I could hear her laughing afterward. Maybe Victor was laughing too. I remembered the way his shoulders shook with silent amusement as we argued about half points.
And that memory made me feel even more silly and stupid as I walked away.
Why had I been so shocked when a pretty woman who obviously wasn't any kind of teacher showed up in Victor's suite? Of course, a guy as good-looking as Victor would have a girlfriend who was just as insanely hot as he was.
And, of course, she'd make fun of me, the chubby American. I should be used to it by now after three years in Japan. There was no kind of "beauty at any size" movement here, like back in the States. In Nihon, you were either thin and pretty or fat and funny. Fat people were almost exclusively relegated to the role of the buffoon in J-dramas. So, of course, Victor and his Japanese girlfriend would laugh at me.
Just because Victor and I had a lot of fun during our one-time tutoring session didn't mean that he found me as cute and interesting as I found him. Obviously, he preferred skinny Asian women who looked like they had just walked out of an ad for something crazy expensive.
Could I be any more ridiculous to think I’d felt something sparking between us while we exchanged signs?
My face stayed hot with embarrassment the whole train ride home back to Adachi-ku, where we lived.
When I walked in, I found Dad sitting on the couch, reading the Mainichi Shogakusei Shinbun. Technically, it was a Japanese newspaper meant for kids, but Dad liked to use it for his language study.
I could see Mom moving around our open plan kitchen, making dinner. The whole apartment smelled like kimchi and her extra garlicky version of pork bulgogi. But my heart didn't jump with excitement like it usually did when Mom made my favorite dish.
I was still too ashamed about what had happened with Victor.
“How did it go with the Chinese boy?” Dad asked from the couch, lowering the kanji-covered paper.
My frustration and anger clutching for something to grab onto, I scowled at him. “Why did you call him a boy? He looked like a full-grown man. I literally asked him where his little brother was because I didn’t think that guy could possibly be Victor.”
Dad chuckled. “I suppose to somebody as young as you, he comes off as older. But I’m pretty sure he’s only high school age.”
The same age as me, but nothing like me. Sign language was the only thing we had in common. I’d only imagined feeling a real connection between us as we played the sign game I’d made up. Idiot, idiot, idiot.
“From the look on your face, I’m assuming it didn’t go too good,” my father said, interrupting all the “I hate myself” thoughts swirling around my head.
I shrugged, trying to act like I didn’t care one way or the other. “He said it was a one-time thing because his father wanted him to learn ASL. So, I won't be going back.”
“Probably for the best, sweet pea,” Dad answered after a moment of consideration. “We don't want to be dealing with the Chinese. They’re a whole ‘nother animal.”
What did that mean? Was Dad talking about Chinese people in general? Or Victor and his father specifically?
I thought about asking, but Dad raised his newspaper like the conversation was already over and done.
“I’m glad you didn’t get this job. You have better things to do than tutoring some Chinese boy on Thursdays anyway. And you’re already wasting after school study hours with that silly art club.”
I turned around to find my mother standing in the kitchen’s open arch entrance.
Ugh! She must have been reading our lips from afar. Unlike Byron, she adores “watching in” on other people’s private conversations. And, she’d deny it, but I’m pretty sure learning to read lips was the only thing she liked about going deaf in her twenties.
“Hi, mom,” I signed and spoke. “How was your day? Good?”
Mom was like Victor's girlfriend, except I’d never seen her in a dress as tight or short as that girl’s. But my mom was the same kind of small and willowy. She was also stunning.
Even in her early forties, it was easy to see why my father fell so hard for her back when he served in Korea. She had silky black hair, which she wore tied back in a braid. The hairstyle perfectly framed her delicate features.
My dad called her Doll, even in sign language. My mom said it was because he had so much trouble pronouncing or hand-spelling her real name, Gyeong. But I think it was because that’s exactly what she looked like; a beautiful doll come to life.
Byron had inherited her good looks and my father's height. Lucky him. I’d inherited my mother's height. But according to her, all her beauty was hidden underneath all my fat.
