“ Why don ’ t you ever write something longer ? You ’ d be good at that .” “ It ’ s too much hassle trying to set things in stone- you never know when something ’ s going to change .”
Her eyes flicker in the light from the park lamps as the sun goes down in a defiant blaze of presumably breathtaking oranges and yellows . She starts folding another paper crane , and before we leave , she presses it into my hands . “ For you to start your own collection .”
It starts raining as I walk to the subway with my brand-new metro card . I wrap my coat more tightly around me and shield my face as I walk back . It ’ s only when I ’ m hanging up my clothes that I feel the crinkle of paper in the pocket and remember the present from Chen An . It ’ s white , made from a fresh piece of blank paper , now flattened and just a little damp around the edges .
6 . “ You ’ re never really going to be one of them .” I laugh harshly . “ You know that , right ?”
“ I can try .” She looks defiantly at me and tucks her newly short , blonde hair behind her ears . Her nails are manicured and painted , although the skin around them is still ripped and bitten .
“ How far are you willing to go for this ?” I slap my card against the ticket vending machine and almost rip the piece of paper it spits out .
She blinks at me owlishly from behind her tortoiseshell glasses with plastic lens . A niggling voice inside my head says that I ’ m being irrational , overreacting , that I should be happy she ’ s gotten a new job as an art curator . I step angrily onto the waiting bus . “ Goodbye , Chen An .”
She slides into the back seat next to me and attempts to take my hands . I wrench them away , and even the crane tattoo on her wrist seems to have faded into her fake tan .
“ Didn ’ t you always say that your identity in no way defined who you were ?” She looks at me challengingly , and I realise that the question says as much about her as it does about me . “ Such a writer , postulating ‘ truths ’ that you don ’ t even believe in .”
I sit in the sun-warmed seat next to the window , where the light shines demandingly into my face . It won ’ t let me slip from its grasp , like a spotlight in an interrogation room . Cecelia is in complete shadow next to me . I want to turn my head to escape from the blinding world outside , but I can ’ t bring myself to look at her .
“ Don ’ t you realise that this is the only way people like us can succeed here ?” Her voice softens . “ This isn ’ t the Western Dream . This is reality .”
I scoff . “ You already have it easy . You ’ re the model minority . Obedient , hardworking , skin pale enough to be the beautiful kind of exotic .”
Cecelia flutters her long , delicate fingers against my cheek . “ So I changed my name and my hair . It doesn ’ t affect who I am .” She tilts her head speculatively . “ You ’ re pale enough too , in the right lighting . Just change your name and you ’ ll do fine .”
I look at the sunlight slanting into my lap . My parents shoving me out the window of our ruined house , the shattered glass digging into my stomach , their faces as I sat beside the wreckage of our lives and alarms tried to drown out my last conversations with my father and mother . Everything that we lost in the span of an hour . Last carrier of the family name , spread your joy across the world with pride .
“ What ’ s in a name ?” She asks blithely .