“Have a seat, have a seat,” he says briskly, motioning to two chairs on the other side of his desk. Then his attention goes to Ma, and his expression grows more benevolent. The way someone would look at a cute kid in the park. “And this is … Eliza’s mother, I’m assuming.”
“Yes. I’m Eva Yu,” Ma says, instantly easing into the chirpy Work Voice she uses around white people, her accent flattened to sound more American. She extends a manicured hand. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
Mr. Lee’s brows furrow a little as he shakes it, and furrow farther when he realizes how strong her grip is. I can tell he’s trying to match up his impression of Ma with whatever preconceived idea he had of her, just based on the non-Western surname.
Ma lets go first, sitting back with a small, self-satisfied smile.
She’s enjoying this, I know. She’s always enjoyed surprising people, which happens often, because people are always underestimating her. Part of the reason she got into consulting in the first place was because a friend joked that she’d never survive in the corporate world.
“Now …” Mr. Lee clears his throat. Turns to me again. “Since you’re new to this, let’s just go over the rules real quick, yeah?” He doesn’t wait for me to respond. “In the next ten minutes or so, I’ll be talking to your mother about your academic performance in your English classes so far, your learning attitude, possible areas for improvement—yada yada ya. No interrupting, asking questions, or drawing attention to yourself until the very end, when I call on you. Is that clear?”
And people wonder why teenagers tend to have authority issues.
“Ah, I see you’ve already got the hang of it,” Mr. Lee says cheerfully, waving a hand at my stony face.
I let my gaze and attention wander.
Then, across the room, I spot one of the few people here I do recognize.
Caz Song.
For all my lack of effort, it’d be hardnotto have at least some idea of who he is: Model. Actor. God—if you were to go by the way everyone gushes over him and follows his every move, despite him never actuallydoinganything apart from standing around and looking obnoxiously pretty. Even now, in this depressing, heavily supervised setting, a substantial crowd of students has already gathered around him, their mouths agape. One girl’s clutching her side in hysterical laughter at a joke he probably never made.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
I’ve never really understood the hype around him, unless it’s from a purely aesthetic perspective. Thereisthis certain elegance to the cut of his jaw, the slight pout of his lips, the sharp, lean angles of his frame. His dark hair and darker eyes. It’s not like his features are inhumanly perfect or anything, but together, they justwork.
Still, I get the sense that he’s every bit as aware of this as all his adoring fans, which kind of ruins it. And of course the press loves him; just the other day, I stumbled across some article that deemed him one of the “Rising Stars of the Chinese Entertainment Industry.”
He’s leaning against the back wall now, hands shoved into pockets. This seems to be his natural state: leaning on something—doors, lockers, tables, you name it—as if he can’t be bothered standing upright on his own.
But I’ve been staring too hard, too long. Caz looks up, sensing my gaze.
I quickly look away. Tune back into the interview, just in time to hear Mr. Lee say:
“Her English is really quite good—”
“Yeah, well, Ididlearn English when I was a kid,” I point out before I can stop myself. Years of getting vaguely condescending comments about just howgoodmy English is and how Idon’t even have an accent—almost always spoken with a note of surprise, if not confusion—have made this a natural reflex.
Mr. Lee blinks at me. Adjusts his glasses. “Right …”
“Just wanted to put that out there.” I lean back in my seat, suddenly unsure if I should feel triumphant or guilty for interrupting. Maybe he reallyhadmeant it in your typical she-sure-knows-her-conjunctions kind of way, rather than an I-don’t-expect-people-who-look-like-her-to-speak-any-English way.
Ma clearly seems to believe the former, because she shoots me a sharp look.
“Sorry. Carry on,” I mutter.
Mr. Lee glances over at Ma. “So what I’m curious to know, if you don’t mind, is a bit about Eliza’s background before she came here …”
Ma nods, well prepared for this, and launches into the usual script:born in China, moved when she was five, went to this school and that school and moved countries again …
I try not to fidget, to flee. Being talked about this way makes my skin itch.
“Ah, but the best thing about having lived everywhere is that she belongsanywhere.” Mr. Lee stretches his hands out wide in a gesture that I’m assuming represents “anywhere”—and knocks over a tissue box in the process. He pauses, flustered. Picks it up. Then, unbelievably, continues right where he left off. “You should know that Eliza is not a citizen of one country or even one continent, but rather a—”
“If you saycitizen of the world,I’m going to throw up,” I mutter under my breath, low enough for only me to hear.
Mr. Lee leans forward. “Sorry, what’s that?”
