Francis came bearing a box of Nestle Drumsticks. I was ravenous, and I didn’t care about the old rules that I wasn’t supposed to eat anything cold after giving birth. While I feasted, my brother-in-law dangled a rattle in front of the baby.
She let go of my finger and flailed at Francis, her young ears entranced by the sound.
Francis chuckled. “I can already tell we’re going to be buddies.”
The rattle was bright yellow, a painted sun grinning on its wooden head. Every time he shook it, my daughter beat her hand in the air, and I smiled. My old house in Tunglam hadfaded to scraps of memory, yet I vividly remembered the line of marigolds in the garden—how they’d sway like little suns. Seeing them used to make me happy, too.
When Philip finally arrived, I had a name.
“Meet Marigold,” I said. “Marigold Mei Yoong Yuen.”
Berkeley
1973
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Marigold
By eleventh grade, Marigold was the top student at Berkeley High, and the loneliest. In class she sat in the front row and spoke firmly, her spine erect even when she bent her head down to write. Outside class, she could be found behind a wall of encyclopedias in the reference library. A growing number of freshmen and sophomores sought her out for tutoring. She never turned anyone down, but she never befriended them, either.
Of the Yuen sisters, she was the shortest and plainest. Her face was round with a triangular chin, her expression pensive even when she was eating. She wore the same rotation of five turtlenecks and jeans every week and only bothered to tie up her hair so it wouldn’t obscure her glasses. Her classmates called her an oddball, for she was never seen without gloves, even in PE. A pity, for Marigold had beautiful hands. Deft and slender fingers with pink shiny nails. Few appreciated how expressive they were, dancing when she was in the middle of an explanation.
She was happiest when she was with her sisters. Least happy whenever someone mentioned the name Kenji Yamamoto.
The first two years of high school, they had no classes together. If they encountered each other in the hallway or by their lockers, Kenji would turn his back to her, his jaw setting as if her presence gave him a toothache. Once or twice she’d pass him drawing in the library, and he’d shut his sketchbook the moment he saw her. Rumors swirled around why he hated Marigold, and none were in her favor. No surprise. Everyone was friends with A-minus Ken. He was an easy talker, good at sports, and popular with students and teachers alike. It also helped that since middle school, he had grown nine inches taller and gotten rid of the bowl haircut, which had done wonders for his looks. He’d gotten smarter, too. At the end of sophomore year, he’d rocketed up the rankings to second, just behind Marigold.
Which was when she began to worry.
They both wanted to go to Stanford, and they both needed scholarships. Their guidance counselor said it was unlikely the university would offer more than one full ride to a Berkeley High student in the same year. So Marigold redoubled her efforts. And so did Kenji.
Junior year, they had five classes together. In English, they argued over whether Romeo and Juliet were in love. Kenji believed their love was genuine; Marigold argued it was lust. In history, they took opposite sides arguing political theory: Marigold debated as Thomas Hobbes while Kenji was John Locke.
A few brave souls tried pairing them on assignments, hoping it might ice the animus between them. Mr. Martinez, the biology teacher, was the latest to attempt such folly. One rainy Monday morning, he partnered the two on their fetal pig dissection.
Kenji’s hand went up. “Sir, I’m afraid you can’t put us together.”
“Why is that?”
“Because Marigold’s allergic to me.”
A few of their classmates snickered, and Mr. Martinez crossed his arms. “Very funny, Ken. Get to your stations, please.”
Kenji brought his notes to the counter, standing across from her. “Can’t say that I didn’t warn him.”
Marigold gave him a stormy look. She snatched the set of instructions on the table, scanning the text as she exchanged her black nylon gloves for the lab’s latex ones. Kenji had some difficulty putting the glove on his right hand, where the tip of his middle finger was limp and drooped down. Probably a tendon injury, Marigold observed, from baseball.
“Wow, you really do write in shorthand,” he said. “Guess that’s why no one borrows your notes.”
“Hand me the scalpel,” she said.
With a sigh, Kenji obliged.
“Pins.”
“Are you going to do everything?”
“You can read the instructions aloud.”
