Rent a Boyfriend - Gloria Chao Page 0,81

scared out of Chow Chow by the stinky tofu, right, Darren?” Her tone implied I’m always right.

“Stop being mean,” I said at the same time Darren said, “I love Chow Chow. I actually tried the stinky tofu on one of my visits. To be honest, I didn’t like it—the smell was too overpowering—but I love the rest of Chow Chow’s food.”

My mother leaned back, impressed, her chin pressing into her neck. “You tried it? Even Mei won’t try it.”

Darren shrugged. “I figured I wasn’t allowed to say I didn’t like it without giving it a taste.”

“That’s exactly how I feel!” my mother exclaimed. Her fake smile dissolved and was replaced by a slight curve, no teeth showing—her genuine smile.

“Well, I haven’t tried poop and I’m confident saying I don’t like it,” I said.

Darren laughed, and my mother turned to him in surprise. Was that wonderment in her eyes? Confusion?

She shook off whatever had come over her with a head jerk. “Darren, I didn’t know you were interested in our culture. Mei, you should have told me.”

You couldn’t hear anything about him once you knew his ethnicity, I wanted to say but instead managed a tight-lipped smile.

Below the table, Darren placed a comforting hand on my knee. He squeezed once, and I knew he was telling me to hang in there.

The rolls arrived. When I grabbed one, my mother’s hand didn’t twitch—a reminder of how far she’d come—and my shoulders relaxed.

It’s going well, I reminded myself. No racial slurs, no murder accusations, and Darren had somehow impressed the unimpressible.

My mother broke her bread apart and dabbed the tiniest piece in olive oil. “What are your career plans, Darren?”

Maybe I’d spoken too soon. I braced myself.

“I’m interested in biology—”

“Are you going to be a doc-tor?” Her eyes lit up, and I wished I could extinguish them now before Darren had to.

“That’s an option,” he said, buttering a roll calmly as if his reputation didn’t balance on a tightrope. “Right now I’m leaning toward research.”

“Research is for people who can’t get into medical school!” my mother huffed, her eyes darkening.

I jumped in. “He doesn’t mean being an RA to spruce up his med school application. He wants to be a professor. At a university.”

The light returned to her eyes. “A professor. Respectable. Good. And with a biology degree, you will still have the option to be a doctor in case you change your mind later.”

I had assumed she was serious, but her mouth was ticked up. A joke attempt? I forced a laugh even though it wasn’t funny. Points for effort.

The waitress served our pizza, pasta, and salad all at once to be eaten family-style. Asian-style.

My mother reached for the food first. “I love pizza. It’s like an oyster pancake, but with the chee-se.” She separated the word “cheese” into two syllables, the way it’s pronounced in Mandarin. “I wish Bǎbá liked it as much as I did. Then I wouldn’t have to wait until our meetings to get it.”

I knew her use of the word “meeting” was the result of the language barrier and that she hadn’t meant to refer to our bonding sessions like a business gathering. But still, I needed a deep breath. I reminded myself how her voice rose in pitch when we made plans and how her face always brightened when she saw me.

“How’s Bǎbá?” I asked. I hadn’t seen him since the funeral, and not for lack of trying, mostly on my mother’s end. I had sent a few emails and left one voicemail, all unanswered. On the outside, I pretended my infrequent tries were because I didn’t care, but it was really because the rejection was too hard. I tried to focus on the positive, how he no longer objected to my mother’s relationship with me. I hoped that one day we’d be a family again. Some days it felt like a matter of time, but others it felt like a delusional dream I was clinging to for survival.

Like today. Before my mother had even responded, I knew the answer to my question. Lines had appeared on her face, a handful of new wrinkles since our last get-together that said, Your father hasn’t changed.

Yet, I tried to remind myself.

My mother tore off a piece of crust, and without looking up, she said, “He’s the same. Mopey. He misses you and Xing but won’t admit it. I don’t know why he can’t just give a little.”

“Cognitive dissonance perhaps?” I suggested.

My mom raised an eyebrow in question.

“Bǎbá sacrificed