"Halle, get your stinky ass dirty ass ugly ass feet away from my face!" Faye yells, pushing her companion off the sofa. Splatting face-first into the carpeted ground, Halle rolls over, her hair a pool of blue against the eggshell white floor, bringing her hand to her forehead, and groans rather loudly.

Her back arches, knees in the air. "That hurt, and, for the record, my feet are probably a lot cleaner than your face."

Faye shakes her head, pointing the remote to the TV, and crossing her legs on the velvety couch cushion. "None of this would've happened if you would just move your dumbass! I'm trying to watch Dr. Phil."

Halle sits upright, leaning into her palms, and moving her bangs that have covered her left eye. "You wouldn't need to watch him if you'd just pay for the real therapist you so desperately need for those deep-rooted anger issues."

This seems to get Faye's attention. "I'm about to punt you like a football."

"You're only proving my point now, aren't ya?"

Somehow, I manage to tune out the rest of their nonsensical argument, which usually consisted of stupid insults coupled with the occasional use of physical force. Living with these girls for about 2 weeks has really taught me how to ignore their shenanigans. Age difference aside, it is inevitable they'd argue because they're both brats. Really, I couldn't complain because there was never a dull moment. At the end of the day, though, we all get along splendidly, and none of this fighting ever is taken seriously.

Broom in hand, Faye's mom enters the room, watching as her daughter leaps from her spot on the couch and onto Halle. The both of them wrestle on the floor, rolling over the blankets we laid out as mats. Grumbling some Chinese swear words under her breath, Faye's mom grabs her daughter by the collar and starts chasing her with the broom. At nearly 18 years old, Faye was still getting her ass beat by her parents. In a way, it's quite endearing. Although I know Faye is flawed, she's the closest thing to what my mom considers to be perfection, and seeing this helps remind me she's still a human being at the end of the day.

"帮我 [help me]!" she cries, using a pillow to shield herself.

Sitting on the carpet next to me, Tara balances a large plastic bowl of popcorn between her knees. Taking a handful, she chomps down on the kernels. By some stroke of pure luck, she was able to snatch the remote from underneath Faye, and she uses it to change the channel. Skipping past a few cartoons, she flips to the local news station. A breaking news banner flashes on the screen.

One look at the headline and my jaw drops.

"No fucking way," Tara exclaims, likely sharing my disbelief, "Am I tripping? Tell me if I'm tripping."

But she wasn't, because there, on TV, nearly a week after we made the 911 call, Wes D'Medici was being filmed with handcuffs, walking away from some secluded area in a building's alleyway. The cops behind him shove him into the back of the police car.

He was arrested on 2 charges of misconduct.

In astonishment, I put a hand on Tara's knee. "Holy shit, we did it, Villanova! It worked."

"Halle! It's your dad. He's on TV."

The girl in question finds a moment to glance at the screen amidst her rustle, rubs the side of her temple, and giggles. "That's funny."

As if on cue, Kassie and Lulu burst through the door, carrying multiple brown paper bags full of groceries. The two of them are so quick, I couldn't even offer to help them. Unloading various cans into the cabinet, Lulu and Kass put the rest of the vegetables into the fridge.

"Hey Kassandra," Tara says, jutting her head towards the news, "Look."

Peering her head around the column blocking her line of vision, she watches on as the news anchor explains that he was arrested under suspicions of tax evasion and property damage.

She exhales a tense breath but cracks a smile nonetheless. "Oh my God, you guys actually did it. Holy shit, good job."

Tara beams in response. "Well, whoever that owns that account on Reddit did the bulk of the work, but still, this is a good thing."

"Also...Kassandra? That's your full name?" I ask, eyebrows raised.

"Yeah."

"Since when?"

"Since birth, stupid."

"菲菲, 有人在打电话给你 [Faye, someone is calling you]," Lulu says, frowning as she picks up Faye's phone. The screen flashes.

Faye, whose arms are held up defensively to protect herself from her mom, simply hums in acknowledgment. With Lulu approaching the duo, Faye's mom takes that as her signal to go back into the kitchen.

Faye frowns, using her thumb to navigate to her notification tabs. "45 missed calls? Jesus, who's blowing up my phone?"

"Is it Indi again?" I ask, taking a seat between her and her bookshelf. "I thought you blocked her ages ago."

She grimaces at the mention of her cousin, scrolling through her call log. "That's because I did. It's not her."

"Who is it then?"

"Your mom," she informs me, a dip forming between her brows as she reads some of her answered texts. "She got fired from Lucky House today."

"Um, what?" I utter in complete disbelief. There's no way that's possible. Everyone, including her boss, knows that she's their best worker. Unless there was something else that must've intervened...

The weight of the whole situation hits me like a ton of bricks. Lucky House was the source of the bulk of our income, and there aren't a lot of job opportunities available for someone that isn't completely fluent in English. If neither one of us could find a way to support ourselves financially soon, then we won't be able to pay the bills, or worse, we'd lose the apartment.

Now, whatever this dispute was just got a lot more personal. The worst part of it all is that there is a lot more at stake for me than there is for him. I've already put Faye and her family in danger by letting her get involved. It seemed like every time I thought we had gotten the upper hand, we were actually two steps behind.

"Lee, you should go talk to her," she tells me, brows knit together. The tone of her voice is so gentle, almost brittle, and her concern catches me off guard.

The thought of seeing my mom after ignoring her for 2 weeks causes my stomach to flip. "...I don't know if I'm ready for that," I reply honestly. The wound is too fresh. After everything that's happened, I don't think I need the added stress. Besides, what am I going to say? What if she pushes me away? I messed up so badly, I wouldn't blame her if she never wants to see me ever again.

Faye pulls her folded legs to her chest, resting her chin on her knees. "C'mon, you can't be serious, right? She's still your mom, and she needs you right now more than ever."

"Why don't you talk to her then?" I grumble, averting eye contact, "she's always liked you better anyway."

Looking up from her phone, Faye lets out an exhale. "You know that's not true. She's been texting me every day about you. You know shit like: make sure Lee is drinking enough water, or what time did Lee get home today? or, my personal favorite—is Lee still running around with that white boy? If that doesn't show you she cares about you then I don't know what will. Sure, what she said to you was wrong, but her heart was in the right place. You gotta understand, the only reason why she's so hard on you is that she loves you. This focus on academic excellence and discipline is because she has your best interest in mind. You're mean to the people you love. That's why I tolerate your bullying."

Taking a moment to process her words, I purse my lips. "Still, sometimes I wonder why she's so harsh on me. I'm trying my best here. Sometimes I feel like that's not enough anymore."

Nodding, Faye tucks a lock of glossy hair behind her ear. "Hey, I get it I really do. But she was raised differently. That's just how the culture is. I'm not saying that's the right way to parent, but I'm also not saying it's the wrong way. I don't think that's the problem here, though. I think you don't appreciate your mom enough."

"I appreciate her plenty," I defend, mildly offended she'd suggest something so obscene.

"No, I don't think you do. Do you know how difficult it is to immigrate to a country on your own, where you don't speak the language, have no money in your pockets, and on top of that, you're treated like a second-class citizen? She built an empire from nothing so you could have a better life. That's fucking unreal. Admirable, even. That type of resiliency, that determination, that unconditional hope—that is shit that can't be taught at Prep school—it's priceless. You never see stories like that on TV, but that—that's the American Dream. So don't you ever, even for a second, question if she loves you or not when she clearly does, you hear me? You're all she has. Never forget that."

"Oh my God," I breathe, frantically stumbling onto my feet, "you're right. I have to go and apologize."

"So you're gonna go talk to her?"

Shrugging on my coat, I put on one of Tara's baseball snapbacks. "Going right now."

***

Ever since my dad died, my mom developed a rigid routine. Every weekend, when her shift ended at the local nail salon—which would be approximately 5 PM—she would go home, hang her uniform on the coat rack, slice me a plate of whatever fruit was in season and head out for a walk with her Canada Goose jacket. The path she chose was a remote one that was on sandy Earth and surrounded by trees. Initially, I thought this was a way for her to cope. Later, I'd realize this is her method of de-stressing.

Right now, it's 5:35, meaning that she's likely still on the trail. Standing outside our studio, I fumble in my coat pocket, fishing out my keys and twisting open the lock. A few things have changed during the short time I was gone. It seems like she shifted much of the furniture around. The plastic filing cabinet has been pressed against the wall, next to our dresser. New cushioned chairs have replaced the old wooden ones.

More peculiarly, I spot a box leaning against the wall of the main hallway. Carefully, I run a hand over the cardboard, using my thumbnail to pick at the packaging tape. When I fold open the flaps, my heart stops.

It's a new bass.

Packaging peanuts fall onto the carpet as I pull out the instrument, skimming the frets with my fingertips. The actual body of the bass is customized; translucent with various flowers embedded in it.

"Wow," I whisper, strumming the strings. As expected, since it's not plugged in, no noise is emitted, but I can already tell it was pretty expensive.

"你喜欢吗 [do you like it]?" a voice mutters from behind me, followed by a creaking noise suggesting the door has been closed. Turning around, I watch as my mom pulls off her chunky knitted scarf, cheeks bitten crimson. Underneath her eyes are prominent tired dark circles.

Something pulls in my chest—an overwhelming surge of content. The day I had told my mother I wanted to quit piano, she yelled at me. Called me a failure. A disappointment. Rambled on and on about how she wasted all this money in hopes that I would somehow become a well-respected pianist. And the day I decided to pick up a bass, she shook her head in disapproval. Said something about me never listening. Told me I was selfish. Pointed out that I should've put the time and energy I spent learning to play bass into perfecting my piano skills.

At the time, I felt super guilty, because I fucking believed her. I'm not the child prodigy she thought I was gonna be. I am, well, I am me, and that never seemed enough for her. That lingering feeling of inferiority carried with me. I spend so much time trying to be what she wants, though I know it isn't possible. She's never satisfied.

However, now, bass in hand, something clicked inside my head. The bass isn't only a gift, it is her way of acknowledging the person I've become. It is symbolic of her approval. She is proud of me.

Faye is right. It didn't matter how (or if) she showed affection. Deep down inside, I knew she loved me as much as I loved her. Our relationship is built on subtleties. Through the Chinese food we ate and the traditions we shared, we telepathically communicated our feelings. 

Wide-eyed and lips parted, I stare at my mother in shock, completely speechless. Picking up the pieces of styrofoam off the floor, she presses her lips into a thin line, folding the box compactly into the recycling.

Say something, you fucking idiot, I think to myself, she lost her job because of you.

"I'm sorry," is all I can think to say, "about—"

"Don't speak. It's okay," she mumbles, tying a striped apron around her neck, "你吃过了没？ 你饿了吗 [have you eaten rice yet? are you hungry]?"

For some reason, a single tear streams down my cheek and down the valley of my neck. Those words are meaningless in English, but they hold so much sentimental value in Chinese. It means she forgives me. 

And that's how I know. That's how I know that at least a part of me is Chinese. Because one's Chinese-ness isn't solely based on biology, genetics, or even phenotypic classification. It is more than that. It is the times I had chosen to brush off blatant racism as a joke or a compliment because I was too scared to face the truth. This is my life we're talking about, and if I didn't see it as a joke or a compliment that meant it was real. It is the nights I spend folding paper lanterns or eating tang yuan with Faye. The hours I stood in front of the mirror, hopelessly pulling at my eyes to make them bigger; the years I swapped my soup dumplings for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches so I wouldn't be stared at during lunch at school; the mistakes I made quenching my thirst with drinks of red white and blue—none of that mattered at the end of the day.

Because, most importantly, it is the unwavering connection I had with Chinese history and culture that defined me. No amount of white-washing, Americanizing, or assimilation could change that. Even if my Chinese is clumsy, or if I never got to visit the country, or if I lived in America—I would always be tied to China in some form.

I wanted to be accepted, to belong, to feel like I had a home to come back to so badly that I forgot who I was. Everything I could possibly ever want is right in front of me, yet I was too blind to see it. 

With a small smile, my mom heads toward the fridge, pulling out a plate of fruit and setting it down in front of me. Apple slices, skin peeled off perfectly (she has the best knife skills) and cubed watermelon chunks with all the little white seeds picked out are arranged on the porcelain.

My favorite fruits. Prepared precisely how I like them to be.

"You know when you left," she begins as I chew through a chunk of soft watermelon, "I cut a plate of 水果[fruit] every day for you, praying you would come back to me. I was starting to think you never would. 欢迎回家我的爱 [welcome home, my love]."