"菲菲, I have not see you in so long," my mom exclaims, as she puts her keys in a cube compartment stuck on the wall, next to the section where we stack all our classical Chinese CDs vertically. My mom's collection, obviously, not mine.

"Seen not see, mom," I correct, watching Faye, who is seated on the other side of the L-shaped suede couch, from the corner of my eye. Although it's technically her legal name, it's honestly a little weird hearing her being referred to by her Chinese name. In 9th grade, she started going by Faye after our English teacher, Ms. Martin, asked her if there was anything "easier" she could call her. The irony of it all is that unbeknownst to her, 菲菲 [FeiFei] is pronounced like Faye-Faye. I suppose the simplified spelling of her name makes it more palatable for American teachers.

"Yeah, Lee's always so busy now," Faye says, a hint of spite laced into her tone that doesn't go unnoticed by me. Is she having a dig at me or is she joking? Hard to tell.

"Ugh, you're right," my mom agrees, hanging her purse on the coat rack where the rest of our gear for snowy weather resides, "she's always out so late and I have no idea what she's doing."

"Oh," Faye says, horribly attempting to conceal her surprise, "I thought she was home with you, doing house stuff."

Mom scoffs, setting the white plastic bags filled with boxes of take-out on the table. "I wish. Lee hasn't picked up a mop since Thursday."

Would it kill you to compliment me for once in my life? Or at the very least, not tear me down in front of my already perfect best friend that is suspicious of me.

I know I shouldn't have been offended at my mom's crude remark, but I couldn't help it. Deep down inside, I know that my mom has always put Faye on a pedestal, and I hate it. I hate being constantly compared to her because whatever area my mom thought I lacked in, Faye excelled at.

Piano? She was a lead pianist in our school's orchestra. Me? I quit in 1st grade and decided to pick up a bass.

Speaking Chinese? She's fluent. Me? I try my best.

Academics? She scored 10 points higher than me on the SAT.

Looks? She's ten pounds lighter than me, an inch taller, and fairer skinned.

Personality? She's less crass and more ladylike than I am.

I try so hard, yet I'm still living in her shadow. How am I supposed to compete with that?

"Interesting," Faye comments, her monotonous tone irking me.

Crap. She's onto me.

What the fuck am I thinking anyway? I know better than to try to outsmart her. If she's going to confront me for something, could she spit it out already to spare me of any further embarrassment? Besides, dinner is about to be very awkward with my mom acting like a blissfully unaware mediator.

But the damage is already done, and the only thing I can do is roll with it, and hope for the best. Perhaps it is all in my head, and Faye's having a bad day.

Gulping, I unload the food, looking for my order, hoping that this will somehow distract Faye from the fact that I'm lying. I can't tell her the truth. Not when she knows Lulu.

"This is yours," I tell her, emptying the box with orange chicken in a bowl and handing her a pair of wooden chopsticks. Sometimes, when mom works late, we order food from Lucky House. Frankly, we probably make more authentic Chinese food at home (what Chinese place sells orange chicken?), but my mom works there, so we get a discount. Plus, once in a while, greasy fast food hits the spot. I can't complain. A meal is a meal.

Their chow mein is my favorite. It's loaded with stir-fried onions, carrots, bean sprouts, and scallions. This is comfort food in every sense of the phrase. With every bite, an explosion of saltiness from the soy sauce and subtle sweetness from the brown sugar gushes over my tastebuds.

A few noodles fall from my mouth and back into the takeout box. I frown, switching to a fork next to me instead. Chopsticks have never been my utensil of choice, mostly because I don't want to struggle while eating. The only reason why I'm so adamant about using them all the time is that whenever my mom and I would visit Chinese restaurants, she'd snicker at me for asking for a spoon. She always used to question how Chinese I actually am if I didn't like to drink the tea they provided us or use the chopsticks to eat like everyone else, including the non-Asian people there. 

As we're eating dinner, the room is completely noiseless, except for the sound of our silverware clinking against our porcelain bowls. Usually, we talk and finish our food simultaneously, but it seems like Faye's in a sour mood, and I don't want to provoke her anymore.

"李花, bring you plate," mom tells me, and I do as told. Dumping a piece of fish into the sauce, she puts it on top of my noodles. Growing up, my mom would always do this while we're eating a meal together—she'd give me what she considered the "best part" to make sure I was fed well. Unlike the American families I saw on TV, we hardly (if ever) verbalized the words I love you, however, when she did gestures like these—I know that's what she wants to say but never had the heart to.

"It's your, not you, mom," I correct, swallowing the piece of seafood she has given me.

"Oh, so now you're an English expert. Great to know," Faye comments, rolling her eyes.

Okay, something's definitely wrong.

"I never said that," I retort, furrowing my brows. "Just trying to help."

She opens her mouth to respond, but immediately clamps it shut, the tension in her jaw suggesting that whatever she was about to say was going to be equally as cutting.

"菲菲," my mom calls, as if she didn't just witness us argue, "how's your mom doing?"

"The same, more or less," Faye responds, twirling her share of noodles around her chopsticks, "she went to a reunion recently. I asked Lee if she wanted to join us, but she said no."

"That's nice. I'm glad she's happy," my mom says, with a smile, "Lee will go next time, don't worry."

In one swift movement, my mom finishes her last bite of rice, leaves to put her plate in the sink, then heads to the bathroom. Once she's out of an earshot, I chew on my tongue. Not letting this opportunity slide past me, I immediately exhale.

"What the hell is your problem?" I ask her, putting down my chopsticks flat against the polished counter.

"I'd say nothing's wrong," she begins coldly, taking a sip out of her glass. "But then I'd be a liar like you, wouldn't I?"

Yep. Maybe I should've kept my mouth shut.

"What are you talking about?" I ask, feigning innocence. I needed to think of a way out of this quickly, but she's got me trapped at all escapes.

My half-assed attempt at keeping her anger at bay only allows her to take the upper hand and unleash what she truly thinks. "Do you think I'm dumb Leighanna? I'm talking about Saturday, you know the time we were supposed to be hanging out. When my dad saw you at the train station. With Hunter and Wash. He told me everything. What did you say you were there for? A school project? I don't recall being assigned anything of that sort."

My lips part. I had assumed her father didn't see me leave with them at all, but I guess I've been mistaken. Hell, I didn't even know he knew who Wash and Hunter were.

Why is she so mad? This is none of her business, and frankly, I don't see why it's such a big deal. It's an innocent mistake. I simply forgot we planned to hang out in the first place since we literally scheduled it a month ago.

Tongue-tied, I grip my chopsticks tighter. "I—"

"And what about Lulu?" she steamrolls on, crumpling a napkin. "Said you didn't know her right? That's not what she claimed. Now, she didn't tell me how you guys knew each other, but she did say that she did recognize you. So tell me, Lee. Who's telling the truth?"

Before I can say anything back, my mom rejoins us, frowning when she senses the palpable tension.

"Did I miss something?" mom asks, grabbing a grass jelly drink from the fridge, and cracking it open.

"Nope," Faye replies sharply, standing up from her seat and collecting her backpack. "I was just leaving. Thanks for dinner. It was delicious."

And without another word, she's out the door.

***

I haven't talked to Faye Zhang in 1 week 1 day 18 hours 7 mins and 12 seconds.

But damn, did it feel like a century.

Every time I try to suck it up and apologize, she leaves as soon as I approach her.

Admittedly, I did miss her a little bit. Especially during our lunch block, when I had no one else to talk to. Instead of conversing with her during my spare hour, I entertain myself by sitting in a library cubicle, a copy of The Joy Luck Club in hand. Unsurprisingly, I couldn't find the motivation to actually read it. Could be because I've already read it a dozen times and wrote 5 different essays about it.

Laying my head down on my arms, I decide it is probably best if I caught up on some sleep rather than pretend to read. Luckily, my bunched-up letterman jacket works well as a pillow, although those tiny black buttons are uncomfortable to rest my cheek on.

Suddenly, right as I'm about to close my eyes, I feel a tap on my shoulder. Bewildered, I turn around tentatively, trying to find the culprit that has robbed me of a peaceful nap. Tara stands behind me, binder held close to her chest, grinning from ear to ear. My irritation simmers down.

Awkwardly, she gives me a small wave for a greeting. "Hey, Leighanna. I wanted to thank you for your study guide. I got a 92 on the midterm, which is probably the best score I've gotten all semester. It was really helpful. I'm usually a B student when it comes to math."

"That's great," I reply sheepishly, not bothering to lift my head up. "What are you doing in the library today?"

Drumming her nails against the binder surface, she glances over her shoulder to make sure no one else is within listening distance. "Don't tell anyone, but I was working on a secret project for my dad's charity organization."

Charity? He's in no position to be donating to people when he's 2 million in debt. Is he the charity? "Wow, sounds cool. My lips are sealed, you have my word." I pretend to zip my mouth shut, and throw away the key.

"Yeah, I'm excited," she says, redirecting her gaze to my now-empty desk. Taking a moment to deliberate, she angles her head toward the space. "Are you here alone?"

"...Yeah," I admit hesitantly, slightly ashamed. I shouldn't be, but it's Tara of all people. Even after 4 years here, I only had Faye, meanwhile, our entire student population is in love with her.

"Do you," she begins, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, revealing multiple piercings on her ear, "wanna join me for lunch? We can walk around or find a less depressing place to sit."

It is quite depressing here...

If the circumstances were any different, I'd refuse that offer. Nothing against her, I'm simply very socially inept and incapable of holding small talk with people I barely know. But I am really, really lonely. Besides, I have nothing to lose. Maybe it's time I stepped out of my comfort zone, considering I have nothing better to do. "Sure."

She squeals happily, and I wince at her volume, stealing a glimpse at the onlookers, most in their cubicles, judging her. Realizing her mistake, she stifles a laugh, grabbing my wrist and pulling me out of the nearest exit, which happens to lead to the very front of campus. Together, we walk side by side, on the pavement, making sure to avoid the staff members driving around in tiny white carts. My pace starts to slow up the hill, allowing me to savor the sunbeams on my skin and the gentle breeze tickling the back of my neck. She guides me toward the student's parking lot, which is surrounded by wired fences and big oak trees. A few people are huddled on the grass, their food sprawled on their laps. The teachers have reserved spots, most of which are closest to the buildings. Since it is lunch, the lot's basically empty, as students leave to buy food, but there is one vehicle left at the very end.

"This is my car," she informs me, pointing to a white Rolls Royce, "make yourself at home."

"Duly noted," I say. She opens the passenger's seat door, and ushers for me to get in. Hesitantly, I oblige, the leather seats chilly against my back, even through the thick yarn of my sweater. She claims the driver's seat, reclining it back so she has enough legroom. There's a dreamcatcher with amethysts and white feathers strung from her rearview mirror.

"Want one?" she asks, uncapping a tin of Altoids.

"No, I'm good," I insist, sticking out a hand for emphasis.

"Suit yourself," she shrugs, plopping the mint in her mouth. I can smell the fresh scent even from my position. "So are you and Hunter friends? Never seen you guys hang out."

I grimace at the word friend. More like business partners. "Barely acquaintances."

She laughs, taking out a tube of strawberry lip gloss out of the glove compartment. Looking in a compact mirror, she applies it. "Glad you're humbling him, you're way too cool for him anyway. He's cute, I'll give him that, but he's a total airhead. Probably got it from his mom."

Yeah, no kidding.

"Ugh, don't get me started on her," I grumble, crossing my legs. "The 2 encounters I've had with her were...unpleasant."

She raises a brow, crunching down on the white tablet. "You've met his mom? Doesn't sound like a very 'acquaintance' thing to do."

"It's not, I guess," I nod, shifting on my weight, "it was a massive displeasure, by the way."

She snickers. "But I agree, she's a massive bitch. The first time I met her she asked why I was dressed like such a whore. Mind you, I was wearing my school uniform. I can't help the fact that they don't make these skirts tall-girl friendly."

"That's so fucked up," I agree, shaking my head. "On so many levels." Slut-shaming, especially from another woman, who should understand the double standards, hurts exponentially more. Plus, the length of your clothing, specifically when it's uncontrollable, shouldn't define a person. Honestly, up until this point, I thought I was the only person that disliked her. Either that or she had some sort of baseless grudge against me, however, I'm happy to see that it's just her personality. I was starting to think I might've accidentally done something wrong.

"Right? Girl needs to get railed or something," she mutters, completely monotonous.

"Tara!" I shriek, trying to hold in my laughter. Gauging from her annoyed facial expression, I'd say she's completely serious. "You can't just say things like that."

"What? It's true!" she defends, putting her feet up on the dash.

"You're not wrong," I concede, nodding, "whenever I'm around her, I'm grateful for my Chinese mom."

Nodding, she puts back her lip product in its proper location. "Oh, you're Chinese? Cool."

First and last time I think I'll ever hear that statement in my life. "You couldn't tell?" I tease, pulling on a stray thread from my sleeve.

She puts up her hands defensively. "Hey, I don't assume anything. You could be white for all I know."

"Damn," I say flatly, and I watch her panic slightly, "no, it's just I'm surprised someone's a little educated. It seems like in Cape Bedford, Chinese is basically synonymous with Asian."

Scoffing in disapproval, Tara makes a face. "People here are so ignorant, I swear. I wish I was born Chinese, or just else so I can be more exotic. Cape Bedford is so cookie-cutter. It's like it's a requirement to be a complete copy of your neighbor in this suburb."

Though she didn't mean it like that, I couldn't help but feel ostracized. The term "exotic" itself is so subjective. What she views as foreign is my version of normal. That's my lifestyle she's talking about.

This is another reminder that regardless of how hard I try, I will never, ever fully assimilate.

Of course, I didn't voice my opinion out loud.

Crazy that to her, the suburbs are boring, when it's the same thing my parents split oceans trying to have. "They all live a pretty great life, don't you think? They never have to worry about anything. I would give anything to live like that."

Slowly, she nods. "Guess you're right. Maybe I should appreciate what I have."

A beat of silence passes, where I admire the way pearls on her necklace glimmer on top of her dainty collarbone. She closes her eyes, sinking lower into her seat.

God, she is really pretty.

"Hey Leigha?" she calls out with half-open eyelids.

"Yeah?" I mutter under my breath, leaning my chin on my palms.

She turns her head so she's facing me, gaze softened. "Don't tell anyone this, but I already like you more than most of my friends."

My face lights up. "Really?"

"Absolutely," she says the word with so much certainty that I know she is sincere.

Perhaps we might get along after all.