As the world flashes by quicker and quicker, I think, Fuck that guy. Michael and I made this company—both of us. I know what I did, what I accomplished. I’m not replaceable. Michael won’t let them break us apart. We’re partners. We stay together. MLA was fine before they came along. We’ll be fine without them.

I’d rather burn it all down than hand it to that jackass.

Michael would burn it down with me if I asked him to.

We’re that close. Closer than brothers.

But I’d never ask him to do that.

And I’d never ask him to give up his dreams. Not for me.

I turn onto the freeway and push my bike to its limits as I weave in and out of the traffic. I can get a speeding ticket for this—if a cop can catch me. At this point, I’d welcome the chase.

I want to break rules, destroy things, watch smoke blacken the sky. I don’t give a shit if I get hurt in the process. Maybe I even crave the taste of pain. It couldn’t rival this gaping sense of betrayal.

But there’s someone who would care if I got hurt, someone who likes it when I drive with my hands precisely at ten and two and signal at every turn.

My heartbeat is crashing in my ears, my blood is rushing, rage is howling in my chest, but still, when I think of Anna, I slow down.

When I realize I’m headed south on the 101, I’m not surprised that I’m going straight to her. My compass always points to her.

THIRTY-ONE

Anna

TODAY IS MY DAD’S BIRTHDAY. THAT MEANS I’M SUPPOSED TO perform, and I’m not remotely ready. I haven’t practiced at all. Tonight should be interesting. I predict it’s not going to involve me actually playing the violin, but I haven’t figured out how I’m going to accomplish that yet. Appendicitis would be convenient.

Priscilla returned last week, but that doesn’t mean things have been any easier. Her New York trip must not have gone well because she’s been foul-tempered and caustic to everyone but Dad, whom she’s been treating more and more like a newborn, speaking to him in baby talk, kissing his face all over, and pinching his cheeks as she tells him how adorable he is. I don’t think my dad appreciates it. In fact, I’m fairly certain he hates it. He’s a proud old man, not an infant. But I don’t say anything.

The party is scheduled for this evening, but my uncle Tony has been here since early morning. He tried to tell my dad about the costly divorce their doctor friend is going through because he had an affair with a thirty-year-old and got her pregnant, but my dad moaned/ slept through the story. After that, Uncle Tony got out aviator-style reading glasses and a book—Ringworld by Larry Niven. He’s spent most of the day quietly reading at my dad’s bedside.

In his mid-sixties, Uncle Tony is the youngest of my dad’s siblings and the least successful. He can’t hold down a job for longer than a few months and lives off intermittent unemployment checks and family handouts. All my life, my parents have used Uncle Tony as a model for failure, saying things like Don’t pursue a career in music or you’ll be like Uncle Tony. But he comes to see my dad every week, is unobtrusive and doesn’t expect to be entertained, and always brings Ferrero Rocher chocolates. Now and then, he gives a red envelope with precious wrinkled twenties in it, to help take care of his brother.

I’m returning to my dad’s room with a new bag of diapers from the garage when I see Priscilla outside the doorway looking in.

“I don’t know why he bothers coming,” she says, speaking in a low voice so it doesn’t carry into the room.

“He comes to spend time with Dad.” It’s obvious to me.

She sneers. “He’s so lazy. He could try harder to get Dad to talk, or show him videos, or FaceTime their friends, or give him a massage, or wash the dishes. Something. But all he does is sit there.”

“Sometimes it’s really hard just being here,” I say quietly. I think he’s doing as much as he can, and I don’t expect more from him. I can’t understand why she looks down on people when they’re trying their best.

Her lips curl and her nostrils flare with disgust as she looks sideways at me. “You would say that. You don’t interact with Dad either, and you’ve been so sloppy lately that you might as well not be here.”

The sharpness of her words takes my breath away, but it’s the look on her face that stabs straight into me, damaging me in ways I can’t describe. I’m the one she’s looking at that way, I’m the one she finds revolting, and I’ve been giving all I have. I’m struggling not to break into pieces.

She just doesn’t know.

“It’s hard to do those things when he doesn’t want to talk or watch videos or FaceTime people. He wants all of this to end,” I say, trying to make her understand.

The wrinkles of disgust on her face deepen. “Does he want that? Or do you?”

“I want it if he wants it,” I confess in the barest whisper. I’m so tired of him hurting, so tired of making things worse for him. So tired.

Her eyes widen into round saucers, and I know I’ve shocked her, horrified her.

Without a word, she grabs the bag of diapers from me and sails into the room, aiming a broad smile at Uncle Tony as she thanks him for the chocolates. He nods at her, pleased, and returns to his book.

I hang around the doorway awhile, waiting for her to issue commands like she always does. Everything should still be okay if she orders me around. But she doesn’t.

She’s acting like I’m not even here.

I turn around and walk away from the room. I need to be alone and figure out what to do, how to fix this. She’s my sister. I need her to love me. I need that.

I shouldn’t have said anything, I know that. But I’ve been doing that for so long that it feels like the words are piling up, pushing to get out, demanding to be heard. Please, please, I want to scream, please understand me.

Stop judging me.

Accept me.

Down the hall, my mom opens the front door and lets a whole troop of people inside—out-of-town relatives and their families and a handful of her friends from church. They’re smiling, exchanging greetings, and handing her red envelopes, which she tucks into her pocket for safekeeping. Everyone wants to help take care of my dad in some way, and money is the easiest way to do it.

I try to slip into a bathroom and hide, but it’s too late. I’ve been seen.

“Anna, come say hi,” my mom says, beckoning me toward her with her hands.

My face is hot and I’m on the verge of tears, but I put on a smile. I remember to wrinkle the corners of my eyes. I fumble through greeting them all. I’m horrible at remembering faces, and there are different ways to say aunt and uncle in Cantonese depending on if they’re on my mom’s side or my dad’s side, their age relative to my parents, and whether or not they married into the family. In the end, my mom has to reintroduce me to everyone, and I parrot back the titles that she gives me, only with abominable pronunciation that makes people laugh. My mom laughs along with them, but there’s a hard edge to her face that tells me she finds my failure humiliating.

By the time that’s over, my heart is hammering and my head hurts. I need a quiet place. I need time. As I’m closing the front door, Julian and his mom walk up the front steps. I didn’t invite them, so Priscilla and my mom must have done it. I really wish they hadn’t. It takes energy to be with him, and I feel like I’m scraping the bottom of my resources.