Although she'd already bought her chips and cola, she somehow still couldn't find the checkout counter.
I get getting lost on an unfamiliar street. But in a grocery store? How bad does your sense of direction have to be? How do you even find the stage when you go perform? Or is it that every street and supermarket in America is crystal clear, but the moment you step into a Chinese Wal-Mart it magically transforms into a labyrinth? You're like a mouse trapped in a maze—left alone, you'd just curl up and die.
I walked up behind her and pretended to bump into her by accident.
"Amy, you're lost again, aren't you?"
"Your—you're… ugh, your mom is…" she started, then switched mid-insult, "Just… walk in front of me."
I didn't feel like arguing, so I took the lead. After a while her pace slowed down drastically. Her steps were tiny to begin with—guess she tired herself out earlier while wandering in confusion.
"I'll push the cart for you," I said, grabbing the handle.
She stiffened like I was about to steal her chips and cola.
After thinking for a moment, she reluctantly handed me the cart and walked beside me.
I dropped my own basket inside and pushed effortlessly, deliberately slowing down to match her speed.
Amy seemed to notice and spoke in a softer tone."C-can we go to the back-to-school section first?"
"Sure. We Celestial Imperials are selfless models of humanity," I joked as I turned the cart around.
She clasped her hands behind her back, still eyeing me suspiciously.
"Um… are you someone my bodyguard hired?"
"Who? I don't know anyone named Peng."
"Peng TouSi's surname isn't Peng," she snapped like a tiny ferret showing its fangs. "He's my personal bodyguard. He's tanned, buff, and way taller than you!"
"Taller than Yao Ming?"
"No, not that tall… but he's at least six-foot-nine. He won the Russian death-wrestling championships several years in a row—they called him the Black Grim Reaper!"
Hold on. Are you telling me your bodyguard is a six-foot-nine, battle-addicted, bloodthirsty Black berserker? Why would anyone hire a walking executioner to protect their ten-year-old daughter? Forget junk food—that guy is the real health hazard here.
"Oh, and even though he's not as tall as Yao Ming, he's actually killed someone in an underground fight!" Amy bragged smugly.
She just had to win, even if the comparison made no sense. Are you still in elementary school? I don't care if he's killed someone! And no—murder does NOT make him superior to Yao Ming. For all you know, Yao Ming mastered some ancient secret killing technique from China's martial-arts council to survive crime-ridden America. He just never had the chance to use it. But if he did? Instant vaporization of his enemies—Bruce Lee would applaud.
"Hey, letting someone that dangerous guard a little kid… is your mom missing a few screws?"
"There's nothing wrong with my mom! She's way smarter than you!"
Director Cao had said something similar before. I ignored the déjà vu.
"I'm telling you," Amy continued proudly, "Peng TouSi pissed off the Mafia when he snuck into America and got turned into a hornet's nest by a machine gun. My mom found him lying on the street and saved him! Now he'd rip out his own heart for her!"
How dangerous is America? And getting mowed down by a machine gun and still being savable—this is the real "America leads the world in medical science."
"My mom doesn't trust people easily, and she's super strict about my safety. The only reason she assigned Peng TouSi to me is because he's gay, so he'd never think of touching me!"
"…That actually makes him a perfect bodyguard," I admitted inwardly. Though honestly, I can't picture a six-foot-nine gay Black death-wrestler wiggling around in the ring in… well, that way.
"He's not just gay, he's a zero!" Amy added triumphantly.
"What does that even mean?"
"It means during sex, he's the receiving one! The attacker is the one, and both ways is point-five. How do you not know this? What exactly are they teaching you here?"
Pretty sure you're mocking the wrong education system here. Our schools blush at the word "dating," forget… advanced-level gay terminology.
We turned a corner. Since Amy was on the outside, she lagged behind and had to rush to catch up.
"Wait—wait for me!"
I realized I'd subconsciously sped up, so I stopped and waited. She gave me a small glare for leaving her behind.
"Hey," she demanded, "if you're not someone my mom sent, and you're not hired by Peng TouSi… then who are you?"
"What do you think?"
"…A stalker. Or maybe paparazzi."
Seriously? After all the help? You really can't distinguish good from bad, can you? Want me to kidnap you and ransom you back to Peng TouSi?
"Hello? Is this that gay Peng TouSi? I've got your young lady here. Transfer some cash to my family's online store or she's done for."
If she kept doubting me, I might actually make that call someday.
Seeing my displeasure, Amy rested her chin on her fist and pretended to think deeply.
"If you're not a stalker, or paparazzi, or my mom's lackey… does that mean you're actually Lei Feng?"
Even American kids know Lei Feng? Comrade Lei Feng, rejoice—your reputation has gone global.
"Um… even though I'm not that interested, you should still tell me your name."
"No need. We Lei Feng never leave names after doing good deeds."
"No way! You have to! You already know my name!" she insisted.
"…Fine. I'm Haruya. 'Haru' like spring, and 'ya' like—well, it doesn't matter."
"Ugh, why is your name so hard to write? That's so annoying!"
There are limits to how unreasonable you can be. It's a Chinese name—why would I care if an American can write it?
Once we reached the back-to-school aisle, Amy looked around with a dead expression, grabbed four or five practice-grid notebooks, and tossed them in the cart like they were cursed objects.
"Don't buy them if you don't want to! You looked like you ascended to heaven buying chips. Why torture yourself practicing handwriting?"
I felt a little guilty asking—there's no saving my own handwriting at this point.
"I don't want to! But I have to," she groaned miserably."Mom said that to become more popular in the Asian market, I have to practice penmanship and my signature. And I have to mail her weekly samples so she can check my progress!"
She looked like she'd been tormented for years. The more she talked, the more worked up she got. Finally she pointed at the cola in the cart.
"Other than chips, I've only had one sip of coke in my whole life! She always says junk food will ruin my figure and my health… but the other kids get to eat it! When I turned eight, Mom wasn't looking, so I stole a bottle of coke from another kid and…"
"And what happened?"
"I took one sip and Mom caught me and slapped me. The whole coke spilled all over me!"
"That's… a bit tragic," I admitted, increasingly disturbed by her mom's parenting style.
"Hmph! Even then, I still managed to lick some off my clothes!"
Please stop bragging about this. Licking coke off your shirt is not an achievement!
"Anyway, my mom treats me the worst! Since I was little she made me play piano, study literature, never let me play with other kids… if I didn't finish homework she slapped my hands, she controlled every second of my life…"
"Is it really that extreme?"
"It's worse! She keeps saying I have to become an international idol…"
"Isn't being an idol great? People like you."
I'd never experienced that, so I felt a little jealous.
"I don't want it! It's exhausting! I only became one because Mom forced me!" Amy clutched her hair, practically spiraling."I want to be normal! If she wants to be Superwoman she can do it herself! Just wait—one day I'll do something that'll make her furious. Something she'll regret forever!"
She gnashed her teeth dramatically.
After she finished venting, she seemed calmer, less paranoid. I guided her toward the exit.
It suddenly struck me: a mother that strict… wasn't that what Americans called a "Tiger Mom"?
I felt grateful for my own dad. At least he let me enjoy my childhood.
Of course, if the Little Tyrant hadn't bullied me so much, it would've been an even better childhood.
Let's go check out.