Red Butterfly Page 4
concealed in our apartment,
she has forgotten most of her Chinese.
Crossing a Line
Mama never gets angry,
never yells,
never blames.
But something snaps in her eyes
when I tell her
what Zhao Bin’s mother
wanted
and
what I said.
What were you thinking?
Jody shrugs.
I would’ve stopped her
if I’d known what she was saying.
Mama scrapes the floor
as she yanks her chair back,
too angry
to speak.
Stomp
I wish there was a place to stomp to,
because Mama acting mad
makes me madder.
And all the madness
fizzling underneath comes
crashing out
like one of the trains
roaring over the track,
whistling,
blaring,
halting the bikes and cars
for twenty minutes.
I wish there was a place to stomp to,
a door to slam,
but Jody’s stuff is all over my room
and I’m sleeping with Mama.
Why don’t you want me to have friends?
It isn’t fair!
There’s no place to go
but out,
so out I go,
leaving
all that delicious,
expensive
dinner
half-eaten.
Running
I’ve never done
anything
like this
before.
In my veins runs
fear
at what I’m becoming—
a willful girl
who leaves her mama behind
because she’s too angry to stay,
but also
excitement
and pride
at my Jane Eyre bravery.
I consider
Zhao Bin’s
closed door
but keep going,
pausing to knock at
Zhang Laoshi’s.
She always tells the truth
and I need to know
once and for all
why Mama
holds me so close
and why
she hides.
Zhang Laoshi Explains
Of course
she has to hide,
Zhang Laoshi says,
tapping my forehead
with a gnarled finger
as if wondering if my brain is still inside.
Your mama can’t /something/
because she’s too old.
Besides,
you don’t have /something/.
There they are,
the two /somethings/,
the /somethings/ that keep me
from understanding.
It’s hopeless,
not even your older sister
could help.
If your mama left
she couldn’t take you with her,
so she can’t let them find her.
She’s afraid
our neighbors
will report her.
She’s even afraid
of me,
of what I could tell
the police.
You understand?
She sets a plate of
dried apricots
on the table,
round like gold coins.
The police?
She makes it sound
as if Mama
has done something
terrible.
But why . . .?
I stop myself
because I won’t ever understand
until I know
the meaning of
those two
mysterious /somethings/.
Punishment
When I come home
Mama says,
Thank God,
and squeezes me long
long
long
so long
it hurts.
Don’t do that
to me
again,
you hear?
There’s no forgiveness
in her release.
When she sends me
to bed early
I know it’s
her way of telling me
never to let
my Jane Eyre bravery
push past her rules
again.
Mystery Words
I write the two mystery words
Zhang Laoshi said to me
in the back of
my textbook,
The Gift of Language,
writing by
the streetlamp light
leaking through the crack
between curtain panels.
Mama won’t look
in my textbook.
Shou yang
Hu kou ben(r)
I don’t know what they mean,
but when I go to Zhao Bin’s house
to teach him English
I will ask.
I will teach
Zhao Bin English
whether Mama lets me
or not.
I just haven’t told her yet.
Permission
I watch the clock,
measuring Mama’s
silence,
knowing
she can’t stay mad at me
for more than
one day.
She’s knitting
with the soft wool
Jody brought.
Knitting
always makes her calm,
so I say,
Tomorrow’s the day
I start teaching Zhao Bin,
using the same
certain
voice
I used
on our water park
day.
Mama’s lips hum,
but she
keeps knitting.
He gets home from school
at six o’clock,
I say.
Mama drops the knitting in her lap
with a huff.
Okay,
you can go,
but I don’t want
him in this house.
You can go to his
as long as his parents
are home.
But, please,
Kara,
no more of this.
It’s a risk.
A risk of what?
I ask,
and immediately
hold my breath
waiting for her answer.
It’s a risk getting attached,
Mama says
vaguely,
inspecting the intersection
of her needles.
So I ask,
Mama, why don’t you like Chinese people?
Mama’s eyes narrow.
I like all people,
Chinese and other kinds too.
I say,
But you never want to be around anyone
except Jody and me.
Across the room
Jody laughs
or snorts
I can’t be sure which.
Mama opens her mouth,
but no sound comes out.
She straightens.
It has nothing to do with
Chinese people,
Kara dear.
You are Chinese
and I love you.
I hesitate,
but I am growing braver.
Maybe it is Jody’s
sharp eye
across the room
watching me,
possibly approving.
I thought I was American.
Mama nods.
>
You’re both,
of course,
like we’ve always said.
You’re both.
Jody speaks up
from the sofa,
where she is using a long white string
to clean between her teeth.
She’s a big girl now, Ma,
growing out of your small life.
She should know the whole story.
For once
I like my sister, Jody.
For once
I don’t mind her
butting in.
For once
I think she
understands
what it’s like
to be me—
a girl
caught
between two worlds
and my heart beats faster
because maybe Mama will tell me now
and nothing will be secret anymore.
But Mama shakes her head.
Not now, Jody.
You want to burden her with all that,
now,
when she’s still a little girl?
I’m not so little,
I say.
You want me to stay little,
but I’m not.
I can take care of myself.
This is the problem with bravery:
it gets bigger and bigger
until words tumble out
that aren’t quite right.
Mama shakes her head,
sets her lip,
stubborn,
just like Jody said she was.
You can help Zhao Bin,
but that’s
it.
Independence
It doesn’t matter
if Mama tells me
the truth.
I can find it out
for myself.
First Lesson
To Zhao Bin’s first English lesson
I wear
my favorite lavender dress
with long sleeves
to hide my hand
even though the heat
makes beads of sweat
pop out on my forehead.
I brush my hair till it shines
and clip my lavender hair bow
in place,
dab on the vermilion lipstick
Mama never wears anymore.
Jody sees me
and whistles.
What kind of English lesson are you going to?
I don’t answer.
I carry Jane Eyre,
the Jane Austen box set, and
The Gift of Language
down the stairs.
I’m
slightly sick,
shaky.
I hope I’m not
getting the flu.
I knock on the third-floor door,
listen to scuffling inside,
my heart pounding
like it’s going to spring
out of my mouth.
All at once
they are all there,
smiling
offering me
slippers,
juice,
cookies.
Their polished floor
looks new.
Smells of ginger
and furniture polish
linger in the cool,
filtered air.
The grandfather pulls out
a seat for me.
I take a cookie
from the plate
with my left hand,
keeping my right
concealed inside my sleeve,
and smile.
Boring
Zhao Bin
looks at the pile
of books
I brought
and shakes his head.
Too difficult,
he says in Chinese.
The way he says it,
the way he avoids looking at me,
makes my stomach shrink.
His mother walks
through the living room.
SPEAK ENGLISH!
Zhao Bin
has soft,
embarrassed eyes.
The puckers are missing
from his mouth.
I’d like to bring them back
but my throat is dry,
my brain jumbled
with embarrassment.
Don’t worry,
I say,
my voice a croak.
I’ll help you.
Slowly
he pulls out
an English textbook.
It’s boring,
he whispers in Chinese.
Boring,
I say in English.
Boring,
he repeats in English.
He’s right—
it’s boring,
so boring
I forget
to show him the secret words
written in the back of
The Gift of Language.
After an hour
I pack up my books
and Zhao Bin shuffles
to his bedroom
without saying good-bye.
Zhao Bin’s mother yells,
SAY GOOD-BYE, ZHAO BIN!
From his room
he sighs.
That sigh withers
something
in my chest.
Maybe I’m the one
who is boring.
Thank You
Zhao Bin’s mother
piles packages of food
into my arms:
salted peanuts,
dried apricots,
fat cashews,
a tin embossed with a picture
of thin, white cookies.
Thank you, thank you!
she says in English,
smiling,
smiling,
then hurries me
out the door.
She would climb with me
all the way
to my apartment,
but I hold out my left hand
and assure her,
No, no, that’s okay.
I can go by myself.
I can just imagine Mama’s face
if I brought home company.
White Cookies
Jody’s favorite
are the little white cookies.
You don’t mind if I eat these,
do you?
she asks,
popping three at once
into her mouth.
Danish,
she mumbles,
turning the tin over.
I wonder if they sell these
in the States.
My Attributes
I list my attributes
on the fingers of my
left
hand
because People
magazine says
being confident
in yourself
makes you
more attractive
to the opposite sex.
1. I am eleven (pretty old, not a little kid)
2. I am fluent in English (though my Chinese needs improvement)
3. I guess I’m smart
4. I can ride my bicycle faster than most people
Just the thumb left,
but I can’t think of
another attribute.
Except
maybe,
it’s silly but
5. I have long hair
Mama always says it’s my glory.
I wonder if Zhao Bin thinks so too.
Clown
The next day
I only carry
The Gift of Language
even though
I know the two
secret words
by heart.
I still wear
vermilion lipstick
because People magazine says
red
never goes out of style.
down the stairs
I rub the lipstick
off
with a tissue
because I start to think
confidence
has nothing to do
with lip color.
But then I put on more
in case
it does.
When he opens the door
Zhao Bin laughs.
You look like a—
he says in Chinese.
There’s a word I don’t know,
a terrible, mystery word
at the end of his sentence.
A what?
A—
He repeats
the terrible, mystery word
and holds his stomach,
laughing.
SPEAK ENGLISH!
his mother bellows.
Zhao Bin keeps laughing.
He won’t tell me in English,
he won’t look it up
in his dictionary.
After two minutes
I excuse myself
to the bathroom
and find
the shadow of
old lipstick
blooming,
a rude,
red
halo
around my mouth.
Now the word
is no longer a mystery.
Tired
After one week
Jody is tired of China.
She lies on the sofa,
feet propped up,
the fan blowing
directly on
her blotchy face,
saying,
Investing in an air conditioner
wouldn’t be a bad idea.
Mama says,
I’ll look into that,
even though
I know she doesn’t mean it.
I close my eyes and
dream of
Zhao Bin’s cool,
nice-smelling
house.
Even when he laughs at me
and calls me a clown
it’s better than here.
The First Line
I have not actually started
Pride and Prejudice.
I have read the first line
twenty-three times.
I am afraid to start,
afraid it will not live up to
my months of
expecting.
Instead of reading
I go back to the first page
and trace Mama’s name
written in her old writing
over
and
over
with the tip
of my finger.
I wonder if she was
happy
when she wrote her name
with all those loops,
swirls,
and hearts over the Is.
Seeing her name written like that
is almost as good as a picture
of what Mama used to be
before I knew her,
before she knew Daddy,
before she preferred to hide.
Dictionary