Rent a Boyfriend - Gloria Chao Page 0,45
never stopped bothering me. “Why did you tell Mom and Dad about her trouble conceiving before they’d even met?”
“For the same reason I used to sneak out in the middle of the night, refuse to worship Yéye, and skip my SAT tutoring classes: I hated the responsibilities as the eldest son. I had no idea it would go this far—really, I was just pissed that I never got to be Dad’s baobèi.”
For the first eight years of my life, I was not Mei, only baobèi to my father, his treasure. And for those same years, he was my bábı, the Chinglish word I made up for “daddy.” When I was little, as soon as he walked in the door, I would latch on to his leg. He called me his xiao zhāngyú, which only made me act more like my bábı’s little octopus. I’d squeeze his leg with all my might and squeal when he took troll-like steps, swinging me through the air. Even though sons were sought after, my father had a side reserved for me and only me.
Xing never saw Bábı, only Bǎbá. A firm hand, all the time. I eventually saw that too, but when I was a child, it was only Chinese checkers, tickle fights, and octopus swings.
We may have grown up in the same house, but Xing was right—our experiences were different because of our gender and the order in which we were born.
“I’m sorry. That must’ve been hard for you,” I said. “I’m also sorry that everything blew up the way it did.”
He gave me a wistful smile. “You can’t pick who you fall for.”
You-know-who popped into my head—infectious laugh, crooked smile, and all.
“I used to think Mom was more open-minded,” Xing continued. “She didn’t seem to want us when we were little, and I thought maybe since she’d struggled with the culture, she’d be able to . . . I don’t know. Understand? Change? I guess either Dad or her upbringing has too strong a hold on her.”
The more he spoke, the further I was pulled down. Even though I had started it, I tried to end the conversation by nodding toward the now-empty machine.
As I stepped onto the familiar DDR platform, Xing waved a dismissive hand at me. “Don’t fret, Mei-ball. You’re too young to be worrying about all that. And who knows? Maybe the person you end up falling for will be someone they approve of, so no use wasting energy on it now. Use your energy for DDR—you haven’t beaten me yet!”
My feet danced around to match the arrows coming up on the screen—second nature for me at this point—just like how I was robotically floating through life, adapting to each scenario, never truly being myself.
Even though I thought Taiwan was dirty when I was little, even though strangers on the street would come up to me and tell me I was fat, my nose was huge, my clothes were weird—it was my Elysium. The only place my parents didn’t fight, laughed with us, and opened their wallets. We would actually do things together—go to museums, visit the aboriginal villages, learn about Taiwanese history. And every night we would go to the night market. My dad would break off to stuff himself with stinky tofu, and my mother would treat me to all the clothes and trinkets I wanted.
The Association of Taiwanese Students had turned the Student Center’s Lobdell Dining Hall into an educational version of a Taiwan night market complete with dumpling vendors, Chinese yo-yo instructors, calligraphy stations, and a stage for entertainment. Me.
My crimson costume dripped with gold embellishments that caught the light, especially when I turned. The silk hugged my body and made me feel like the Dunhuang God I was supposed to be. I picked up my prefolded “flowers” (my props) by the “stem” (the wooden stick I used to control them) and took my starting position.
The guzhēng notes sang from the speakers, and the familiar trills of the Chinese zither transported me to another place. My dance world. Nothing existed but me, the real me. I wasn’t Chinese or American—just a twirling, leaping force.
I started slow, my tiny steps matching the beat and my flowers twirling above my head. Cloud hands, they were called. I felt like an ancient Tang palace lady padding around the courtyard with my tiny bound feet, telling my story with my wrists.
The music sped up. So did I. With the crescendo, I threw myself in the air. As my legs