One of the many rules of the Parker family is that dinner must never be interrupted by serious conversation. Arguments are strictly forbidden. Polite chit-chat of the “How was your day, dear?” variety is all that’s allowed. The sharp bickering that sometimes goes on between Megan and me shuts down as soon as we enter the dining room. Only after the plates have been cleared can any weighty discussion happen.
One autumn day when I was in elementary school I made my way home under a cloud of doom, dragging my feet and seizing any opportunity—walking with my arms held out for balance along the curb, side-stepping cracks in the sidewalk, kicking bunches of soggy leaves along the gutter—to slow me down. Dad’s car was in the driveway. When I pushed open the front door I yelled “I’m home!” and ran upstairs to my room.
Dinner was torture. My teacher had told me that she had called Mother at lunchtime. I knew my parents were aware of what I had done—or, more exactly, not done. I knew they wouldn’t mention my crime until after dinner, and their calm, purposeful eating infuriated me. Megan’s cheerful ignorance of the issue heightened the suspense and her prattling twisted my nerves.
I fiddled with my pork chop, pushed mashed potatoes around on my plate, rolled peas back and forth. My mother pretended not to notice. Dad chomped away noisily, setting my teeth on edge. Mom ate with her usual delicacy, nodding and making encouraging noises as Megan nibbled at her salad and rattled on about the Drama Club elections. She was running for president. She’d win, too. Miss Perfect.
“Can I be excused?” Megan finally asked, throwing down her napkin and pushing back her chair.
“Not yet, dear,” Mom replied. “We have something to discuss first.”
Megan shot a glance at me, then at Dad. I could see the wheels turning. She was wondering if our parents had found her out, prepared for the possibility that I had broken my promise and told about her sneaking off to Matt’s party the previous Friday night. She had told Mom and Dad that she’d be spending the night at her friend Patti’s—which was, as with all Megan’s subterfuges, partly true. Patti had gone to the party, too. I sat quietly, watching Megan suffer as she decided on the exact proportion of truth and falsehood, composing her lie, grateful for the diversion, even if it would not last.
“Dong-mei, dear,” Mother said calmly in her Teacher Voice. “Mrs. Crossly called me today. Would you like to tell us why?”
“Didn’t she tell you?”
The corners of her mouth tightened a little. “Your dad and I would like you to explain.”
Megan planted her elbows on the table, rested her chin on her hands, looked straight at me, and smiled.
“Well?” Dad said half-heartedly.
“I didn’t hand in my project,” I confessed.
“Why not?” Mom asked.
“I didn’t have one to hand in.”
“Because?”
“Because I didn’t do it.”
Mother let out a sigh. “Dong-mei, stop being obtuse and explain yourself.”
Two weeks before, Crossly had announced what she proudly called a special history project. We would have a great deal of leeway, she said, and there would be lots of opportunity to be as creative as we wished. I had assumed history meant history, and that leeway signified choice.
Mrs. Crossly handed out the assignment the next morning. “It’s your personal history!” she crowed, as if announcing the winner of a lottery. “And, above all things, exactness and accuracy will be rewarded. All information must be correct.”
The instructions, detailed and numerous, were printed on pink paper—“So you won’t lose them,” she had told us. There were lots of blanks to fill in to get us started. My pink sheet remained somewhere in the dust and grime of my desk at school.
One look at it had been enough to awaken the procrastination I was so good at. NAME marked the first blank line. DATE OF BIRTH, the second. CITY OF BIRTH, the third. I dutifully printed Grace Parker at the beginning, then put down my pencil. The fear of being mocked or thought stupid paralyzed me.
I didn’t know my date of birth. Yangzhou was the city where the orphanage was situated, but my actual place of birth was as big a mystery as the date. My parents had always held my birthday party on the anniversary of my arrival in Canada, but Mom had carefully explained to me that this was a symbolic date. Mrs. Crossly had stressed, repeatedly, that the details in our personal history project must be “absolutely exact. The evidence is no good if it’s not accurate.” And I took her literally, certain I’d be found out and criticized if I faked the information.
Below the empty blanks on the pink sheet was a paragraph of instructions that emphasized the need to interview family members, especially grandparents and other relatives, as well as our parents. More blanks had been provided to list the names of those questioned. But who could I interview? I felt as if the whole project had been designed to snare me.
Taking the problem to my parents was not an option. They didn’t know anything more than I did. So I sat in class, writing nothing, as kids around me scribbled industriously, putting Milford or Edmonton or Toronto in the third blank.
“I couldn’t do it,” I said helplessly when Mother once more demanded an explanation. “I couldn’t fill in the spaces.”
Megan began to remove our plates and load the dishwasher.
“I think I get it,” Dad said after a moment. “You didn’t know the answers to the questions.”
I nodded, staring down at the table, twisting my fingers in my lap.
“What were the questions?” Mom asked.
My eyes stung with tears. “Birthday. Where I was born—that kind of stuff.”
“But,” Mom began, “why didn’t you—?”
“Because all that stuff you told me isn’t real! And Mrs. Crossly would find out! She’d get me in trouble for putting down lies.”
“Why didn’t you just make something up?” Megan suggested from the doorway. “Crossly wouldn’t know the diff. Or care. It’s just a project.”
“Megan, that’s not very helpful,” Mom said.
“Neither is your approach to the whole thing,” Dad put in. It was unusual for him to say anything critical to Mother, especially in front of Megan and me. “As far as we’re all concerned, Dong-mei was born on August 13, 1981, and that’s that. And she was born in Yangzhou. What’s the use of telling a child her birthday is only symbolic, for heaven’s sake? I told you it would only confuse things. Now look what’s happened.”
“Well.” Mother smoothed her napkin. “Be that as it may, there’s still a project that has to be completed.”
“I think I should call Crossly and tell her to give Grace a substitute assignment. Or maybe you should call. I’m liable to remind her how insensitive she was to ask Grace to do that project to begin with.”
“I’ll phone her tomorrow,” Mom said. “We’ll work it out.”
They left the table thinking they had solved something.