Kayla itched at her woolen skirt, necessary but obnoxious. It was the only one she had that went halfway down her calves and kept her warm in the chill of late February. Dad turned off the ignition and all three sat for a moment, as if they could prevent the incipient catastrophe.
Then Dad reached for the car door and a gust of ice crystals entered the cab, melting into droplets on the leather interior. Kayla buttoned up her coat and made herself step out of the van and trip across the snow-dusted sidewalk to the front door. Her fingers were frozen before she could even put on gloves.
Kayla rang the doorbell and heard its twelve tones inside. After stamping their feet and breathing into intertwined fingers for a good two minutes, Grandmother Lang opened the door and let them in. She looked unconcerned that their noses were red and running, that enough frost for a snowman had collected in Kayla’s hair.
Dad hung their long coats in the hall closet and they sat down on the low couch, while Grandmother Lang returned to her rocking chair and embroidery. Kayla wondered if she sent all those handkerchiefs to Uncle Joey, or if she had a vault in the basement full of them.
“Tell me about everything,” she said, her voice climbing and falling three times in one command, making it nearly indecipherable. Her posture was so perfect it looked painful, and her cold, wet eyes squinted at her son.
“Well,” he spoke carefully, “They promised me a promotion soon, and Rachelle’s practice gave her two more shifts a week. She’s almost full time.”
Mom gave a little smile. In this house, Kayla knew it was all she could afford. Dad took Mom’s hand and squeezed it.
“You?”
Kayla’s throat dried up and she patted her palms, suddenly wet, on her covered knees.
“Well, I had a picture, a painting, at our school’s winter gallery this year. It won third place for my grade.”
She waited, hoping.
“Third place. Very nice.”
Her fresh disappointment hung almost tangibly in the air. Kayla’s face reddened, and she stared at her stupid skirt, ashamed and infuriated.
Grandmother turned to Mom and Dad. “Why not she win?”
“We’re very proud of her,” Mom said.
“Why?” Grandmother said, her tiny, wrinkled futures contorted with criticism. Kayla noticed, not for the first time, that her lipstick was the same color as blood. Grandmother Lang began to speak in Mandarin, great streams of venom seeping out from between those blood-hued lips.
Kayla knew without listening, the same way she had known since the age of six, when she first visited Grandmother in a pair of blue jeans. That time she had talked for twenty-five minutes in Mandarin, and Kayla had hidden her tears behind her long hair. Every visit afterwards, she had worn a skirt.
It was the same feeling now, too, the same downturned face. The only difference the years had given was the strength not to cry.
The caustic language of the old country swept over Kayla like acid, and she excused herself to the bathroom. The speech from the sitting room had all the volatility of shrieks, but at the low volume of a tea party. Kayla splashed water on her hot face and dried it with the crisply folded dishtowel on the chrome ring. She thought about turning on her ipod and sitting on the toilet cover until the fighting stopped. God knows her Grandmother wouldn’t notice, and her parents would understand. But as she reached for the earbuds, Grandmother’s question thrummed through her head with all the disdain that senile voice could muster. Why? Why?
Why would you be proud of this third place artist? Why would you want a daughter who wears pants and plays soccer? Why isn’t she studying instead of dancing ballet? How could you let her be so totally, completely, abhorrently American?
She changed the song to King of Anything by Sara Bareilles, trying to believe the melody coursing into her eardrums from the cushy plugs.
“Who cares if you disagree?
You are not me.
Who made you king of anything?
So you dare
Tell me who to be
Who died and made you king of anything?”
Kayla smiled a little, then more, making up for the pathetic grin Mom had attempted. She walked out of the bathroom and past the doorway to the warring parlor. The front door slammed behind her as she pulled her own set of car keys out of her sweater pocket.
She was driving home to get a pair of blue jeans.
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