molly montgomery

The Year of the Monkey

When Maya joined Chinese summer school, it was the year of the Monkey, our zodiac year. We were twelve and starting to grow out of our class’s namesake. During recess, we didn’t swing on the monkey bars anymore or play tag. The boys tried making shots in the hoops. We sat on the benches next to the court, watching, laughing, preening. I was on the far edge of the bench, a book in hand, pretending I’d rather read it than talk to Lauren or Daisy or Sarah or any of them about who had dated who in sixth grade.

If Maya was nervous that day, she didn’t show it. She marched up to us and said, cheerfully, “Hi y’all. My name is Maya Elizabeth Price, and I’m from Alabama. I’m new this year.”

She spoke in a Southern drawl. Instead of wearing the program’s red T-shirt like the rest of us, she wore a floral sundress and a straw hat. She looked around sharply, as if to dare anyone to question her. But no one said a word. We were all entranced by her, this Chinese Southern Belle.

“Oh my God,” said Lauren, the ringleader. “I didn’t know there were Chinese people in Alabama. That is so cool.”

She said this in a fake high-pitched tone that she must have perfected in the past year. Middle school did that to girls. While boys’ voices were cracking of their own accord, girls learned the art of upspeak, so no one could tell if they meant what they said. It was the only way to always be right in every situation.

“Well, there sure aren’t as many as there are here,” Maya replied. “I don’t think I’ve seen so many Orientals in my whole life.”

I emitted a strangled gasp, and I wasn’t the only one. The girls at the bench clutched the metal lattice beneath them. The boys stopped playing to watch our conversation.

“Dude, you did not just say that!” Lauren said. I cringed on behalf of the new girl. Anyone could see it wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know any better. Most seventh graders wouldn’t have known the significance of that word, but Maya was unlucky to have let the “O” word slip among some of the politically informed Asian American adolescents. She didn’t know that the summer prior, we had taken a field trip to Angel Island and interviewed our grandparents about the discrimination they had faced. She didn’t know the first thing about being Chinese.

Then Lauren clapped Maya on the shoulder and laughed.

“You are hilarious!” she said. “I didn’t even know people still said that word. Oriental. Like Oh-Em-Gee!”

This would become a joke, retold again and again for years about how Maya hadn’t known that people didn’t say Oriental anymore (it was something she had read in an old textbook back in Alabama), but in that moment, I could see that Maya’s face burned with embarrassment. She covered it well, smiling widely, so that the blush on her cheeks made her look like a friendly doll. But I noticed the frantic look in her eyes, and I imagined the worry she must have felt after making such a misstep, as her first impression, too. It made me want to get to know her.

In that environment, surrounded only by Chinese kids, Maya gravitated toward me, probably because, as the whitest kid in our class, I seemed the most familiar. My mom is Chinese and my dad is white, but I take after my dad’s side. Sometimes when I told people I was Chinese, they would squint at me as if that made it easier to see it. Then they would nod and say things like, “Oh I see it now. In your eyes” or “Your nose is a little Asian, I guess.” When I was a kid, I would spend hours staring at myself in the mirror, trying to see if I did look a little Chinese, like people said. I never could quite see it, although I knew there was something about me that looked different. I wasn’t pretty like the white girls at my regular school who had skinny, delicate noses, and soft blonde curls, but I also wasn’t pretty like Maya was.

After choosing a seat next to me in class, Maya told me she was adopted from China, and her family had recently moved to California. In Alabama, she had been the only Chinese person in her entire school. Now that she was in California, her parents wanted to expose her to the culture which they had never been able to give her.

I was attending summer school for almost the same reason. My mom sent me there so I could learn more about my “heritage.” She, the rebellious second-generation immigrant, had rejected her Chinese background as a kid, never learning the language, never following the traditions. Now, she regretted it, and she didn’t want me to miss out like she had.

At summer school, I had always struggled to fit in. Not only did I not look Chinese, I also couldn’t speak Mandarin. In Mandarin class, the other kids laughed at my toneless accent. Try as I might, I couldn’t coordinate the pitch of my voice.

That summer I became Maya’s unofficial ambassador to all things Chinese. With me, she tasted bubble tea and moon cakes when we tried them during a class on the autumn moon festival. She liked the sweet, creamy taste of milk tea, but she was grossed out by the chewy tapioca balls in milk tea.

“I feel like I’m eating an eyeball or something,” she said.

One of the boys in our class, Tim, overheard her remark and started chanting, “Eyeballs! Eyeballs!” Maya and I glanced at each other, rolling our eyes, but we were both trying not to giggle.

When she tried the sweet-savory taste of the red bean cake with its unique pasty texture, she nearly spit it out. “It tastes so weird,” she said, making a sour face.

“I thought that too when I first tried it,” I said. “But it’s an ‘acquired taste.’ That’s what my mom says at least.” I liked how I could say phrases like “acquired taste” around Maya, and she didn’t think I was being nerdy or a showoff. She just nodded and repeated back to me, “Acquired taste. Huh” as if she were tucking away the phrase in her brain to use later.

Maya stopped reacting to Chinese dishes like they were gross once she saw how much everyone else liked them. She shadowed me during kung fu and brush painting, tentatively mirroring my steps. By the end of the four weeks, she had dropped her Southern accent and she was better than me in all our classes, especially Mandarin, which she was spouting like it was her native tongue—then again, maybe it was, and she had just forgotten it.

It took me by surprise when Maya asked to come over to my house the last week of classes. She was fitting in so well that I expected her to ditch me and start hanging out with the cool girls who wore makeup, had French manicures, and spent summer school reading fashion articles from Seventeen under their desks.

Before she came over, she asked if my mom could make Chinese food for lunch. I grew up eating it at restaurants with my extended family, but my mom rarely made it at home. Still, she dug up a recipe from a cookbook her mother had given her, and made us pork lettuce wraps, chow mein, and fried rice.

When we sat down to eat, Maya looked down at the place settings and saw that my mother had set out chopsticks.

“Jenny?” she asked me in a shy voice that seemed so unlike her. “Can you teach me how to use these?”

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On the last day of summer school, we took BART to San Francisco Chinatown on a field trip. Maya had never been on the subway before, so the boys in our class, who were all smitten, teased her, trying to scare her into thinking there would be an earthquake when we were in the tunnel underneath the Bay. As the train approached, it blared its horns; Tim grabbed Maya’s shoulders and shook them.

“Careful,” he said, “Here it comes! The big one!” She squealed, pushing his arms away.

“Stop!” she said, but she didn’t sound like she really wanted him to stop. On the train, the girls in my class all sat together and gossiped.

“Tim totally likes you,” Nancy, one of the popular girls, said to Maya. “You’re so lucky. He’s cute.”

Maya shrugged. “I guess,” she said. “I’m not allowed to date until I’m eighteen, though.” 

“Wow, your parents are so strict!” Lauren said. “I thought they were white! They sound like my mom.”

Maya giggled nervously. “They are. We’re just, like, more traditional, you know? Because we’re Baptist.”

“Well, if you and Tim hang out together on a field trip, it’s not really, like, a date, right?” Nancy said. She wiggled her fingers suggestively when she said “hang out.”

“Don’t worry, we won’t tell. Right, Jenny?” said Lauren.

I was surprised that she included me, but I guess I was a part of the group now, too, since I was with Maya.

“Right,” I said.

When we got off the BART train, our teacher, who we called Teacher Ben, a handsome, young Chinese guy in his twenties, led us on a grueling walk up the hill until we got to Chinatown. He gave us a historical tour, showing us the gates to the neighborhood, explaining to us how Chinese people had been segregated here, how they had been quarantined during the plague, how the 1906 earthquake had decimated the area and white people had rebuilt it to make it look like a gaudy touristy version of what they thought China looked like, with rooftops that curled upward to ward away evil spirits and goofy lanterns. It was the smell of the herbs and the vegetables, the salty fish, and the smell of cigarettes, though, that pricked my senses and made me feel at home. It was all too familiar, just like the Chinatown in Oakland where my grandparents lived. That area was less crowded than this one, and there were no souvenir shops.

During the whole walk, the other girls had been trying to nudge Maya and Tim together, especially when we walked into tight alleys, setting them up so they kept stumbling into one another. They both looked embarrassed by this, but Tim was pleased, offering a hand to Maya after she nearly tripped on a curb. Maya didn’t seem that interested in Tim’s attention, but then again, she also wasn’t avoiding it. I was annoyed by the whole situation. I had planned to hang out with Maya. I wanted to point out the sights to her, since this was her first trip to San Francisco. Tim certainly wasn’t going to offer her any historical trivia.

At last, we ended our trip in the park at Portsmouth Square, and Teacher Ben said we could wander, as long as we didn’t go too far away. I wanted to show Maya my favorite place in the entire city. It was right outside of Chinatown, City Lights Bookstore. But before I could even locate her, she had already walked off with the popular group. She had ditched me, not even bothering to invite me with them!

I wanted to run and catch up with them, but I thought about how pathetic that would seem. Jenny Parker, wannabe popular, tagging along to get some attention. So, I hung back a bit and let them get ahead of me. I kept my eye on them, half a block ahead of me, and saw they were going into a bubble tea shop. Well, I thought to myself, they’ll see; Maya doesn’t even like tapioca!

I went into the bakery next door, pretending to look at the pastries while keeping my eye on the window to see when they left the shop. Maybe if I walked out right that moment, it would seem like an accident. I had gone my own separate way, and now I was just happening to run into them. I could rescue Maya who, by now, was probably just as annoyed at the popular group as I was, giving her a good excuse for why she didn’t want to drink bubble tea after all.

But then a few minutes later, I saw her walking out with the others, a plastic cup in hand, slurping milk tea and tapioca like it was her favorite treat!

I left the bakery without buying anything, trailing them again. The group entered a touristy boutique with golden buddhas and lucky cats in the window. The aisles in the store were narrow, the shelves crowded with bins and bins of cheap toys, souvenirs, and all sorts of weird junk. Pillows and eye masks, socks, yo-yos, snacks like pocky and crispy wafers. It was a weird mix between a convenience store, a tourist trap, and an antiques store. There were shimmering scrolls with waterfalls painted on them on the wall, and flowing fountains in the back.

I didn’t really form the plan in my mind until I had already done it. I slipped into the store behind them, listening to them talk from the next aisle over. They were talking about nothing important. Some TV show or some stupid celebrity crush. I willed them to mention me, just to hear them say something like, “Isn’t Jenny so nerdy?” or “What’s up with Jenny? What’s her problem?” just to hear if Maya would come to my defense. But of course, I didn’t come up in the conversation.

On the shelves in front of me were commemorative Beanie Babies for the year of the Monkey. It was six months past the lunar new year, so they were selling them for half price. The monkey was small, a miniature size of a regular Beanie Baby. It wasn’t even five dollars. I could easily afford it. I thought about buying two. One for me, and one for Maya, so I could give it to her on the BART ride back and at least then we’d have something to share with each other. It felt so lame, like I was trying to buy her friendship. It wasn’t fair. She had needed me and then as soon as she knew her way around being Chinese, she ditched me. I hated her for it.

I grabbed the monkey snuck around the corner. Maya was closest to where I stood, and her backpack was open at the top. Holding my breath, I slipped the monkey into the gap between the zippers, waiting to see if she noticed. None of the others even looked at me at all.

Then I slunk back to the other side of the store, waiting for them to go up to the register. Surely, they would get up to the register and the owners would check everyone’s bags. They were a group of pre-teens. Pre-teens always try to steal stuff. Then they would catch Maya, and she would be so confused and embarrassed. I played out the scene in my head, but then I wondered what her parents would think when they found out. Would they beat her? Was that something Baptist parents did?

My heart started pounding in my chest and I walked up behind them in line, hoping to snatch the monkey out of Maya’s bag when she wasn’t looking. But it was too late.

Gazing around nervously, I saw some Hello Kitty miniature backpacks on sale. I grabbed two of them. One for her, and one for me. That way, she would never suspect that I was the one who put the monkey in her bag.

“Oh Jenny!” Maya said, seeing me fumbling with the straps of the backpacks. “There you are. I was wondering where you went. I thought we were going to the bookstore together.”

I froze, my hands tangled in the straps.

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I was just getting some souvenirs, and then I was going to head over there. I thought I would get two of these. One for you and one for me.”

“Oh, wow. Thanks, Jenny,” Maya said, and her words sounded genuine. She glanced around at the rest of the group who were paying for their trinkets at the counter.

“We can invite Tim, Nancy, and Lauren to come with us,” I said. “It’s only a few blocks away.”

“I don’t think they’d be that interested in the bookstore,” she said. “But I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if we met up with them later.”

I paid first, my fingers trembling as I handed over the cash to the store owner, a gray-haired Chinese man who reminded me of my grandpa. He gave me a stern look. I must have seemed nervous. But he didn’t stop me. He just handed me my change and I grabbed the two

backpacks and waited for Maya to follow me. She hadn’t purchased anything. I held my breath, wondering if the monkey would set off an alarm, but she passed through the doorway without incident.

“I’m going to go see a bookstore with Jenny,” she told the others, who were waiting outside for her.

“A bookstore? Does it have comics?” asked Tim. “I want to come.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “And it’s a ways away, up that hill.” I pointed in the direction of the bookstore, which was up the steepest hill in sight, hoping this would put him off.

“I’ll walk with you anyway,” Tim said. “Maya, let me carry your bag.”

I suppressed a groan. We waved goodbye to Lauren and Nancy, and Maya, after refusing a couple of times, finally handed her backpack over to Tim. Why did he have to act like such a gentleman all of a sudden?

When we got to the bookstore, Maya asked for her bag back. “Let me get my wallet,” she said, and she opened her bag.

My heart leapt into my throat as she pulled out the monkey, with its golden threaded coat and its red hat. She stared at it, puzzled.

“How did this get in here?” she asked. Then she turned to Tim. “Wait, did you put this in my bag?”

He shook his head, just as confused as she was.

“Oh my God, you totally did,” she said and, as she spoke, I realized just how much she sounded like Lauren, like she was her mirror image.

“I swear, I didn’t,” he said. “I think I saw that monkey back in the store. Maybe it fell into your bag by accident.”

She scrutinized him, trying to see a hint of a smile on his lips.

“Did you, like, steal this for me?” she asked. From her hushed tone, I wasn’t sure whether she was thrilled or horrified.

“I— I,” Tim stammered, caught off guard by her intense gaze.

“You did, didn’t you!” she said, and it was clear she was angry now. “You have to put it back. Don’t you know that stealing is a sin?”

She shoved the monkey into his hands and stormed into the bookstore, taking her open backpack with her.

Tim stared at her and then down at the monkey. “She’s crazy,” he said.

I wondered if I should go tell Maya the truth.

“I’ll take it if you don’t want it,” I said, gesturing to the monkey. He stared at me and then handed the monkey over like he was giving me a slug.

“Girls are so weird,” he muttered, and he turned around and started walking back down the hill.

I put the monkey with the Hello Kitty bags inside my own backpack. Then I found Maya in the bookstore, and we talked about how stupid boys were and how they weren’t worth the trouble. I showed her the poetry room upstairs, which was one of my favorite places. I loved how hushed and cozy it was. Maya and I sat on wooden rocking chairs and perused poetry that we didn’t understand. Then it was time for us to go back to Portsmouth Square to find our class and head back home.

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The two weeks between the end of summer school and the beginning of seventh grade, Maya and I spent every day together hanging out on the swing set in my parent’s backyard. We didn’t talk about much or do much of anything at all. We just swung back and forth, trying to keep in sync with each other as we swung. To do so would mean we were “married” and then when inevitably my shorter legs wouldn’t be able to pump as hard as her long gangly ones, we would be “divorced.” This reminded me of a tradition we had learned in summer school, a Chinese legend that each person was tied to their soulmate by an invisible red thread that would eventually pull them together.

In my mind, I pictured us swinging back and forth together, a red thread tied to each ankle, keeping us connected. I wondered what it might feel like to be so in harmony with another person that you could be tied to them and never notice it— never have the string pull taut, never trip over one another’s thread. You would just be, effortlessly, together.

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Years later, when Maya and I were attending the same high school, she came over to my house for a project we were doing together. We weren’t best friends anymore, like we had been that summer. In high school, we ran in different circles. She was one of the popular kids who also took AP courses, the kids who ran student government but also got invited to parties. I, as always, was more of a bookworm, a recluse. But when we had to choose a partner for the project in English class, she sought me out like a magnet. I wondered if she had chosen me because she wanted to get a good grade, but I knew she was smart enough to do the work herself. As I waited for her to show up at my house, I wondered, nervously, what she would think of my ideas for the project, when she rang the doorbell. I bolted to the front door and when we got back to my bedroom, I realized I had forgotten to put away the little plush monkey, which I kept on my desk.

Maya immediately noticed the toy and picked it up. I wanted to make up an excuse, to explain, but she just gave it a little squeeze and said, “The monkey. Isn’t that our year?”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s ours.”