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Even Sun Wukong would spare a moment to listen to the Venerable One. Buddha proposed a challenge—if the Monkey King could leap out of the Buddha’s outstretched hand, then he was free to overthrow Heaven. If not, he’d have to chill the eff out.
Sun Wukong took the bet and sprang forth from the Buddha’s palm. He leaped to what looked like the End of the Universe where five pillars marked the boundary. But those were nothing more than the fingers of Buddha’s hand. Buddha grabbed Sun Wukong, slammed him to the Earth, and dropped an entire mountain on top of him. The prison was sealed with the binding chant Om Mani Padme Om.
Sun Wukong, who had struck fear into Heaven itself, was trapped . . .
11
After describing the Monkey King’s imprisonment by the Buddha, my mother leaned back into her chair.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “Is Sun Wukong a good guy or a bad guy?”
“He’s an anti-hero,” said Quentin. “He doesn’t play by anyone else’s rules.”
“He sounds like a tool,” I said.
Quentin gave me an angry squint. My mother didn’t know that particular phrase, so she didn’t yell at me for being vulgar.
“He redeems himself later by becoming the enemy of evil spirits and protecting the innocent,” she said. “That was only the first part, and the story is really long. I mean really long. A lot of English translations leave out whole chunks.”
“So then what happens after he gets stuck under the rock?” I said. “How does he get out?”
“I’m not telling anymore,” she said, making a face. “You have this book somewhere in your room. Go read it.”
“How long ago did all of this happen?” I said without thinking.
It’s not often that I’m the one making the verbal blunder in a conversation with my mom.
“Genie,” she said, looking at me like there was something growing out of my forehead. “It’s a folk tale.”
“But it’s one that’s very important to our culture,” said Mrs. Sun. “If you live in Asia, there’s probably some TV show or movie playing any given time of day that either tells the story of Sun Wukong or is based off it in some form.”
“It was always Quentin’s favorite,” said Mr. Sun. “I’m sure our last name helped. It would be like an American child being named Bruce Wayne. You bet he’d love Batman.”
Quentin gave me a look. See? They know Batman, but you don’t know Sun Wukong?
He yawned and stretched his arms, sending thick bundles of trapezius muscle skyward. “Genie, before I forget, can I take a look at your bio notes from today? I mean, I did mine, but I zoned out in class and missed a section.”
“They’re in my room.” I waited, and watched.
He glanced toward our parents. Mr. and Mrs. Sun gave him threatening glares, but my mother shooed at him with her hands.
“It’s okay,” she said. “You two can go upstairs.”
I led Quentin to my room. It felt way too intimate, doing that. His footsteps were heavier than mine up the stairs, a mismatched thump-thump that I could feel in my bones.
He closed the door behind us, shutting out our parents’ laughter, and looked into my eyes. I don’t know what he thought of mine, but his felt like they went all the way down to the bottom of the universe.
Dark brown, I thought to myself. Not shining gold. Just a very dark, drinkable chocolate.
“Yo, so those notes?” he said.
Ugh. The baijiu must have gotten to my head.
“Very funny. So that’s the story of Sun Wukong? You’re that guy?”
“More or less.”
“Well, I don’t believe it,” I said. “Any of it. You’re crazy and you’ve latched on to a story because you happen to bear a resemblance to the main character.”
