CHAPTER 14
(Since I’m Chinese-American, we also do not have a chapter thirteen. Equal superstitions.)
MITHENGE
HEARING XING TALK ABOUT MEDICINE in the same tone as my parents had made me wonder . . . was I also brainwashed? Immediately after Darren’s accusation two days ago, I had resented him for what he had said, but now I was scared it was true.
So I hunted Darren down, orchestrating our bumping into each other because, I don’t know . . . I wanted to see if he would take it back?
Except it didn’t go quite as smoothly as I had pictured in my head.
Since I knew he was taking 7.012 (like me), I decided to go to my first biology lecture in weeks. As the professor droned on and on about G proteins, my head lolled back and forth in half sleep—fishing, my mother called it. What a far cry from multivariable calc, which kept me awake and attentive, grand jeté–ing across the floor in my head while taking copious notes. Math was a language I spoke, one that was the same in every culture.
But clearly I did not speak biology. By the end of class, my head was on my little foldout desk, and I didn’t wake until the after-lecture rustles started. And by then I had lost the spiky-haired outline previously sitting four rows in front of me.
The paper from my notebook stuck to my cheek, ripping when I sat up. Because, of course. I scooped my things up, then charged into the herd of students in the hallway. Thank God for his height. I chased after him, squeezing through chattering groups and almost tripping over a few legs. When I finally got close to him, I suddenly didn’t know what to do. In my head I pictured tapping him on the shoulder with a coy, Fancy seeing you here. In reality, I shoved his shoulder with a little too much force, then opened my mouth like a fish, nothing coming out.
When he saw me, the corner of his right eye crinkled the way it did before he teased me. “How’d you catch up to me so fast?” Oh God. Of course he had seen. “Not a fan of G proteins, I take it?”
“Didn’t get enough sleep last night,” I lied, not wanting to fight about the titillatingness of G proteins. There was definitely a joke in there somewhere, which would’ve come to me if I weren’t so overwhelmed at the moment.
At the east end of the Infinite Corridor, Darren sidestepped to lean against the wall, out of the stream of traffic.
I joined him, keeping a space between us—I wasn’t sure what the social norms were post-fighting-about-Filial-Exemplars. I opened my mouth again, an apology loaded on my tongue, but nothing came out. Maybe because I still stood by my reasoning for saying what I did. Maybe because Mǎmá Lu was holding the words back.
Darren cleared his throat. “I’m glad you caught up,” he said, and I relaxed a little. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to talk to me.” I held my breath, willing him to say it. “I’m sorry about what I said—I didn’t mean it. I was just overwhelmed with the mosquitoes and the feces and . . . You can understand that, right?” And finally I exhaled.
But even though I was breathing again, I still felt tense. And that was when I realized, it didn’t matter what he thought. It was exactly as he had said—it was what I thought that mattered. And right now I had no idea where I ended and my parents began.
Darren stuck his neck out slightly, peering at me curiously until I realized I hadn’t responded to his apology.
“Oh! Uh, don’t worry about it. I’m used to it . . . people not understanding. My parents sent me to school without knowing English and with pork floss sandwiches for lunch. My classmates thought they looked like pubes!” I forced a sad little ha-ha.
“That’s terrible. That must’ve been so hard for you.” I was so used to being the pìgu of the joke that I just stared at him, unsure what to do with his sympathy. After a beat he said, “I know it doesn’t make it better, but when I said all that stuff last time, I was trying to help. Because I care.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Weird way of showing you care.”
“Sorry, I just spoke my mind without thinking. You wouldn’t know what that’s like.” The teasing crinkle reappeared.
“And I’m sorry I butted into someone else’s business. You wouldn’t know what that’s like.”
Our concordant man-laughs filled the space around us, and for a moment I couldn’t help wondering what could have been.
“Thanks for apologizing,” I said sincerely, even though it didn’t have the cure-all effect I had been foolishly hoping for. “I’m sorry, too, for the record, for what I said.” I punched him lightly on the arm. “I’ll see you around, Takahashi.” I used his last name in the hopes that it would create some distance and emphasize the friend border.
“Wait.” He held a hand out briefly before running it through his already-disheveled hair. A nervous tic, perhaps? “I want to make sure you understand why that whole thing with your parents was so important to me. MIT was the best decision I ever made, and I didn’t want to see you go down the wrong path for the wrong reason. I know it’s not easy to go against your parents—and clearly I don’t fully get what it’s like for you—but I also know it can be worth the fight sometimes. And I’m not talking about me or us or, you know, anything specific. . . .” His cheeks colored slightly. “I mean in general. Because I’m guessing there’s a lot there to unpack.”
It was such an understatement I almost laughed, but the weight of what he had said kept it at bay.
I understood where he was coming from, but that didn’t make the situation any easier. I had to force my next words out. “Thanks for trying so hard, but I have to go.”
I turned to leave but froze when I saw the students gathered in two single-file lines on either side of the hallway. It looked like the end of Grease’s “We Go Together,” except Rizzo and Kenickie weren’t dancing down the middle. Instead, the center was purposefully empty. Eerie.
Before I could ask what was going on, it happened. The hubbub silenced, and all eyes, including mine, homed in on the window at the other end of the corridor. The setting sun glided into view and rays lit up the west end of the Infinite. Within minutes, the disc filled the window, emblazing the entire 251 meters in a honey-golden glow.
The other students trickled out, having seen and taken a selfie, but I continued staring. That is, until Darren’s tall frame blocked the view, casting his shadow over me.
His voice was warm honey, just like the sunset. “MIThenge is like the Lost Ark; you can’t stare at it too long. Except in this case, you’d just damage your corneas.”
My gaze fell to him, but he was a mere outline, my eyes having been overwhelmed by the light. Just like how we would never see eye-to-eye, I couldn’t help but think.
“I wish things were different,” I said, the sentence coming out easier with him blurry. But as my vision returned, the rest of the words died away, disappearing into the folds of my tongue.
Cautiously, he said, “Just because your mother is, um, extreme, doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.” I said nothing. “What if we don’t talk about our parents? What if we just work on p-sets?” When I still didn’t respond, he said, “What if we just dance?”
And he broke into a jig, stomping around and flailing his arms. It was so sudden and out of place that all I could do was stare, just like everyone around us was doing. But he didn’t care. His eyes were on me and just me.
He finished with a heel click and swung his arms out, wiggling his jazz-hand fingers. With a hopeful smile on his face, he held the pose, waiting expectantly.
I shook my head at him. “I can’t believe you just did that. I broke out into a dance at school once and the other kids called me a nut.”
“Well, if being a nut means being fun and yourself, then you should be proud. I can only hope I’m a nut too. We can be nuts together, Nut One and Two, tag-team duo, out to save the world one almond and crappy tap dance at a time.” He cleared his throat. “Since we’re going to be fighting crime together, maybe we should exchange numbers, for the sake of the world, of course.”
Why the hell not? He could’ve looked me up in the MIT directory, but this felt respectful and gentlemanly—asking my permission.
I wrote my number on his hand, old-fashioned. The pen glided over his skin, and it made me want to touch him to see if it felt as smooth as it appeared. Impulsively, my left palm met his, and I pretended like I was merely steadying it, as I would any ho-hum piece of paper. My fingers met rough calluses, and for some reason I found that more intriguing. Rugged, like he wasn’t afraid of getting down and dirty. Or maybe I would’ve found it hot no matter what, just because it was part of him.
As I wrote extra slow, I asked, “Does MIThenge happen every day?”
“Twice a year.” His eyes never left my pen on his hand.
“And we bumped into each other right before it? What’s the probability of that?”
“Well, given that there’s always stuff going on at MIT, the probability we’d bump into each other before something is pretty high. But as for bumping into each other before MIThenge, specifically, we would have to take into consideration how often we bump into each other normally, the fact that our class together got out right before it started . . .” He tilted his head to the side, thinking. “The chances are roughly one in a hundred fifty,” he finally answered.
“Really?”
Darren shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. But I impressed you for a second, didn’t I?”
“Would’ve been more impressive if you’d been right.” I playfully poked his biceps with the pen before putting it away. Yes, I looked at his arm as I did it, and yes, I liked what I saw. Was there such a thing as hockey arms, you know, like swimmers’ shoulders?
“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” he said, emphasizing the last two words ever so slightly. “Good day, Lady Peanut.” When he tipped his imaginary hat to me in farewell, I saw him in a different light. Unfortunately.
It would’ve been easier to stay mad.