The Many Meanings of Meilan: Chapters 5–8

The fiery arguments have reduced our family to ashes. In Greek mythology, the phoenix is consumed by fire and then reborn. But that isn’t the Chinese bird. The Chinese fènghuáng is a symbol of harmony, not rebirth. Only, my phoenix tale destroyed any good feelings between my father and his siblings.

The fiery arguments have reduced our family to ashes. In Greek mythology, the phoenix is consumed by fire and then reborn. But that isn’t the Chinese bird. The Chinese fènghuáng is a symbol of harmony, not rebirth. Only, my phoenix tale destroyed any good feelings between my father and his siblings.

The Massachusetts Turnpike shoots us out of Boston like an arrow, dipping to the south before climbing to the northwest. The highway narrows from four lanes to three and then to two, the trees growing thicker and taller, creeping closer and closer to the road.

“Tell us a story anyway. I bet it’ll be a really good one.”
Their wide eyes and eager faces remind me too much of Tiffi. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t tell stories anymore.” I ignore the pang near my heart and get up and go downstairs.

Don’t my parents realize that we basically got thrown out of our family? They’re acting like this trip is a treat, but to me it feels like misery.

In a parking lot near the falls, Māma pulls out a thermos of hot water and passes around Styrofoam cups of instant ramen and disposable chopsticks. We slurp our noodles and soup in silence, looking out the car windows at the crowds of tourists.

We always had the family around us. Now we don’t.
The thought makes me yearn to call Xing, but I don’t have a cell phone anymore. One more thing lost to the squabbles about money. Neither of my parents have called any of the aunts and uncles since we left.

He points, and I follow the path of his hand to a sign in the window. HELP WANTED, it says in large red letters printed on a white background. Below, in black marker, someone has scrawled Pastry Chef. I take a step back and look up at the building. A wooden panel hangs above the door, the words REDBUD CAFÉ painted in cursive with a flowering tree carved above them.

I blink, trying to take it all in. “We’re going to stop traveling? And live here?”
“Yes.” Bàba’s voice thrums with excitement. “Lan, I even found a house for us.”

Somewhere on the dusty road between Boston and this unknown town...my parents had started calling me Lan.
My parents have always called me Lánlán — repeating the second syllable of a child’s name is a sign of affection in China. I feel a sharp ache inside, the bite of a hundred mandibles....Has my phoenix story changed the way my parents feel about me?

The town is called Redbud, too, and we’ve officially lived here for a week. Māma and Bàba signed the landlord’s papers, but it still feels like we’re squatters in an abandoned house. It’s going to take another week to get our furniture and the boxes holding the rest of our lives delivered from storage in Boston.

“Come,” she says again. “Rise up. Maybe you understand this one better, since it is from the US, like you. Zǎo qǐ de Niǎo’ér yǒu chóng chī.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I roll out of the bag and jam my feet into slippers. “Early bird. Worm. Got it.” ...I don’t think I can stand hearing a third Chinese proverb from Māma this morning.

The windowsill behind his desk is crowded with mugs, trinkets, and plastic toys. Gifts from adoring students or bribes meant to appease an angry god, I wonder.

Māma pulls the papers out of her bag and sets them on the table. She clears her throat and speaks carefully. “Yes, they are all here. I also brought transcript from her old school. As you can see, she is very good student.”
I wince. Why does Māma always have to suck up to white people?

Māma pulls the papers out of her bag and sets them on the table. She clears her throat and speaks carefully. “Yes, they are all here. I also brought transcript from her old school. As you can see, she is very good student.”
I wince. Why does Māma always have to suck up to white people?

“So, you must be Měilan.” He stumbles over my name a little, pronouncing it MY-Lann. He draws out the second syllable in a nasal whine.

His red hair, the amber eyes, the beard, the long nose — it all reminds me of the Chinese folktales about crafty and devious fox spirits that can take on human forms during the day.

His red hair, the amber eyes, the beard, the long nose — it all reminds me of the Chinese folktales about crafty and devious fox spirits that can take on human forms during the day.

We all stand up. I get up too quickly, and my head spins....I’m a little disoriented. I’ve just lost another name. First my family nickname, now my real name. I look over at Māma. She’d been wrong this morning. I’m not the bird; I’m the worm.

I think of Chén Shūshu and Lǐ Shūshu and remind myself to be a dutiful and respectful daughter.

Mr. Reynard is definitely a fox demon. Only a fox demon would be that devious, that crafty, to make me suffer while everyone believes that he’s helping me. He saunters over to Māma. “Don’t worry, Melanie is in good hands...."

“I’m fine,” I say to Māma before she can come up with another inspirational Chinese saying.

Mrs. Perry types a few things on her keyboard and clicks around with the mouse. I look up in time to see her shake her head. “I’m so sorry, Logan, but the Shale Team is full,” she says. “The other students already have their schedules, and it wouldn’t be fair to impose last-minute changes on anyone just to accommodate your desire to switch.”

Mrs. Perry types a few things on her keyboard and clicks around with the mouse. I look up in time to see her shake her head. “I’m so sorry, Logan, but the Shale Team is full,” she says. “The other students already have their schedules, and it wouldn’t be fair to impose last-minute changes on anyone just to accommodate your desire to switch.”

Logan smiles again, and this time it doesn’t look forced. Or am I imagining it? “Hi. Welcome to the Cliff.”
“Logan Batchelder!” Mrs. Perry chides in an amused way.
“The Cliff?”
“Clifton Middle School — the Cliff. Where we live life on the edge.”