The last person I expect to see in my closet, shoving aside hanger after hanger with the swift precision of a professional shopper, is my mother. With her hair swept up in a loose French knot, her jawbones jut out, even more knifelike than normal. Her eyes rake me from my sweaty head to my sweaty tank top to my sweaty socks, and she smiles more approvingly than when I’m in Prada.
“Hi, Mama. When did you get back?” I ask her, self-consciously tucking a wet tendril behind my ear.
There’s no answering “good to see you, Syrah.” No “D.C. was lonely without you.” And definitely no hug.
Instead, she cups my face and inspects one side after the other like I’m a Tang horse she’s evaluating before acquiring for her collection. “You lost a little weight. Brilliant. We got back a couple of hours ago.” She drops her hands off me to examine her forehead critically in the mirror, her fingers reading imaginary wrinkles like braille. “Can’t you tell? I look horrid.”
“You look great, Mama.”
And she does. Effortlessly elegant and always put-together, four-hour flight or not, Mama is impeccable, fashionable, and breakably thin. The stats in her notebook blink in my head, a scorecard where I am always the loser: She’s three inches taller and ten pounds lighter than I am. As I turn away from my reflection, I catch sight of my bruised shoulder. Casually, while Mama returns to her futile search for my perfect outfit, I hug my arms around myself, hands cupped over my shoulders like epaulets on a jacket.
Mama pushes aside the last hanger and turns to me, frowning. “Honestly, Syrah, where are all your nice things?”
“Right here,” I say, considering my closet packed with clothes from designers whose names I mix up or mangle. I point to one of the short black dresses. “What’s wrong with this one?”
“You wore that to the company party two years ago.”
“I did?”
“Yes.” Mama looks impatiently at me, fashion amnesiac that I am. “People will think we’re too cheap to buy you new clothes.” Her lips thin to the point of disappearing. As if wearing an outfit twice would really hurt the all-important Cheng Family Honor. She sighs, pressing newly manicured fingertips to her temples. “I knew I should have picked you up something from San Francisco, but I just didn’t have time.”
“San Francisco? I thought you were in D.C.”
“We made a quick stop in California this morning.” Crossing her arms, Mama stares at me. “You won’t fit into anything of mine.”
Of course I won’t. A strand of my hair wouldn’t fit into Mama’s size negative four clothes.
Her eyes settle on my hands, still clutching my shoulders. Mama says, “You didn’t get a tattoo while we were in D.C., did you?”
If only the bruise were a tattoo, and not evidence of my disobedience.
Mama pries my fingers off my shoulder and sucks in her breath when she sees the bruise, big as a peony, her favorite flower, the one that represents beauty and wealth.
“How could you do this to me? Tonight of all nights?” she says, her voice growing louder. “What happened?”
I shrug.
“You went snowboarding, didn’t you? After we told you not to anymore.” And before I can stop her, Mama summons Baba as if my bruise is a matter of national security, “Ethan!”
In no time, it’s we three Chengs in my closet.
Baba demands, “What’s wrong?”
“Ethan, Syrah has been snowboarding again,” Mama says.
“I told you snowboarding is dangerous,” Baba says impatiently, like he’s talking to a dog who won’t obey simple commands: sit, stay, shut up. So begins his instant recall of every scary stat about snowboarding: “Snowboarders get in more accidents than any other participant in winter sports. Those accidents are more serious than other sports. Last week, a sixteen-year-old died in Utah going off a cliff. That’s the ninth death this season alone.”
Just this once, couldn’t Baba have an Alzheimer moment? Nothing permanent. Just a temporary glitch in his perfect recall brain.
But data, facts, and numbers are what Baba built his billions on.
“We warned you before your surgery,” he says.
“But—”
“No more snowboarding,” he says, his voice harder.
Ever his backup chorus, Mama chimes in, “We don’t want to see you hurt.”
Something in me snaps. Maybe it’s the latent shock and hurt from seeing Bao-mu’s room emptied out or hearing the truth about what Age thinks of me, but I mutter, “No, it’s just that you don’t want to see me at all.”
Mama gasps like her ears have never heard such insolence. They haven’t, not from me, anyway, the good girl who tries to be perfect to get into everybody’s good graces. Baba’s eyes narrow, because I dared to talk back, dared to show the real me.
As if I’m just one more disposable employee, Baba says harshly, “What will it take for you to learn? Another avalanche? Do you want to be paralyzed for the rest of your life? Die?”
“No, I just—”
Baba takes a step closer to me, his fists curled like he’s barely containing himself from punching some sense into my snow-addled brain.
“Are you so stupid that you would risk your life?” Baba demands, his eyes cold, forgetting that I’m his youngest daughter, the one Grace and Wayne say he spoils.
My resolve withers under this verbal attack. I gulp, the “sorry, sorry” on my lips. God, no wonder Grace and Wayne talk about surviving The Ethan Cheng Way, like their childhoods were spent in the war years. I shake my head, unable to stop my tears.
“For what? For fun?” Baba spits out the word as if it’s a disgrace to say. His hand makes a sharp, slashing motion, a guillotine for my dreams. “I didn’t work this hard to support a paraplegic daughter for life. You will not snowboard again. Do you understand me?”
Frozen in place, I nod, acquiescing the way I’ve seen Wayne and Grace do under the force of Ethan Cheng’s will.
“Good.” Baba shifts his eyes to Mama. The snowboard discussion closes, and Baba, all business again, informs Mama calmly, as if nothing has happened, no lambasting, no lectures, “We need to get ready. The dinner starts in an hour.”
“Wear this,” says Mama, yanking a red dress with long sleeves out of the closet, one I’ve never worn before because every time I try it on, I feel like my hips balloon wider than they are. As obvious as I feel in that loud dress, I might as well wear a neon sign on my back, one that flashes CASH COW! CASH COW!
United arm in arm against me, Mama and Baba leave, and I follow them to my door, dress in my hand. While they disappear down the stairs to their wing, I gaze not at their retreating backs but at Bao-mu’s empty room.
No, you just don’t want to see me at all. What I said is the truth, I think, as I look at myself in the mirror. I haven’t wanted to see me at all, either.
In the six minutes before our departure time, I check my e-mail inbox, willing Age to instant-message me, but find another message instead. The one from the RhamiWare rep. My hand trembles as I click on the e-mail that holds the key to my snowboarding dreams.
Dear Syrah,
It was good to hear from you. I enjoyed looking at your video résumé and you definitely have a lot of talent. But after your unfortunate incident a few months ago, I’m afraid that my management believes that you would be more of a liability than an asset at this point in our marketing strategy. Of course, times may change and we can revisit this.
Best,
Ralph
However cleverly packaged, thanks to chapter six of The Ethan Cheng Way, I can spot a yes-but-no rejection when I get one. Yes, I’m good. But I’m not good enough to escape my past or coast on my last name. So, no, there will be no sponsorship now or in the future for as long as I shall live. The guardians of this golden opportunity have slammed the gate shut, padlocked it, and relegated me to stand wistfully on the other side with the rest of the pro snowboarder wannabes begging: please let me into your exclusive club.
God, isn’t there a tiny little alcove in the world where I’m good enough as is? Angrily, I delete the message just as Baba’s voice intones insistently over the intercom: “Syrah, we’re leaving. Now.” Instead of rolling up in a ball on my bed the way I want, I power off my computer and head downstairs.