Page 5 of This Time It's Real
“Ah, but the best thing about having lived everywhere is that she belongsanywhere.” Mr. Lee stretches his hands out wide in a gesture that I’m assuming represents “anywhere”—and knocks over a tissue box in the process. He pauses, flustered. Picks it up. Then, unbelievably, continues right where he left off. “You should know that Eliza is not a citizen of one country or even one continent, but rather a—”
“If you saycitizen of the world, I’m going to throw up,” I mutter under my breath, low enough for only me to hear.
Mr. Lee leans forward. “Sorry, what’s that?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head. Smile. “Nothing.”
A beat.
“Well, since we’re on the topic of Eliza’s circumstances,” Mr. Lee says delicately, hesitantly, and I have a terrible feeling I know what’s coming. “I do worry that Eliza is having a hard time . . . adjusting.”
My throat tightens.
This. This is why I hate parent-teacher interviews.
“Adjusting,” Ma repeats with a frown, though she doesn’t look too surprised. Just sad.
“She doesn’t seem to be close with anyone in her class,” Mr. Lee elaborates. The trilingual group waiting for their parents in the back choose this time to burst into loud laughter at whatever it is they’re chatting about, the sound banging against all four walls. Mr. Lee raises his voice, almost yelling, “That is to say, it’s somewhat concerning that she still doesn’t have any friends here.”
Unfortunately for me, the noise levels happen to die down again halfway through his sentence.
And of course, everyone hears every last word. There’s an awkward pause, and about thirty pairs of eyes burn holes into my skull. My face catches fire.
I rise from my seat, wincing inwardly when the chair legs squeak against the polished floor, scraping against the silence. I mumble something about using the bathroom.
Then I get the hell out of there.
In my defense, I’m generally pretty good—an expert, even—at pushing my feelings aside and disconnecting myself from everything, but sometimes it just hits me hard: this horrible, crushing sense ofwrongness, ofotherness, regardless of whether I’m the only Asian kid at an elite Catholic all-girls school in London or the only new kid in a tiny cohort at a Chinese international school. Sometimes I’m convinced I’ll spend the rest of my life this way. Alone.
Sometimes I think loneliness is my default setting.
To my relief, the corridor is empty. I retreat into the farthest corner, bend down into a half crouch, and take my phone out. Scroll through nothing for a minute. Feel intuitively for the rough string bracelet around my wrist, a gift from Zoe, let it comfort me.
This is fine, I’m fine.
Then I head onto the Craneswift website.
I discovered Craneswift a few years back, when I picked up one of their newsletters at a London train station, and I’ve been reading their stuff ever since. They don’t have a massive readership, but they more than make up for it in quality and reputation. Basically anyone who’s ever been lucky enough to publish their writing through Craneswift has gone on to achieve the kind of success I could only dream of: journalism awards, prestigious nonfiction writing scholarships in New York, international recognition. All because they wrote something beautiful and profound.
Words just move me. A beautiful sentence will sneak under my skin and crack me open the way a phrase of music might, or a climactic scene from a movie. A well-crafted story can make me laugh and gasp for breath and weep.
As I settle into one of Craneswift’s recently posted essays about finding soul mates in the unlikeliest of places, the familiar blue website banner glowing over the screen, I can already feel some of the weight on my shoulders easing, the tension in my body dissolving—
A door creaks open and noise spills into the hallway.
I stiffen, squint down the corridor. Caz Song steps out alone, his gaze sweeping right past me like I’m not even here. He looks distracted.
“. . . all waiting for you,” he’s saying, a rare crease between his brows, an even rarer edge to his voice. Caz has always given me the impression of someone pulled straight out of a magazine cover: glossy and airbrushed and digestible; marketable and inoffensive. But right now he’s pacing in an agitated circle, his footsteps so light they barely make any sound. “These are theparent-teacherinterviews. I can’t just do it alone.”
For one confusing moment, I think he’s talking to himself or trying out some weird acting technique, but then I hear the muffled female voice coming out through his phone’s speakers:
“I know, I know, but my patient needs me more. Can you tell your teacher something came up at the hospital? Hao erzi, tinghua.”Good child. Behave.“Maybe we can reschedule for next week—that worked last time, didn’t it?”
I watch Caz breathe in. Out. When he speaks again, his voice is remarkably controlled. “No, that’s fine, Mom. I—I’ll tell them. I’m sure they’ll understand.”
“Hao erzi,” the woman says again, and even from this distance, I can hear the odd commotion in the background. Slamming metal. The beep of a monitor. “Oh, and just before I go—what did they say about those college applications?”
Applications.
