Page 3 of Alice Chen's Reality Check

“We promise we won’t roast you, Ms. Chen!”

“Okay, fine,” I say. I give them a stern look. “But remember the rules: First person to answer the math problem on the board gets to ask a question. No hurtful, mean, or embarrassing topics. And as always, I have veto power.” I jot a pretty simple quadratic equation on the whiteboard.

My students start solving the problem with way more focus than they showed during their exam. Of course, Theresa is the first to get the answer right.

“Can you tell us about your fiancé?” she asks immediately.

I knew it. Theyweresetting me up. I hesitate. I feel like I shouldn’t talk about my love life in class, but it’s not like they don’t know Chase exists. I usually don’t wear my engagement ring to school—both because I’m paranoid about losing it and to avoid tipping my hand about my personal life—but I slipped up and forgot to take it off before I left my apartment last week. Liam from third period spotted it, and the news that I actually had a life outside school spread like wildfire.

In the spirit of playing along I take a deep breath and answer. “His name is Chase. We met in college. He works in finance, and his favorite food is French fries.”

I put the next equation on the board, making this one twice as hard. I figure half the class will give up, but when I look back, every single student is furiously scribbling. Oh no.

Ravi raises his hand first.

“The square root of twenty?”

I didn’t even know Ravi knew what a square root was. He’s spent the whole year zoning out and doodling robots in his math notebook. But I guess he just needed the right motivation.

“That’s right,” I say. “Good work, Ravi. What’s your question?”

“Are you in love with your fiancé?” Ravi asks.

The class goes absolutely bananas, and I can feel myself blushing.

“Yes,” I say. “That’s why we’re engaged.”

The class groans. I can tell that’s not what they wanted to hear. I put another problem on the board that’s so hard, I know I won’t have to answer any more questions. I’ve just barely started teaching imaginary numbers. There’s no chance they’ll get it, except—Theresa raises her hand and answers correctly.

“Why do you love him?” Theresa asks. “Like, how do you know it’sreallylove?”

This is getting way too deep for Rapid Fire Friday. But from the way the kids are watching me, I know I can’t back out now. I might have veto power, but there’s no reason I can’t handle a simple question likethis. I should know the answer.

“He’s thoughtful,” I begin. “He always remembers my birthday and Valentine’s Day. He cheers me up and takes me on adventures we’ll enjoy. And he always makes me smile.”

Nailed it.

“He sounds perfect,” Theresa sighs. One of my students makes an exaggerated gagging noise.

“He kind of is,” I say, laughing. Everything else about my life is a dumpster fire right now, but at least one thing is going right. At least I have Chase.

The bell rings, rescuing me from any more probing questions. Once the classroom’s empty, I rush to pack my bag. My fingers are stiff from the cold, and I fumble with my keys as I lock up.

I hustle to my trusty old Honda Civic, cutting across the parking lot as I call the hospital. In my car, I set the phone on speaker and head to Pacific Market, the Asian supermarket in my mom’s neighborhood. Jazzy hold music starts to play, the same staticky bop that I’ve long since memorized, and I try to decide what to cook.

Right after my mom got her diagnosis, I put about seventeen cancer cookbooks on hold at the library. I was determined to cook nutritious, nausea-friendly meals for my mom while she was recovering. Before she got sick, I never really made food for her. She’s an amazing cook, but I can barely steam rice to her satisfaction—though I’m not sure if that’s a product of my incompetence or her sky-high standards. I can never devein shrimp or stir-fry bok choy properly, so my cooking is like nails on a poorly fried chalkboard to her—mixed metaphor aside, you know what I’m saying. But now that her job is to rest and recover, she’s been grudgingly letting me cook for her with only a minimal amount of judgment.

I’m halfway through making my grocery list—and mapping out the most efficient path through Pacific Market to get everything in under ten minutes—when the music abruptly cuts off. A woman’s voice speaks, all crisp and formal.

“Grace Hospital, billing department.”

I unmute and run through the spiel I know by heart. “Hello, I’m Alice Chen, calling on behalf of Florentina Chen. And, yes, I know her patient account number.” I rattle off the twelve-character alphanumeric code from memory, with her birth date and invoice number for good measure. “My mother received a bill this morning and was surprised by the amount. We’re on the payment program currently, so I’m a bit concerned that there’s been a mistake.”

“Let me look at your account, honey.” I hear the clackety-clack of keys as the lady on the line types. Finally, she sighs and says, “I’m sorry, Ms. Chen. The amount listedispart of the plan, and your first payment is due in the next two weeks and then every month after that. Do you want to know the total amount due?”

I don’twantto know anything, but she names a number that’s twice as much as my rent. I can make this month’s payment if I hit pause on paying back my student loans, but the month after that? I have no idea.

“Check or card, honey?” the lady asks, and the cold stiffness in my fingers has now crept all over me, spreading down my legs and up my back. I shiver as she continues, “If you use card, I have to tell you there is a three percent—”

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