t quite understand what I’m saying. We’re both speaking English, and yet, there’s a gulf between us, a distance that is as far as the ocean between here and Taiwan.

“Maybe I should have signed you up for those Taiwanese youth activities, instead of just Chinese school,” Ma continues, still talking away, oblivious to how I’ve turned away from her. “I wanted to make sure you fit in, learn Canadian culture, but look what happens now! You and Tina become so westernized, distracted by all these ideas rotting your brain.”

“We’re going to be late, Ma,” I say as we pull into the school parking lot. I hurry out the door, and it shuts behind us with finality.

It looks like I’m still on my own.

In the afternoon, even though I could have gone home with Ma and Denny, I retreat to the library during our extended essay period. I ask the librarian, Ms. Yang, for materials we have in our small library on Vancouver’s Chinatown. She is happy to oblige but says that I would have more luck in the public library or even the UBC library, which has more academic texts. She tells me about an exhibit there that tracks the entrance of Chinese immigrants into Canada in the 1880s, capturing it all with documents and photographs. The first group of immigrants came here as laborers to work on building the railroads all the way across Canada or were miners and part of the Gold Rush, then they settled to try and make a life here afterward, despite the policies that restricted where they could work and what sort of businesses they could own. The groups of immigrants that came in later waves had different restrictions placed upon their entry. They had to prove they had enough funds to start up their own businesses or enough money to pay for higher education.

My parents brought with them their own complicated feelings about China, which they passed on to me—they recognize we are ethnically Chinese, and yet with our own distinct Taiwanese identities from my ancestors moving to Taiwan many, many generations ago. Though the current conflict seems very far away.

I don’t know if it was ever in their plans to stay in Canada after they came here for university. I don’t think I’ve ever asked. I realize, the sad thing is, I spend all this time thinking about how everyone I encounter has their own stories and their own histories, but what do I really know about my own history? About my parents’ history? They never shared that with us. And we never asked.

I take my time walking home instead of taking the bus, telling myself it’s because I want to stretch my legs, and not admitting it’s really because I don’t want to face Tina. When I’m finally home, I take off my shoes at the door and then stop. Something’s different. The lights are on in the dining room—the room where our piano lives, and where the lights are never on unless I’m practicing.

We have guests over. All their faces turn to me when I walk past them in the hallway.

“Come here, Ruby,” Ma calls out, and I pad over in my socks. “You remember Mrs. Tsai?” she says. “She’s here for a visit.”

“Hello, Auntie.” I duck my head.

“好乖.” Mrs. Tsai nods at me, smiling, praising me with a term that is more for obedient children than teenagers. But I force myself to smile back.

“Ma, what’s happening?” Tina appears on the stairs. She looks as confused as I feel.

“Ah, Tina, Mrs. Tsai is here.” Ma waves her down. “Come and say hello.”

“How are you feeling, Tina? Your parents tell me you’re not feeling well today,” Mrs. Tsai says warmly, looking up at her.

“Director Tsai!” Tina exclaims, suddenly conscious of her pajamas. “Just a moment please, let me get changed.” She turns and runs up the stairs.

“While we wait for her, Mrs. Tsai was kind enough to bring us some pastries,” Ma tells me. “Ruby, could you bring some plates from the kitchen?”

I go into the kitchen and hesitate when I open the cupboard: the regular white Corelle plates with the dark blue flower borders, or the special pale blue ceramic plates for guests? I can hear the murmur of their voices through the wall, but I can’t distinguish their words. I pull down the stack of pretty plates, figuring I can’t go wrong with that.

“Also a knife, Ruby!” Ma calls out. “And some forks too.”

I bring a handful of the small dessert forks and set them down on the dining room table.

The box of pastries has a festive design on them, red and gold. There are six of them inside, individually wrapped. Ma has already taken one out and unwraps it, the plastic crinkling, and slides it out onto one of the plates. It’s golden and round, flaking around the edges, about the size of my palm.

“This bakery is in Richmond; they have the best wife cakes. The ones with the black sesame on top are filled with black sesame and winter melon,” Mrs. Tsai says. “The ones with black and white sesame on top are filled with red bean and winter melon.”

“Then we’ll have to try both.” Ma smiles, taking out the other flavor as well and cutting them into quarters.

“Wife cake?” I ask, not sure if I’ve tried this before.

“老婆餅,” Baba says. “You’ve had them before. We usually call them sweetheart pastries. Your uncle brings them all the time from Taichung.” Uncle David is Ma’s brother, our only real “uncle” and the youngest out of all of our relatives of our parents’ generation. Tina loves him because he has a tendency to buy us tons of sweets when we visit.

“None for me, thank you, but I will take more tea.” Mrs. Tsai picks up her cup. “This is delicious.”

Baba’s face lights up, because he always complains that no one has his palate and appreciation for tea. He eagerly pours her another cup. “It’s a red oolong…from Taiwan, of course. Can you taste the honey finish?”

Mrs. Tsai nods, smiles as she takes another sip. The steam fogs her glasses, obscuring her eyes, giving her a vaguely sinister air. Ma gives me a plate and tells me to go give it to Denny, and I get up from the table eagerly. Tina runs down the stairs and past me in the hallway, dressed in T-shirt and jeans, her hair braided. Denny’s sitting in the den at his Lego table, and he cheers when he notices me come over. He shoves one of the pieces into his mouth and then chews with his mouth wide open.

“Gross.” I make a face. “Can you eat with your mouth closed?” Denny puts his hand in front of his mouth and giggles. Even though I want to sit there with my little brother in the den and play with Legos, I know I’m expected to return to the dining room table.

“Like I was saying,” I hear Mrs. Tsai say when I return, “the team at Soulful Heart believes in Tina’s potential. We think she’s very talented, Mr. and Mrs. Chen. She shows a great aptitude for dance. She understands the movements of her body, she exhibits dedication and focus, but most importantly—she is passionate about it. That is something you cannot teach.”

My stomach drops. Here it is. Tina’s secret finally revealed.

“Tina is smart.” Ma looks unimpressed. I can tell from the way the side of her cheek twitches that she’s holding back her anger to save face in front of Mrs. Tsai. “She does not have much time for other activities.”

I can’t see Tina’s face, since her head is hanging low, like she wishes she could sink into the earth and disappear.

“I understand,” Mrs. Tsai says smoothly. “You’ve been told that the best path to getting into a good university is through Westview, and padding up the résumé with activities like music, volunteering. But we all know children like that. They’re all pushed to excel the same way, and now none of them stand out.

“Dance though.” Mrs. Tsai leans in, hands together, focused. She looks at Ma and then at Baba, acknowledging them in turn. “Soulful Heart does not perform just any type of dance. We have a lion-and-dragon dance troupe. We have Classical Chinese, we have Modern Interpretative, but we always add cultural elements. We incorporate the beauty of our culture, acknowledge our traditions, remember our history.” Her voice is earnest, just like a teacher’s. She’s a Person of Authority, so that makes my parents more likely to listen to anything she has to say.

If Mrs. Tsai isn’t able to convince my parents to let Tina dance, then no one will be able to.