The mention of work weighs on Riki’s shoulders. Because Vera’s wrong. As far as Riki knows, every “young person,” including him, wants to be productive, to be the most efficient in the workplace. To rush up the career ladder. And Riki most of all, because it’s not just his future he’s been struggling for, but Adi’s as well. Adi, who is only twelve and yet knows so much more than Riki does.
His thoughts are interrupted when the little bell above Vera’s door chimes. Vera’s face lights up. “Ah,” she says, “just in time. Let me introduce you to my other suspect.”
TEN
SANA
Sana has had enough of pushy older Asian women, she really has. Every morning, she tells herself that today will be the day she stands up to her mother. She already has a whole speech written, and rewritten, and scrapped, and rewritten, etcetera. She’s practiced it several times in the mirror, making sure she hits that perfect tone between confident and respectful. At night, before she sleeps, she lies in bed and imagines what it might be like when she finally recites the speech to her mom. But every other day, her mother calls, and every other day, Sana’s speech refuses to come out of her mouth. It lodges in her throat like a stray cough drop and ends up choking her.
And now, here is Vera, a complete stranger, maybe ten years older than Sana’s mom, and Vera is exactly the kind of pushy Asian mother figure that Sana’s had to put up with her whole life. Well, Sana is going to use Vera as practice fodder. Yes, that’s a good plan. If she can stand up to Vera, she can stand up to her mother, no problem. The whole way to Vera’s teahouse, Sana’s rehearsed what she’s going to say.
Look, Vera, you can’t just call me at seven in the morning and tell me to make myself “presentable.” You can’t do that. I’m not your kid, and even if I were, you need to treat me like an adult. Because that’s what I am.
No, too long-winded.
Vera, I’m blocking your number because clearly you do not understand boundaries.
Yes, perfect. Vera will ask what boundaries are, and Sana will explain everything to her patiently.
Except when Sana walks into Vera Wang’s World-Famous Teahouse, the first thing she sees is the unreasonably attractive guy she ran into the day before. Then, before Sana can gather herself, Vera is already on her.
“Ah, Sana! Come in, come in! Sit, you sit here, right next to Riki.” Already she’s grabbed hold of Sana’s wrist in a surprisingly strong grip and led her to a chair adjacent to Riki.
Riki, for his part, is wearing an expression that a frightened, kidnapped boy might have. His eyes are wide, his mouth slightly open like he’s dying to ask a question but is scared of what the answer might be. Their eyes meet and Sana widens hers in a Do you know what the hell is happening? gesture, and he gives a minute shake of the head. The small exchange loosens her up a little. At least Riki seems as lost as she feels.
“Riki, this is Sana,” Vera says, as she sinks into her own seat. “Sana, this is Riki, my other suspect.”
Sana’s skin suddenly feels two sizes too small for her body. Suspect? She balls her hands into fists and puts them behind her back, wondering how long DNA lasts under one’s fingernails.
There’s a moment of silence, then Riki clears his throat. “Um, you keep saying this word ‘suspect’ . . . uh . . . is there something we should be aware of?”
“Oh yes,” Vera says cheerfully, pouring a cup of tea for Sana, “you are two of my suspects, of course. Suspects in Marshall’s murder,” she adds, in case they hadn’t quite got that.
“Wh—” The question lodges in Sana’s throat, and while she struggles to speak, Vera hands her the tea, and years of teachings about how to treat your elders kick in and Sana automatically says, “Thank you, Auntie.” Then, of course, she wants to kick herself because, first of all, Vera is not her auntie, and second of all, even if she were, she’s an auntie who is accusing Sana of literal murder.
“Oh, such a polite girl you are!” Vera smiles at her, but the smile wanes when she spots Sana’s hands. “Wah, your hands are spattered with paint. You should wash them, paint is no good for your skin, that’s why your hands are so dry.”
Sana removes her hands from the table, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Yeah, it’s—I was just, uh, painting my room.” Hah, a little voice says in her head. You wish you were painting your room. In truth, she’d just mixed the paints before standing in front of the blank canvas for a whole hour, holding up her brush until the paint trickled down the bristles and the handle and her hand, all the way to her elbow, before she threw down the brush and stormed out of the room. Same old story.
“How old are you again, Sana? What year are you born in?”
Sana tells her, and Vera scrunches her face up in deep thought. A moment later, Vera shakes her head with a tut. “Ah, you are a dragon. Not compatible with my son. I been thinking, if you are not killer, of course, that I should introduce you to my son, but he is an ox, you know, so it’s not compatible. Dragon will eat the ox.” Vera turns to Riki. “And you? What is your zodiac sign?”
“Uh. I’m a rat?” Riki says apologetically.
“Oh!” Vera claps, a huge smile swallowing her face. “Wonderful! Perfect match, you two! I just know it. I know you will make a good couple. If neither of you is Marshall’s killer, then this is match make in heaven. Such good luck.”
Sana and Riki look at each other and the only thing that makes Sana feel less mortified is seeing how embarrassed Riki is. At least it’s not just her. Also, who cares about feeling mortified? She should be panicking at the whole murder-suspect thing. But there is just so much going on, and oh, now Vera’s placed a bun right in Sana’s face and is ordering Sana to eat it. Sana complies without thinking, and before she knows it, she’s got a mouthful of taro bun and is listening to Vera talk about how the bun is actually Chinese, not French, despite what Sana might think. Bold of Vera to assume that Sana is thinking of French pastries when her mind is basically just going, Waaaaaah?!
“So Sana here,” Vera is saying to Riki, “has a potcut—now, I know you might think it is sounding like very bad skin condition, but is actually like a radio show, but on the Internet. Very good, right? It’s like your job, Riki, but on the radio! Well, not on the radio, but on the Internet.” She nods to herself, satisfied with her explanation, then says to Sana, “Riki here is a reporter from the Buzzfeed!”
“Wow,” Sana says through a mouthful of not-French taro bun. “That’s really impressive,” she says to Riki, who scratches his cheek and looks down at his teacup. Aww, he’s humble too. Her insides are writhing at the thought of Riki and Vera finding out the truth about her, that she has neither a podcast, nor a potcut, and that she’s in fact not doing much with her life aside from failing to do the very thing she’s wanted to do ever since she dipped her chubby hands in a paint pot at age one.