Page 47 of This Time It's Real
As I do, I think about Caz. Smug, vain, infuriating Caz, who somehow keeps managing to surprise me. Who agreed to my bizarre proposal, and is the only reason I’ve made it this far without getting caught in my lie. Who’s funnier than most people realize, and sweeter than I could’ve ever given him credit for. And despite my best intentions to hold him at arm’s length, despite knowing all this will end in a matter of months, I can’t help feeling . . . lucky. After all, how many people in this world can say they’ve seen what Caz Song is really like behind the scenes?
So when I’ve finished folding, I write a small, quiet wish on each delicate paper crane:
I hope you always catch your train in time.
I hope your birthday always falls on a weekend or holiday.
I hope you land every role you audition for.
I hope you have an umbrella with you whenever it rains.
I hope you always snatch up the last bag of your favorite snack.
I hope you always get the window seat.
By the time I get to the last crane, my alarm clock is flashing. Six a.m. I’m exhausted and nearly out of ideas, and maybe it’s because of this that I let the truth slip out onto the page.
I hope you remember to miss me when all this is over.
• • •
On the morning of Caz’s birthday, I get up a few hours early to bake him a cake.
This turns out to be much harder than I expected. Somehow, even though I’ve followed every single instruction written on this random mother’s baking blog—which I find only after a three-paragraph-long introduction about her son being a picky eater—the cake comes out all weird and mushy and distinctly orange. I wait awhile in the dim, quiet kitchen, hoping it might look better once it’s cooled, but it only starts shrinking and wrinkling at the edges like a sad piece of dried fruit.
Zoe isn’t much help either.
“Is it . . . meant to be that color?” she asks, squinting through the screen. I’ve propped my phone up on the counter beside the dirty whisks and leftover bowls of batter to give her a clear view of the finished product. She was originally going to call before she had lunch and offer advicewhileI baked, but she got held up by a last-minute assignment due at midday.
“Maybe it’s because of the lighting,” I say hopefully.
“Maybe,” she plays along.
We both study the withering cake for a beat. Then I sigh, wipe my flour-covered hands against my apron, and yank open the fridge door again. “Never mind. I’ll just—I’ll try again. Wouldn’t want to give him food poisoning for his birthday.”
“Right, right. Chinese ingredients and all that.”
My fingers freeze over the egg carton. My head jerks up. “Wait. What?”
“What?” she says back, equally confused.
But I understand faster than she does. “I was talking about mybaking skills, not the local ingredients,” I say, and the sharp, defensive edge in my own voice catches me off guard.
“Oh.” Zoe clears her throat, looking uncomfortable. “Well, I only meant . . . I mean, I was reading this article the other day about how they use gutter oil to cook food in Beijing, which low-key seems horrifying and kind of unhygienic, and . . .”
“And you immediately assumed there’s gutter oil in everything we eat here?” I ask.
“No, I—I don’t—” Zoe shakes her head. Stares at me. “I’m confused. Why are you getting so upset?”
I open my mouth, then close it. Because I don’t know how to explain to her what I’m mad about, why I feel so . . . territorial. Only the other week,Ihad asked Ma if the fried dough sticks we bought off the side of the street were safe to eat, and I myself havedefinitelyheard rumors of places using already-used oil to cook, even been warned about it by locals. Maybe that makes me a hypocrite.
But maybe it’s the same irrational logic that applies when someone insults your family; I can complain about Emily stealing my food or hogging the bathroom all I like, for instance, but I’d fight anyone who says a single bad word about her. Maybe listening to Zoe talk about Beijing like that feels painfully personal because it is. Because the city isn’t hers to insult.
Which, of course, begs the question: When did Beijing become mine to defend?
“Eliza?” Zoe prompts, the uncertainty in her features enlarged on my phone screen. “Are you okay?”
Some of my initial anger loosens. Enough for me to think clearly. It’s possible I’m being too harsh on her, and either way, there’s no reason to get into a massive fight over this one thing, especially when we haven’t had a chance to talk in so long. Right?
