Chapter 11

I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I agreed to join Li and her mother. The day had actually been good, in spite of the five-hour car ride that was about half lecture and without music for the entirety of it. We’d visited a few people briefly, which was awkward since I stood out like a sore thumb, and had gone to some big shows with fireworks and all kinds of stuff that was hard to describe.

At least for those, I’d kind of disappeared in the crowd with other random people who’d just stopped to see what all the commotion was about. Unfortunately, that wasn’t possible with the culmination of the evening, a big dinner featuring just about everyone Li was related to in the southern part of the US, it seemed, at a big restaurant called the Golden Phoenix.

Since we’d been led into the back private dining room, the lazy Susan in the center of the table spun continuously, delivering an endless parade of dishes I couldn’t identify. Some looked familiar, dumplings, noodles, and the like, but others were completely foreign. One dish appeared to be a whole fish, eyes and all, staring right at me.

“You try,” said an elderly woman sitting three seats to my right, gesturing toward a platter of what looked like small fried balls.

“Uh, sure,” I said, awkwardly grabbing my chopsticks.

I’d only used them a few times before and I was still very bad with them. They’d offered to bring me a fork, but I already felt weird enough and had said I was fine. I finally managed to pick up one of the balls and pop it into my mouth. The outer layer was crispy, but the inside was sweet and gooey.

“It’s good, right?” the woman asked, her eyes crinkling with delight.

I nodded enthusiastically while chewing, trying hard not to talk with my mouth full. “Really good.”

Li sat beside me, occasionally translating snippets of conversation, but mostly leaving me to fend for myself. Every time I glanced her way, she had this knowing smirk that made me want to elbow her in the ribs.

“So, Blake,” said another elderly woman, this one with silver hair pulled into a tight bun. “Li tell us you play football?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m a quarterback.”

This prompted a burst of rapid Chinese from around the table. I caught Li’s name several times and noticed her sinking slightly in her seat. I just looked around hopelessly, hoping someone would clue me in.

“They’re saying football is very dangerous. My aunt thinks I should find friends with safer hobbies,” Li offered.

“Tell them I’m already brain-damaged, so it’s not like I can ruin anything else,” I said as a joke.

Unfortunately, Li was in a comfortable environment, which meant instead of shy and reserved, she was a troublemaker. Much to my embarrassment, she translated, which earned laughter from the younger relatives and disapproving looks from the older ones.

The oldest-looking woman at the table, so tiny and wrinkled I couldn’t even guess her age, addressed me directly in surprisingly clear English.

“What are your plans for the future?”

“Um, college, hopefully. I’d like to play football there, too.”

“And after college?”

“If everything goes right, I’ll be playing football professionally, but if it doesn’t, I want to get a business degree and fall back on that.”

The elderly trio exchanged looks that clearly communicated they found my answer wanting.

“And what about a girlfriend?” asked the first elderly woman, causing Li to suddenly choke on her water.

“I, uh...” I fumbled, feeling heat rise to my face.

“Āyí!” Li hissed, but the woman waved her off.

“It’s a proper question. A handsome boy like this must have a girlfriend.”

“I do have a girlfriend.”

The three women nodded in unison.

“Is she Chinese?” asked the silver-haired woman.

“No, ma’am.”

“Pity,” she said. “Chinese girls make good wives. Very hardworking.”

Li made a strangled noise beside me, and I felt a small victory in seeing her uncomfortable for once.

“Blake doesn’t need someone hardworking,” Li said. “He’s fifteen.”

“I married at sixteen,” the woman replied dismissively. “Your grandfather was seventeen. We were together sixty-three years before he died.”

I couldn’t imagine being married for sixty-three minutes, let alone years.

“Blake,” another woman asked. “You come from a good family?”

“I think so,” I answered, suddenly feeling like I was in a job interview. “My dad works as a police officer, and my mom works in a hair salon.”

“Brothers and sisters?”

“One younger brother,” I said, although there was no way the word ‘good’ and my brother ever fit into the same sentence.

“Are your parents strict with you?” asked Grandma Yang.

“Sometimes,” I said, trying to be diplomatic. “They want me to do well.”

This seemed to please her. “Good. Young people need discipline.”