“Sooner,” he said cheekily. He waved goodbye, his long bangs falling over his eyes, and there came a strange flutter in my chest that turned my insides warm. He’d gotten handsome, my friend Tommy.
I hoped he wouldn’t forget me.
The following week, I found Tommy by the loquat tree, tying a bamboo stick to its trunk.
“So it’ll grow straight,” he explained, straightening a bit himself when he spotted me.
I was impressed. “Did you learn this on your soybean farm?”
“I learned it so you’ll invite me for loquats when the tree bears fruit. You promise?”
“You like loquats that much?”
He grinned. “I likeyouthat much.”
Back home, when boys flirted, I pushed them into the pig trough. Obviously there was no pig trough here. So why, then, did my tongue tie up like those knots Tommy had made around the tree?
Still grinning, Tommy sprang to his feet and motioned at his bicycle. “It’s good you’re early. Hop on, I’ll take you to breakfast.”
“I can’t—”
“Don’t say no. I know a cha chaan teng that opens extra early. It’s not far, and the owner’s a family friend. I already told him you’re coming—you can’t make me lose face.”
Cha chaan tengs were a new kind of teahouse everyone was talking about, but I was more interested in his bicycle. It looked different than before. The seat was longer, with room for both of us. Had he changed that just for me?
“Will you come?” Tommy asked.
Why not?I climbed on, sitting behind him on the seat. “I’ve never ridden a bicycle before,” I admitted.
“You’ll... you’ll have to hold on to me,” he said. “Like this.” He wrapped my arms around his waist. “Going downhill can get fast, but don’t worry. I won’t let you fall.”
He turned to the road, pedaling strongly. The momentum propelled me forward, so my chin landed on his shoulder. It felt nice there.
Tommy was wiry and athletic and didn’t seem to mind having to cycle up the hills while bearing my extra weight. Going downhill, the streets blurred into a pinwheel of color, and I squealed in his ear. He laughed and rang the bell on his bicycle.
“Were you a devil in your last life, Ha Yut Ying? I swear I almost threw up when that tram on the road came out of nowhere.” Then he’d whisk us down another even steeper hill. Never had I laughed more, or screamed more. We were two young people on the cusp of adulthood, carefree and invincible. I never wanted it to end.
The cha chaan teng was on the corner of Kam Hong and Albert Crescent Road. It had green-painted windows and white lace curtains, and instead of offering only traditional Cantonese food, the menu also introduced Western food like bread with butter, milk tea, and potatoes that were fried in strips and dipped in tomato paste.
“Ah suk!” Tommy greeted the owner, a man with a bell pepper–shaped face. “Can you rush our order? My friend’s got to go to work in half an hour.”
“Anything for my best customer.” The older man grinned at us. “Soymilk and french fries for you. What will the young lady have?”
“A cola,” I said.
“That’s it?”
“Egg tarts, if you have them.”
“Egg tarts!” the owner exclaimed. “She’s got fancy taste, this one.”
I blushed, but the owner was only teasing. “We’re trying a few recipes,” he said. “I hope we’ll serve tarts by the end of the month.”
“Then we’ll be back for them,” said Tommy. “How about toast?”
I agreed. Growing up during the war had taught me never to be picky about food. And ever since Sai Ma had started rationing my meals, I was constantly hungry.
Our drinks arrived first. Tommy’s soymilk came in a glass and didn’t look like anything special, but he was excited.
