“What are we doing here?” I asked.
“Look up.”
Next to a billboard for Johnnie Walker and the American movieIt’s a Wonderful Life—was me. Me, in my yellow dress with purple polka dots, a bottle of Peaksoy tipped to my lips, smiling coyly as I look over my shoulder.Soy is joy,it read.
“Took a while to book this spot,” Tommy murmured, “but I’ll say the wait was worth it.”
My mouth fell agape in wonder. The poster was enormous, covering nearly the entire side of the building—and it was in color!
“I thought your father didn’t like yellow,” I exclaimed.
“He changed his mind,” Tommy replied. “The color shots turned out better than anyone expected.” He grinned. “And—I convinced him that it made you shine like the sun.”
I blushed. It was true, in the photo I glowed like the luckiest girl in Hong Kong. But only because I was looking at Tommy.
“Thousands will see you every day,” he said. “Your dimples are going to be famous.”
“How famous?” I teased, my neck still craned high. It was a good photo of me. A timeless photo. I ought to have worried that Sai Ma or Gu Ma might notice it, but I was more consumed by the prospects of Mama’s seeing it one day, and my brother Syun Kit in Malaya. I wondered whether they’d miss me when they did.
Tommy didn’t reply. He was still cycling, and I spotted yet another Peaksoy sign, and another and another. I stared in awe. There had to be over a dozen billboards of me, plastered across Hennessey Road down to Causeway Bay, and looking up at them was like viewing an endless reflection in a hall of mirrors. This was one of the busiest streets on Hong Kong Island, where only British and American companies could afford to advertise. Now, Peaksoy, too.
“Tommy,” I whispered, “you said your grandfather was a soybean farmer.”
“He is.”
“How big is his farm?”
Tommy braked, the muscles in his back going tense. It was all the reaction I needed.
“You’re rich,” I said. It sounded like an accusation because I didn’t know how else to express how I felt. It was no secret that Tommy’s family was well-to-do, but I’d imagined that they owned a bustling stall in Central Market, maybe even had a presence in a department store or two. Not this.
“It’s all recent,” he explained. “Even I’m still getting used to it.”
“Must be hard getting used to,” I said. “Soon it’ll beyourmother snubbing my aunt at mahjong games.”
That made him laugh. “She’d love nothing more.” His voice turned husky. “But don’t worry, Ying.Iwon’t change.”
There were fireflies in my chest, burning bright and fluttering fast. I turned away before I burst. “How did your family build this?”
“During the occupation, we survived on soybeans. They’ve got even more nutrients than rice, you know. We ate them, we drank them, we sold the milk to anyone who would buy it. Eventually my grandfather bought a stone mill to make more soymilk. We’d been lucky, and he wanted to share that luck. He heard aboutthe camps in Kowloon where refugees were starving, so he made soymilk for them. People didn’t forget what he did for them, and after the war, they wanted to work for him. They helped him start Peaksoy.”
“Your grandfather sounds like a good man.”
“Yes, he was.”
“Was?”
“Since my po po passed away, all he cares about is making money. Lately, he’s made rules about who I can be friends with, hiring tutors so I’ll develop the right accent, and choosing the schools I’ll go to. My mum’s become obsessed. Everything she does is calculated so I’ll become his favorite grandson and take over the business one day.”
“You don’t want that?”
“Nah, wouldn’t be able to go joyriding on my bike in the middle of the day or nap under a banyan tree after lunch. I haven’t got the stomach to be a tycoon.”
“I don’t believe you,” I said. “Peaksoy is everything to you.”
“No,” he replied. His voice was deeper than it’d been a minute ago, and he leaned forward until our noses almost touched. “Not everything.”
My heart galloped. We’d touched plenty of times, when I hugged his waist while riding the bicycle, or when he passed me a bottle of soymilk—but it’d never made my stomach swoop before. Never made my entire face hot, either, as if I’d swallowed a star.
