Page 43 of This Time It's Real
Caz nods at me. “You first.”
If Ma or Ba were here, they’d probably insist that I do the back-and-forthyou-first-no-you-firstthing until one of us runs out of breath or dies from over-politeness. But since the chef’s still holding out the bag, and the jianbing really does smell insanely good, I just say, “You sure?”
Caz somehow manages to smile and roll his eyes at the same time. “Eliza. Just take it.”
So I do. The bag is so hot it hurts my fingers, and I end up doing that laughable little dance where I pass it between both hands really fast to avoid getting burned.
“Um, xiexie,” I tell the chef, who’s still looking at me funny.
He exchanges a glance with the other chef, and both of them shake their heads and laugh. Then he says something back, but his regional accent is so strong—or, more accurately speaking, my Chinese skills are so limited—that I can’t make out a single word beyondcan. Which sounds the exact same asmeeting, bribery, clever, and about fifty other words in Chinese.
So basically he could be saying anything.
I turn to Caz for help.
His expression is unreadable, but he translates right away. “He says he’s surprised you know how to say thank you.”
“Oh.” I glance back at the chefs, unsure what to make of the comment. It’s hardly a compliment, but maybe I’m just being oversensitive. Maybe they didn’t mean it in abadway . . .
Then the other chef crosses his arms and asks, “Ni haishi zhongguoren ma?”
This time, I understand the full sentence:Are you even Chinese?
My face burns. Suddenly I’m not so hungry anymore.
Caz clears his throat beside me. “He said—”
“Yeah, I—I know what he said.” There’s an embarrassing crack in my voice, the edge of something raw, and I have to look away from everyone. Stare down at a piece of old chewing gum stuck to the road instead. It doesn’t even make sense for me to get so worked up about this one offhand question . . .
Except I’ve heard it before, so many times. Every possible version of it:Are you American? British? Are you from around here? Are youactuallyChinese?
I don’t know. Sometimes it just gets really exhausting having to explain your identity to everyone.
After we’ve picked up both our orders, Caz and I walk in silence for a while, heading to nowhere. I know we’re supposed to be spending this time learning about each other, but neither of us seems to know what to say. Willow trees reach out from one side of the street and a breeze sings its soft song through the dripping leaves. The sun has edged higher up the sky now, and it’s all blue, everywhere, stark blue and the quiet between us.
Caz breaks it first. “I doubt he meant it that way—”
“It’s fine, Caz,” I say, with a sad attempt at a laugh. “We really don’t have to talk about this. I mean, there’s not even anything to talk about.”
“Well, you’re clearly upset.”
“I’m not—”
“You are. You’re making that face again.” And he actually stops halfway down the street, juts his chin out and bites his lower lip in an impression of me that’s as aggravating as it is freakishly accurate.
I hold up a hand to block him from view. “I don’t look like that at all,” I lie. Then, when it becomes apparent he isn’t buying it: “Whatever. You wouldn’t understand anyway.”
“Why not?” he challenges.
I stop in my tracks too. “Why not?Are you serious?”
“Of course,” he says evenly, his dark eyes steady on me.
“Caz. This isn’t—You don’t have these types of problems, okay?” The words come out too quick, too honest, a bitter, breathless rush. “You belong everywhere. You’re welcome anywhere. Whether it’s on the red carpet or in a silly children’s game or in the school cafeteria. You always fit in perfectly, without trying, and—it’s just not like that with me.”
I sense his surprise, and I immediately wish I hadn’t said anything at all. What is it about Caz Song that makes me both want to open up and draw a ten-foot-thick barrier around me?
“Maybe that’s true at school,” he says finally, jaw tight. “But sometimes, in my own home . . .” And he stops. It’s like that moment in the park again: He seems to be battling himself on something, like a boy teetering on the edge of a vast pool, unsure if it’s safe enough to dive in. All this time, and he still reveals so little of himself willingly. “Sometimes I feel that way too” is what he settles on in the end. A half answer; a compromise; one foot suspended in midair, the other set firm on the ground. A suggestion that there might be more to him than I’ve given him credit for.
