Page 70 of Vicious
“Some people think so.” Chase strokes the skin of my arm surprisingly gently. “Your mother named you May, didn’t she? Do you think she meant mei as in ‘beautiful,’ or mei as in ‘plum’?”
This again. I hate talking about my name. I’ve never spelled it any other way than M-A-Y. I can’t even read Chinese, so how the fuck am I supposed to know what hanzi my mother might have picked for the name?
“‘May flower’ is another term for a hawthorn tree,” I say glibly. “Do you know about those? People used to say fairies lived in them—like the real fae of myth, you know? And if you cut them down…” I mime slitting her throat.
I like that story better than being called beautiful or after some stupid plum flower.
“I don’t know. That seems like a stretch,” Chase answers, which only makes me scowl. “Your mother probably chose a name that works well in Chinese as well as English. My parents just gave me two names instead, since I guess they didn’t agree on anything.”
My heart tightens again. How nice for Chase, to have a proper Chinese name and to have a real Chinese family.
“Zhilong,” I say quickly, to hopefully derail the conversation from myself. “And your family name is…” I frown, trying to remember what he’d said that first night. It had been one of those really common names, too.
I’m too distracted to notice Chase moving, and suddenly he’s pulling me into his lap. I squeak, but I know there isn’t much point in fighting.
“Huang Zhilong,” Chase says. “My grandfather is Huang Wei.”
I look blankly at him, wondering if his grandfather’s name is supposed to mean something to me.
“Did you ever want to visit China?” he asks after a beat of silence.
It’s a touchy subject, one that makes me flinch, and I stare past him for a moment before shaking my head. “No,” I mumble. “I know I should want to, but I don’t.” It’s a strange thing to admit to him, when I don’t think I’ve ever even admitted that to myself before.
Chase gazes at me for a moment, and I go still as he brushes hair from my face. “Why not?” he asks, his voice surprisingly cautious, like he thinks he’s going to interrupt some nonexistent moment between us.
I give a stiff little shrug. “I don’t know.” That’s a lie. I do know, but I don’t want to tell him it’s because I just wouldn’t belong there. I find myself speaking anyway, unable to stop the words from tumbling out of my mouth even though he’s the last person I should be talking to about these secrets I hate thinking about at all. “Am I even Chinese? I don’t speak the language well; I don’t know the culture… I know more about Japan than I do China, and that’s probably not okay.”
“Why isn’t that okay?” he asks, startling me into looking back at him. “You grew up here, and as far as I know, your father doesn’t speak Chinese either. I didn’t start learning English until I was around nine or ten, when we moved from Beijing to London.”
“I don’t know,” I say abruptly, my body rigid as I try to pull away again to no avail. I don’t know why he won’t let go of me. I don’t know why I keep talking to him, but it’s like a dam has been breached and now the words just keep spilling past me even though I’m not even sure I know the answers to his questions. “It just doesn’t… I don’t know.”
“I know several Asian Americans who don’t speak their parents’ language,” he says, his voice cautious enough to irritate me. “One guy was born in Korea, even, but his parents insisted on only speaking English when they moved here. And Mrs. Hong’s kids barely speak Chinese. She complains about it endlessly, and I don’t tell her it’s her own fault for not speaking more Chinese with them.”
I don’t know how to react to that, so I force a smile. “Yeah.”
I look back at the TV screen, realizing we’ve missed several minutes of the show. It’s been a while since I’ve seen it, but I still remember what happened—and it’s not like he gives a damn.
Still, we’re both silent as we watch more of it, for all that there’s a palpable intensity in the air that lets me know this conversation isn’t over.
It doesn’t surprise me when Chase speaks up again. “I do speak Chinese. And I spent my early years in Beijing. I know a lot more about Chinese culture, and I visit China at least once a year,” he says, and if his voice didn’t sound so strange, I’d think he was gloating.
“Good for—” I start to snap.
“But,” he interrupts. “My grandfather still treated me like a foreigner. He never acknowledged me as being part of the family, not really. My mother keeps trying to convince me I just need to do more, to try harder, and then I’ll definitely be allowed to take over the family business or whatever.” He laughs bitterly. “Moving to London… It was weird. I suddenly had to get really good at English, and I’m not going to say there was no racism. But I got treated more ‘normally’ than I ever did in Beijing. So, you know, fuck whatever people say about being a ‘real’ Chinese person or Asian or whatever.”
Does he think that’s the same as my situation? He looks Chinese, he speaks Chinese, he has family he sees regularly, and he understands the culture and knows the customs. Meanwhile, all I’ve got is elementary-school level understanding of the language and that I call my father Baba instead of “Dad.”
I stare at the TV screen, clenching my fists and telling myself that he didn’t mean it like that. He was trying to be comforting for reasons I don’t even understand. It confuses me, how he goes from being this aloof, casual rapist one moment to trying to connect with me the next. I don’t like it. It would be easier if he was one way or another, not this fucked-up amalgamation of both.
“Tell that to my mother,” I mutter without even meaning to speak, and my voice is brittle enough to make me feel like I’m falling apart over and over again. I don’t talk about her much; I haven’t for years.
Not since she abandoned me.
He looks down at me, expression bewildered as he asks, “Your mother? What?”
I grimace. This is very nearly the last thing I want to talk about, but what’s the point in refusing to speak now? “She…” I let out a slow, shuddering breath and go back to staring numbly at the television. “I was never going to be Chinese enough for her, all right?” I ask sharply.
Drop it, I want to say. Just let it go.