corners and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Do you think you could let her know?”
“Oh,” I said, through a mouth full of Nilla Wafers. “I…” I had no desire to be the bearer of this news.
“You wouldn’t mind helping me out, would ya, Lee?” He reached out and patted my shoulder.
“I really don’t want—” I made another desperate attempt.
“Or I could call her. I should totally call her.”
“Ye—”
“But you know what? I bet she doesn’t even care about the prom. Claire Lee seems like the last person who would want to go to some lame high school dance.” He laughed weakly.
“Um, maybe, but—”
“Really? You think so?” He turned his clear blue eyes upon me. “Thanks, Lee. I totally owe you. Next White Castle run is on me.” He reached for the cookies and grabbed a handful before leaving the room. I watched him retreat from the kitchen, my heart sinking with disappointment. I’d thought David was perfect, but it turned out he was selfish and flawed just like everyone else.
What is it they say about shooting the messenger? I stared at the ground when I told Claire, unwilling to meet her eyes, my shoulders heavy with guilt.
“He said what ?” Her face drained of color.
“I told you. All he said was that he didn’t think it would work out this time. Anyway, Shannon said he’s taking Candy.”
“ Candy Andrews? Do you know where she’s going next year? White Plains Junior College. She couldn’t even get into a four-year school.” She barked a bitter laugh. “I just—” Her eyes flashed wet with tears, but she bit her lip to stop them.
“Claire…please don’t…” I reached out to touch her arm, but she snatched it away.
“I don’t need your help,” she hissed, before turning into the bathroom and closing the door with a quiet click.
And so, prom night came, and Claire stayed home. In the years since, she’s joked about missing the prom, laughing it off with an airy shrug that can’t quite conceal the lingering sting. I’d like to think that by now she’s forgiven me for misreading David, for convincing her to tutor him, for leading her on, for being a busybody. But I know that’s not true. Because Claire has never again asked me for help.
The kettle whistles, and I hurry to turn off the stove, pouring scalding water over my tea bag. As Ed has said, China is the land of reinvention, and so it doesn’t surprise me that my shy, dowdy sister could transform herself from a duckling into prom queen. But that doesn’t mean I’m not concerned. The stainless steel kettle reminds me of Claire: polished to a gleam on the outside, boiling within.
B y the time I get outside it’s almost 6:00 A.M . and Ed’s voice is echoing in my ear. “You better make like a granny and get out there early, Isabelle, or your story is fucked.”
I have no idea what he means by the granny reference, but I know he’s right about the early start. Most street vendors caterto hungry construction workers, and by 8:00 A.M . they’ve sold out of food and are pedaling back home, already finished with a day’s work.
The early morning air feels cool and silky as I turn down one of the narrow streets that wind through our neighborhood. Back here in the alleys, people cling to the old way of life. Wiry hawkers squeeze three-wheeled carts through the slender lanes and announce their wares in a singsong chant. Stooped old men swing round wooden bird cages from their hands, giving their pets a breath of morning air. I once watched a white-haired woman hobble down the street and gasped as I looked down at her feet, which were bound into minute stumps.
Above, our apartment complex looms sleek and tall, a harbinger of doom for this lively, grubby area. Soon it will be destroyed, its crowded alleys turned first into a pile of rubble and then into a series of bleak and bland office buildings, all created in the name of modern China. But for now, life continues as it has for
“Oh,” I said, through a mouth full of Nilla Wafers. “I…” I had no desire to be the bearer of this news.
“You wouldn’t mind helping me out, would ya, Lee?” He reached out and patted my shoulder.
“I really don’t want—” I made another desperate attempt.
“Or I could call her. I should totally call her.”
“Ye—”
“But you know what? I bet she doesn’t even care about the prom. Claire Lee seems like the last person who would want to go to some lame high school dance.” He laughed weakly.
“Um, maybe, but—”
“Really? You think so?” He turned his clear blue eyes upon me. “Thanks, Lee. I totally owe you. Next White Castle run is on me.” He reached for the cookies and grabbed a handful before leaving the room. I watched him retreat from the kitchen, my heart sinking with disappointment. I’d thought David was perfect, but it turned out he was selfish and flawed just like everyone else.
What is it they say about shooting the messenger? I stared at the ground when I told Claire, unwilling to meet her eyes, my shoulders heavy with guilt.
“He said what ?” Her face drained of color.
“I told you. All he said was that he didn’t think it would work out this time. Anyway, Shannon said he’s taking Candy.”
“ Candy Andrews? Do you know where she’s going next year? White Plains Junior College. She couldn’t even get into a four-year school.” She barked a bitter laugh. “I just—” Her eyes flashed wet with tears, but she bit her lip to stop them.
“Claire…please don’t…” I reached out to touch her arm, but she snatched it away.
“I don’t need your help,” she hissed, before turning into the bathroom and closing the door with a quiet click.
And so, prom night came, and Claire stayed home. In the years since, she’s joked about missing the prom, laughing it off with an airy shrug that can’t quite conceal the lingering sting. I’d like to think that by now she’s forgiven me for misreading David, for convincing her to tutor him, for leading her on, for being a busybody. But I know that’s not true. Because Claire has never again asked me for help.
The kettle whistles, and I hurry to turn off the stove, pouring scalding water over my tea bag. As Ed has said, China is the land of reinvention, and so it doesn’t surprise me that my shy, dowdy sister could transform herself from a duckling into prom queen. But that doesn’t mean I’m not concerned. The stainless steel kettle reminds me of Claire: polished to a gleam on the outside, boiling within.
B y the time I get outside it’s almost 6:00 A.M . and Ed’s voice is echoing in my ear. “You better make like a granny and get out there early, Isabelle, or your story is fucked.”
I have no idea what he means by the granny reference, but I know he’s right about the early start. Most street vendors caterto hungry construction workers, and by 8:00 A.M . they’ve sold out of food and are pedaling back home, already finished with a day’s work.
The early morning air feels cool and silky as I turn down one of the narrow streets that wind through our neighborhood. Back here in the alleys, people cling to the old way of life. Wiry hawkers squeeze three-wheeled carts through the slender lanes and announce their wares in a singsong chant. Stooped old men swing round wooden bird cages from their hands, giving their pets a breath of morning air. I once watched a white-haired woman hobble down the street and gasped as I looked down at her feet, which were bound into minute stumps.
Above, our apartment complex looms sleek and tall, a harbinger of doom for this lively, grubby area. Soon it will be destroyed, its crowded alleys turned first into a pile of rubble and then into a series of bleak and bland office buildings, all created in the name of modern China. But for now, life continues as it has for
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