The Many Meanings of Meilan: Chapters 9–12

The teacher snorts, which startles me. “Fate! What a strange thing to say! You’re certainly an odd one, aren’t you?”
I have no answer for that. After a moment, she says, “Well, I think your family will like Redbud. We do grow excellent soybeans.” The class snickers, and I feel my face flush.

“You heard me,” Liam says. “Your house is haunted. No one stays longer than a couple of months. That’s why you got it so cheap.”
“There’s no ghost. He’s just being superstitious. People leave because Redbud is boring.” Logan tries to reassure me.

“I’m superstitious?” Liam retorts. “You’re the one wearing your ‘lucky shirt.’ ”
Logan’s cheeks turn pink.

A tall older Black boy passes by and acknowledges me with a brief what’s-up nod, but I’m too distracted to ask Logan who he is.

I have to resist the urge to turn around to see if there’s some other girl behind me. The real Melanie. I don’t even know how to be a Melanie. It feels like a distorted version of myself, one seen in a wavy antique mirror where the silver paint on the back has worn away in spots.

Quickly, I scan the faces of the other kids before choosing a seat in the back row next to the window. I’m pretty sure that most of them are the same ones from Health class last period, but they still stare as I walk past. This must be what it was like for the peanut mochi and steamed white radish cakes we used to sell in the bakery, stared at by non-Chinese tourists as something unknown and strange.

Mr. Lewis is the English teacher for third period. He hands out the first book we’ll be studying. It’s one of his favorites, he says. A Wizard of Earthsea by Ursula K. Le Guin. I study the cover, and it makes me nervous. There’s a drawing of a large hawk, wings outstretched, talons ready to grab and slash.

Being an outsider is temporary; being an outcast could be a life sentence.

I scan the room, but all the voices crash against the inside of my head like a tsunami, threatening to swamp me.
It’s not any different from An Wang’s cafeteria, I scold myself. I am not some fragile flower; I can be Mulan, the warrior.

I scan the room, but all the voices crash against the inside of my head like a tsunami, threatening to swamp me.
It’s not any different from An Wang’s cafeteria, I scold myself. I am not some fragile flower; I can be Mulan, the warrior.

My eyes come to rest on a small group of brown faces. There are exactly five of them. If I mustered the courage to join their table, I’d be the only Asian kid.
I turn away and try to find the library, my favorite spot in any school.

Down another hall, I spot a door with a small sign that reads COURTYARD. I push through the door into a small sunlit space, maybe thirty feet square, bursting with life. Small trees crowd three of the corners, with a lopsided wooden shed in the fourth.

Sunflowers crane their faces skyward against one wall, while vines dotted with small white flowers scramble merrily up a trellis against another wall.

It’s as if the vivid colors of the flowers and leaves are burning through the veil that has been clouding my sight. I take a deep breath and feel my shoulders relax.

I eat my fried rice cold, chewing slowly and looking at all the plants. The vines are peas, I realize, spotting a few pods hanging from the tendrils. I bet no one here knows that the tender leaves taste even better than the pods, especially when stir-fried with garlic.

I can see desks and chairs through some of the windows set into the walls, and I hope one of my afternoon classes overlooks this lush garden.

The rain doesn’t bother me — it rains all the time in Boston — but the darkness is suffocating. Back home, there are so many lights in the city that you can always see where you’re going, even at midnight. Here, the closest streetlight is so far away that its dim yellow glow doesn’t reach our yard.

There, nearly touching my sneaker, is the longest, fattest, grossest earthworm in the world. It’s so big I can see the ridges along its sides, and the pointy head looks like a snout....Quickly, I grab it with my thumb and forefinger. The moment I touch it, both ends flail around, curling up and around my hand.

The beetles in my stomach are scurrying, churning, pushing, making me gag. Twenty worms, Bàba said. Tears spring to my eyes when I realize I have to catch nineteen more of these disgusting things.

I conjure up images of all the times I’ve looked at the tree, both at night and during the day. It doesn’t look like a kraken. The tree is more like a Chinese dragon, ancient and scaly-barked, with pronged branches for horns and claws, and twisting roots for a tail.

Gōnggong once told me about shùjing, spirits who inhabit the thick trunks of old trees; shùjing are the reason big trees must never be cut down.

I get up and raise the window shade. The half moon hangs in the sky behind a scrim of clouds. In the dim moonlight, I can just make out the tree’s trunk. It’s as wide as a car — a perfect home for a tree spirit.

A tree spirit called out to me, in a woman’s voice. I lie back down and ponder what this could mean. Why does she know my true name? What does she want with me?

But Chinese dragons are like gods, revered as wise protectors. A tree spirit living in a dragon tree must be good.

I cringe. Maybe she’s calling my name because she knows I’m not good anymore. I’m not the graceful and rare flower that I’m named after. Beautiful Orchid doesn’t exist anymore. Who am I now?