The Many Meanings of Meilan: Chapters 23–27

Confused, I follow his eyes to my hand, which is clenched tight around the dead balloon. I uncurl my fingers and show him. “God, you’re pathetic,” he snarls. Shame rises up in me, greasy and nauseating like the pork in my lunch.

“Did you find that in the courtyard?” She sounds intrigued instead of grossed out. I nod, wondering what could be so fascinating about a deflated balloon.

Mr. Becker starts explaining proportional relationships and drawing graphs on the board. I squint through the gray hazy mist in my eyes and try to copy everything down, stopping to rub my eyes every few minutes. Maybe I’m allergic to this school.

As Mist, I can be formless, shapeless, as unnoticeable as air. All the pointed comments and barbed looks will sail right through me and land somewhere else, far off in the cornfields. Not even Liam can get to me.

Teachers rarely call on me, their eyes sliding over my seat like it’s empty. I sail in and out of the nurse’s office looking for — but not finding — an old-fashioned pay phone. I slip out of classes and school so stealthily that even Logan doesn’t see me. Best of all, I can sneak out to eat lunch in the courtyard again without being caught.

More handouts are passed back from the front-row kids. The top sheet has a paragraph of instructions, a rubric, and a list of questions. “Veterans Day Project: Biography of a Veteran” is written across the top in bold letters.

“Everyone have the handouts?” Ms. Brown asks. “We’re going to be doing an exciting project leading up to and for the Veterans Day ceremony here at Clifton. Redbud has a long history of military service, and we want to honor our veterans. You’ll each choose a veteran, interview them, and write a three-page biography. I know some of you have family members who are currently deployed...if you want to, you can still do your project on them.”

I think she’s trying to say that we could prevent another world war by interviewing veterans and telling their stories, but I have my doubts. Stories, even if they’re not real, can be dangerous. I should know. Besides, the list of wars, interventions, and invasions included in the handouts is really long. It seems like our government is doing a lot of repeating and not a lot of learning.

A shaggy-haired boy looks at me while he replies. “Aren’t we in a war with China right now? My dad says he’s been fighting them. Some group called the ‘Tariffs.’ ”
Ms. Brown’s forehead creases. “I believe your father is talking about the trade war with China. Tariffs are a type of tax, not people. We aren’t in an armed conflict with China — our government disagrees with the way trade is conducted between our countries.

Question 1: What is your name?
Right now, I am the Lan who is Mist. Mist is invincible because everything flows right through her. Mist cannot be hurt. Mist reshapes herself after any attack. My name is Mist. I am Mist. It’s good to be Mist. I feel light and free again.

Doing well in school is practically mandatory — ever since I started first grade, Māma and Bàba have been very clear that good grades are super important so I can go to a good college.

I try again. “So Gōnggong was in the Chinese military? What happened to him?”
Bàba shakes his head....“This is a long story; very difficult to tell. Many things I do not know. Also, it is not my story to tell. Gōnggong suffered many hardships in the Vietnam War. He does not like to talk about it.”

Bàba waves one hand, as if pushing away a small animal. His English gets more abrupt, more clipped. “Long time ago. Much water under bridge.” Suddenly, he stares straight at me. “Why you keep asking? This not good conversation topic.”

I feel guilty for planning to lie, but relieved, too. This way, Basket won’t disturb the peace at home, and Mist won’t have to get up on stage and be noticed, either. We can still be ourselves. The only one who isn’t happy is Blue, who made a vow not to tell stories anymore. But being Blue means being unhappy, so in a weird, ironic way, my plan still holds true to all the versions of me.

She looks at me like I’ve grown antlers. “So much fun,” she says in Mandarin. “I found a magic ring, made me so happy. It did all the cooking and cleaning. I just relaxed and watched dramas on TV.”
I ignore her sarcasm. “That sounds great...."

“I was hoping Xing would write to me since she can’t text me anymore.” Maybe if I seem pitiful enough, my plan will work and Māma will get me a new cell phone.
Her face brightens, which I don’t expect. “Good — letters are better than text anyway. I’ll keep watch for a letter for you.”

I take a breath. “You know, Xing said she went to a camp at a college campus this summer.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I feel slightly nauseous. I’m manipulating my parents, just like Third Aunt, just like Foxman. Who is the evil trickster creature here?

Māma and Second Aunt have always been in competition about who has the smarter daughter. Using that against them feels like karma.

I strain to hear their conversation, but the wind has shifted, taking their voices away. Logan points to the tree, then down to the ground. Gōnggong tilts his head, and Logan makes a circular motion with his hand, holding it palm-down. Then he picks up a fallen branch and snaps it in half, showing it to my grandfather, who shakes his head. I’m mystified, too.

Plus, it looks like they’re getting along fine, even without me there to help translate. There’s a sharp twinge under my ribs as a beetle nips me. I turn back to my research.
When I raise my head again, there’s a pile of weeds next to the new garden, and Logan and Gōnggong are raking the yard.

“Bǎobèi. Bāng wǒ kāi mén.” Gōnggong’s voice travels through the house. I...scurry to the back door. He’s standing on the stoop, holding the bottom of his shirt out...A pile of the hard green fruits from the dragon tree rest inside. Behind him, Logan has a T-shirt full of them, too.
Quickly, I hold open the screen door so they can come in. The tiny mudroom feels claustrophobic with the three of us crowded together, and I can’t catch my breath or meet Logan’s eyes. He’s in my house. What do I do?

I look at Logan. “Um, would you like to come in? He wants us to see something.”
“Sure.” He takes off his gloves and puts them on the bench. Without prompting, he kicks off his sneakers, too. His feet are bare. The beetles race wildly around my insides. Those bugs are getting a ton of exercise today.

...Ho Chi Minh, who I’m planning to use in my fake interview.
“And you’re going to interview him for the Veterans Day project?” she continues.
“Yes, but over the phone,” I respond. “He doesn’t live near us.” I hasten to add, “He won’t be able to come to the ceremony, either.”
“That’s too bad,” Ms. Brown says. I can’t decipher her expression. She doesn’t look displeased, but she doesn’t seem pleased, either. More like confused.

She looks thoughtful. “I understand it may be hard for him to talk about it, but it’s so important for us to preserve his memories. Maybe you can think of other ways to get him to open up about his past? Instead of sitting him down for a formal interview, try asking him a question or two when he’s doing something he enjoys. Or when he seems open to it.” She pats my hand.

Either way, the shame of an underachieving, misbehaving daughter could keep Māma and Bàba from ever showing their faces in Boston. I might never see Xing and Tiffi again.
Blue’s only rule is that I be my true self, to acknowledge my thoughts and emotions. But if I were her right now, all I would feel is the never-ending midnight blue of despair.