The Many Meanings of Meilan: Chapters 13–17

Even if I had furniture, it wouldn’t help, because Bàba made me give up my cell phone before we moved. He and Māma said it cost too much and they didn’t need to be able to reach me all the time anymore because the countryside was safer than the city. I had my doubts about their safety reason. Did they not watch the news? Bad things happened in rural areas, too.

I miss the rush of people, the hustle and bustle of weekends, helping in the kitchen and the front counter, the stories and lives of our neighbors. I miss being part of a community that understands me.

“That’s ridiculous.” My voice shakes. “Bàba is...he is...an honorable man. He would never do that.” Snippets of arguments between my parents and grandfather click into place. Gōnggong talking about yíchǎn, which I later discovered means inheritance.

“That’s ridiculous.” My voice shakes. “Bàba is...he is...an honorable man. He would never do that.” Snippets of arguments between my parents and grandfather click into place. Gōnggong talking about yíchǎn, which I later discovered means inheritance.

“That’s ridiculous.” My voice shakes. “Bàba is...he is...an honorable man. He would never do that.” Snippets of arguments between my parents and grandfather click into place. Gōnggong talking about yíchǎn, which I later discovered means inheritance.

I dash to my room and dive into the nook between the radiator and the wall, out of sight of the door. The fins of the radiator are warm against my side, and I close my eyes for a moment, pretending that I’m in the utility closet, the heat of the pipes blanketing me and Xing. I want that back. I want my cousin and best friend back. I want my whole family back. I want my life back the way it used to be.

Bàba is a good businessman and an amazing baker, but not a teacher. His idea of teaching me Chinese is making me translate passages from ancient Chinese philosophers and poets who died millennia ago.

In November, a few days before I told the fateful story of the fènghuáng to Tiffi, I’d been on stage with my friends, rehearsing for the annual Lunar New Year celebration. I’d taken pride in each scissor-like snap of my fan, each twirl of my red ribbons. I didn’t realize then that I was about to slice each ribbon that bound me to Boston, to Xing, to the bakery.

With one silly bedtime story, I had lost everything. Instead of foretelling good fortune, seeing the fènghuáng had spelled catastrophe for me.

Gōnggong sings a few words in Mandarin, a song I’ve heard before from a time and place that no longer exists. After a moment, he pauses and takes a deep, rattling breath. Underneath it, I still hear a thread of music, a woman singing. Her voice sends a jolt of electricity down my back and stirs up the beetles in my stomach.
It is Nǎinai’s voice.

Gōnggong stares at the tissue like he’s not quite sure what it is. Then he raises his hand and slowly wipes his eyes. “This song,” he says. “Tinggùo méiyou?” His voice is ragged from crying and from not being used.
Had I heard the song before? “I think so,” I reply.

Gingerly, I turn the tape player in my hands and find the volume control. It isn’t even a button, just a portion of a grooved plastic disc sticking out of the side like a coin stuck halfway into a vending machine. I spin the disc a tiny bit, and Nǎinai’s voice grows louder.

Translating the song is surprisingly easy — fifteen minutes later, I’m done. Maybe Bàba’s hands-off teaching method is working after all, not that I’d ever tell him that. I look down at my notebook and reread my translation. The song is about a poor but close-knit family.

There are tons of words in Mandarin that sound the same but have different characters and meanings. My English teacher last year, Wèi Lǎoshī, called them homophones. All I know is that individual sounds can mean almost anything unless you know what the written character looks like.

Curious, I flip to the page for lán in my Pinyin-to-English dictionary, which I’d brought along to look up any other meanings of ke’ài....I scan the page, focusing on the entries that are in second tone, the same rising inflection as my name. There are fourteen different characters with fourteen different definitions, but they’re all pronounced exactly the same.

Another ball falls, striking me on the shoulder. “Hey!” I look up at the dragon tree. “Well, you have my attention now. What do you want?” Would the tree spirit answer? She had spoken to me once before. I rub my shoulder and eye the hanging fruits warily.

I think about A Wizard of Earthsea. A mage had told Ged his true name. Maybe the tree spirit is guiding me to find mine. Beautiful Orchid has never fit me. It’s a name for an elegant heroine dressed in flowing silk robes, with jewels sparkling against her lustrous dark hair.

I think about A Wizard of Earthsea. A mage had told Ged his true name. Maybe the tree spirit is guiding me to find mine. Beautiful Orchid has never fit me. It’s a name for an elegant heroine dressed in flowing silk robes, with jewels sparkling against her lustrous dark hair.

“Warfare is the art of deceit,” the translation started. Bàba had explained that Sun Tzu’s philosophy could be applied to many situations where two sides have different opinions, not just wars between countries.

“Warfare is the art of deceit,” the translation started. Bàba had explained that Sun Tzu’s philosophy could be applied to many situations where two sides have different opinions, not just wars between countries.

A little farther on in the paragraph, another sentence jumps out at me. “If he is humble, encourage his arrogance.” If there’s one thing Māma and Bàba are proud of, it’s me. Or, rather, my brain.

I sit back and study the map. The words “miss/regret” jump out, flooding me with sadness. I miss Nǎinai so much. If she were still alive, I wouldn’t need a plan. The family would still be together. Slowly, I write “Nǎinai” in big letters at the top of the diagram, circle it, and connect her bubble to the “miss/regret” line. Then I add dotted lines radiating out from Nǎinai to every single member of the family. We all miss her, whether we show it or not.

“What are you getting at, Anita?” Liam is clearly frustrated and not following Anita’s train of thought.
“My point is that your family has not always lived here,” she informs him. “Maybe your parents and grandparents grew up in Ohio, but sometime in the past, your ancestors came to the United States. Probably by boat.”
That shuts Liam up, but not before he shoots Anita a death glare fiercer than any demon or Western-style basilisk.

I think about how Liam called him Log, like he was a dead tree trunk. It doesn’t sound like an affectionate nickname, and judging by Logan’s reaction, it’s not.

She goes on to explain that we “should all remember D.U.C.K.,” which stands for the four things to do when there’s an actual tornado, or even just a drill, like today.
D stands for “down,” meaning that everyone should get to the lowest level of a building or a low place if you’re outdoors....The second letter is U for “under,” as in getting underneath something sturdy to protect your body from falling or flying debris.