Ugh. My mom is of the generation that believes the male can do no wrong.
“I should be nice like you were?” I said. “You took his side over your own daughter’s pretty quickly. Did he tell you exactly what he did at school?”
She looked up at me sadly. “It’s hard, coming to this country,” she said. “You were born here; you never had to experience that. Of course he’s going to make some mistakes.”
Then her eyes gleamed. “Plus he’s so handsome. And rich, too, probably. Like a prince. I can tell these things.”
Ugggghhhhhh.
I showed Quentin out, mostly because I wanted to make sure he walked the hell away and didn’t sneak into our bushes or something. Once I’d closed the door behind us, I stared him down.
“You picked the wrong girl to bully, asshat.”
“I said I was sorry!”
“No, you lied about being sorry to my mother! There’s a difference!”
“What, do you want me to grovel in front of your dad, too? Where is he? Still at work?”
At the mention of my father my teeth clenched so hard they almost turned to shrapnel.
“You don’t have the right to talk to any of my family!” I said. “You have no right to anything of mine!”
“I don’t understand why you’re so upset!”
I poked him hard in his chest. It was like tapping granite.
“That doesn’t matter,” I hissed. “You are not entitled to my thoughts, emotions, or any other part of my life unless I say so. What you get from me is jack and squat, regardless of whether or not you understand. Ming bai le ma, dickhead?”
Quentin opened his mouth to retort but nothing came out. He stood there, failing to turn over, like a car with a faulty ignition. I could read his face as plain as day. He just couldn’t believe that I, an actual human being, was talking to him like this.
Finally he just scowled and stomped away.
I watched him go. I waited till he was out of sight.
The tension in my body left with him. I nearly toppled over with relief. He’d been banished, out of sight and out of mind. Hopefully for all time.
Then I remembered he was in my homeroom, where I’d see him every day.
5
A little more than a decade ago there was some kind of brainwave, some kind of collective spasm, some bug in the water, that induced every single Asian couple with a newborn daughter in America to name her Eugenia. Or Eunice. Something with an E-U. Seriously, these two vowels together had a base rate of next to nothing in the broader population and then BAM! An epidemic of Eumonia.
Eugenia Park has been my best friend ever since we made a deal in second grade to split the name we both hated like a turkey. She got the front end and was forevermore “Yunie.” I got the back, “Genie.” There was even a third gir
l in our class to whom we’d hopefully offered “Eugie,” but we turned out not to like her, so she’s not part of the treaty.
“You’re gonna hate me,” Yunie said during our study hall in the computer lab. “But I have to bail on the Read-a-Thon.”
I made a face. “Your children will serve me in hell for this.”
“I’ll find a replacement. I’m sure there’s someone else who wants to wake up extra early on Saturday and wrangle twenty screaming kindergartners. I’ll tell them—”
“Hold on a second.”
I glanced behind me across the room. Michael and his posse were at it again, crowding around the workstation that Rutsuo was using.
Rutsuo Huang was one of the ultrageniuses at our school, a programming prodigy who was miles ahead of everyone else. I mean, I’ve only been able to wrap my head around introductory JavaScript. But Rutsuo had blown through our school’s electives in a semester and could probably work at a startup right now if he wanted to. He was also painfully awkward and shy, and at SF Prep that’s saying a lot.