Fiona and Jane(5)

The train’s door opened, and I stepped inside. From the corner of my eye I saw Baba follow me in. He didn’t try to sit next to me. The AC blasted cold air. I clutched my stomach. The ice cube was melting, ice water draining down my legs, into my shoes, but I didn’t feel any warmth replace it. The train’s movement hid my trembling.



* * *



? ? ?

That night, trying unsuccessfully to fall asleep in Baba’s bed—he’d insisted on taking the sofa while I was visiting—I thought about Ping.

It happened four piano lessons ago.

I’d kissed a few guys before, spin the bottle in junior high, seven minutes in heaven at some dim basement party, a date to the movies where we made out the whole time in the back row. The only girl I’d ever kissed was Fiona, and that was just for practice, we’d said. What friends did to help each other prepare for the real thing.

Ping and I were in the middle of a lesson, me on the bench and her in the chair next to me. We had just started a new piece, Chopin’s Scherzo No. 2 in B-flat minor. The first step was sight-reading. I was doing terribly.

“Your fingering here,” she said, pointing to a bar on the sheet. “Try this.” She slid onto the bench. Our thighs were touching. I didn’t move my leg away.

She showed me the correct finger passage, and I wrote down notes on the sheet. At the end of our forty-five minutes, she made me promise I would practice every night that week.

“I promise.”

“One hundred times.” She held out a fist with her pinky finger extended.

“One hundred?”

“Every time, you write it down in the notebook. Twenty times per day. Easy,” she said.

I rolled my eyes, but I hooked my pinky against hers anyway.

And then—I couldn’t tell you how it happened or who made the first move—our hands opened up, and we were touching palms. Ping smiled and drew her hand away. I held her gaze. We tilted toward each other, and then. It happened.

We sat on the piano bench like that, just exploring each other with our lips. I felt a rushing in my ears. I held my breath. My eyes were shut, and I wondered if hers were, too. I was too afraid to peek. We’re kissing, I thought. Me and Ping. We’re kissing! Was that allowed? I didn’t care. I was kissing Ping, and she was kissing me back.



* * *



? ? ?

Mah picked me up at LAX on Sunday afternoon. She gave me a hug, then held me at arm’s length, studying my face for a moment. I braced myself for criticism, but she didn’t say anything mean. We picked up my luggage at the carousel and crossed to the parking structure.

She had a cassette playing in the car, a live recording of Mandarin praise songs, acoustic guitars, tambourines. I was too tired to object. Soon enough I was falling asleep in the seat. One minute I was staring at the gray concrete freeway stretching out in front of us, the next minute, I was out. Then we were home, pulling into the driveway, the white garage door scrolling up. I slept through dinner, woke up at three in the morning. Mah let me stay home the next day to recover.

Back in school on Tuesday, I felt as if I was walking through the halls asleep on my feet. I couldn’t pay attention in class at all; at lunchtime, Fiona caught me staring into space while she was in the middle of a story. “Helloooo? Why do you look like you’re concentrating really hard?” she said. “Holding in a fart or something?”

I claimed jet lag, but that wasn’t it. I couldn’t stop thinking about my father and Lee. I thought about talking to Fi about it. I couldn’t. It was too strange. If there was anyone I could tell, I realized, it was Ping.



* * *



? ? ?

Friday, three o’clock: my weekly piano lesson.

Ping had shaved her head again while I was gone. “Because I was bored,” she said. “I missed to see the real shape of my head.” She took one of my hands in hers and placed it on her crown. The skin on top of her skull felt soft, pliable.

“Your head shape is beautiful,” I said.

She accused me of trying to flatter her because I knew I was in trouble. “Did you practice Chopin this week since you come back from Taiwan?” Yes, I said. “Prove.” She nodded in the direction of the keyboard. “Jesus is watching,” she added.

Ping twisted the knob on the electric metronome and set it on top of the piano. The digital pulse clicked on. I held my hands over the keys for a moment. My face felt warm all of a sudden.

At first, I was intensely aware of Ping’s gaze, her attention switching back and forth between the sheet music leaning against the rack and down toward my fingers, curled, then reaching. When I landed at the wrong chord progression, muddling through the middle, she made a sound with her mouth, lips kissing teeth. I relaxed into the second half anyway; the piece ended with a series of seventh inversions and I leaned into them, ignoring the metronome. My foot on the damper, I dragged the harmony out sweet and long. I knew she hated this kind of sentimental performance, but I didn’t care. I was enjoying myself, sweating a little under my arms. When I finished, I realized I was smiling. An imperfect rendition, but I was pleased.

I snuck a look at Ping, nervous to hear her verdict. “Not bad,” she said.

“Really?”

“Will you still study the piano in college?” she asked.