“Some versions say that the emperor sold them off to a neighboring country as slaves. Others say that Yeh Shen forgave them and invited them to live with her in the palace. Which do you prefer?”
“Make them suffer,” I replied easily. “I’d never forgive anyone who was cruel to me.”
“Even if they’re your own kin?”
“Especially if they’re my own kin. You don’t agree?”
Tommy twirled his straw, staring into his milk in a way that made him look extra pensive. “Sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to.”
I wondered about this friend of mine. He called me mysterious, but he was a mystery in his way, too.
I had to get to the factory, and as I got up from the table, I reached for the napkin with his sketch of the peak.
“Throw it out,” Tommy said. “I can draw you a new one.”
“No need.” I folded the napkin gingerly and tucked it into my pocket. “Who knows? Maybe it’ll be worth something one day.”
Tommy smiled the biggest smile I’d ever seen.
Hong Kong
1948
Chapter Seventeen
The next year I grew three inches, then another two the next year, until at fifteen I surpassed Sai Ma by a good head. She began wearing heels in the house, clacking everywhere she went and making offhand remarks about my “large and unfeminine” feet. It was a little war between us, and I kept a mental tally of all the things she hated about me. Some I would deliberately do to annoy her, like chewing loudly at dinner, and others I could naturally flaunt, like my height. She would pettily remind Gu Ma that I’d outgrown yet another pair of shoes and to dock the new ones from my pay.
Sui Chan and I had become the two fastest seamstresses in the factory, averaging sixty slippers a day. Though I hated the work, I couldn’t quit. The shiver of pleasure that climbed up my spine at the end of every week, when Mrs. Dang handed me my hard-earned wages, was undeniable. Even though Gu Ma continued taking most of my money to pay for the phonograph, the few coins I got to keep rattled in my pockets like the sweetest music.
Part of my money I saved for Mama. All anyone could talk about was the civil war in China, and whether it might spill into Hong Kong. After four years of Japanese occupation, another war was everyone’s worst fear. Mrs. Dang kept the radio on, listening to the news rather than her usual opera fare, and Sui Chan and I would whisper about whether we thought theKuomintang would prevail over the Communists. At home, it was a different story. Sai Ma complained that politics gave her a headache, so Baba and Gu Ma rarely discussed the mainland. If Yi Gor or I brought up the war, they’d curtly state that it wouldn’t last long. Never did they discuss their mother and brothers, who were still stuck in Guangdong, or the possibility of bringing them to safety in Hong Kong.
But I worried. I worried about Mama every day, hoping that her potatoes and soybeans had sprouted, that the tomatoes were thriving and the cows had given birth to new calves, and that there was enough rice. I worried the Communists would arrest her because she was a Christian, I worried that she didn’t answer any of my letters. I worried whether she’d foreseen something terrible and resigned herself to fate.
If things in China were as bad as everyone said, I’d need money to get Mama out. I squirreled away every coin, stashing my savings under my bed. I couldn’t rely on Baba to help. His whole life, he’d eaten “slipper rice,” cadging off Ah Ma then Gu Ma. I doubted he’d ever made a cent by himself.
“How much money do you still owe?” Tommy asked.
“Gu Ma says I’ve only paid off half of the phonograph,” I replied. “At this rate, I’ll be working at the factory until I’m eighteen.”
That was three more years, an eternity! I sighed. Many times I suspected that I had long since recouped the phonograph and Gu Ma was stealing my wages. But I had no way to prove it.
“I have an idea that might help.”
“I’m not taking your money. I’ve told you this before.”
“Just listen. Remember I told you my grandfather started a soymilk business? He’s trying to reach more customers by advertising.”
I was intrigued. “Like giving out flyers? I’ve seen people do that on Connaught.”
“No, a billboard. We hired a photographer who worked on Coca-Cola ads in the States, but Grandfather didn’t like the model he used. I said I knew a girl who might be a better fit.” Tommy waited a deliberate beat. “You.”
“You want me to model for Peaksoy?”
“You’ll get a free case,” he pitched. “And you’ll be well paid.”
“I’m not a model.”
“You’ve got the look he wants.”
