It started because somebody wanted a tuna sandwich.

In our tiny but neat living room, Charlie spread out on the sofa and sighed dramatically. “I’m so hungry,” she said. “I haven’t eaten since last night.”  

Judy and Becky gasped in unison — and also in admiration. Charlie was one of those limelight-loving kids with parents who were so hipster, they decided to give their daughter a boy’s name. Patting her stomach, if you could even call it a stomach, Charlie demanded a sandwich.  

“I have turkey,” I offered. 

“No, no. I don’t eat meat. Do you have tuna?” she asked.

So there I was, two minutes later, at the doorway to the even smaller kitchen. The girls’ fast-paced chatter, despite being only two yards behind me, seemed to fade away. Instead, the kitchen’s dingy white walls and oak brown cupboards pressed intensely into my vision. Oh, gosh, the kitchen. Ma wouldn’t be home for another two hours. It should be okay, right? 

Like a mouse, I scampered into the kitchen. No time to waste — where was the bread? Pulling the week-old loaf from the cabinet, I scrounged around in the cupboard for the tuna. Tuna, tuna, tuna, rang insistently in my head.

Small grey tin in my hand, I then reached for the utensils cabinet. Knife out, perfect. Plate out, perfect. Time to assemble.  

I got as far as placing the two slices of bread on the porcelain plate. Then she appeared. 

“What are you doing?” 

It was my fault for not paying closer attention. Usually the neat click of the front door and the jangle of keys alerted me to her presence. If not that, I should have noticed when my classmates’ gossip came to an abrupt stop. Instead, the wiry form of her, my mother, sprang into the doorframe and seemed to grow into a colossal giant. 

“What are you doing?” she asked again.

“Uh…” I said, attempting to hide the sandwich ensemble from Ma with my body.

It was no use. 

“Why are you in my kitchen?” she demanded. Her drawn-in eyebrows squiggled up and down aggressively. Then her face scrunched into its familiar, hawk-like glare. “Out! You’re ruining everything!” 

If Charlie, Judy, and Becky were hoping for some drama, they got it. It wasn’t my intention to put on a show, but fifteen straight minutes of my mother ranting in her shrill, piercing voice certainly made a mark. After gaping at my mom’s increasingly red face, the girls finally had the sense to leave. But not before giving me visibly annoyed looks. 

What? I wanted to shout back. It’s not my fault I have a psycho mom. 

The rest of the night didn’t improve very much. Dad was late returning from work which, of course, made Ma angry. I could practically see flames rising from her flushed cheeks.  

“You aren’t supposed to go into my kitchen!” she spat in Mandarin. 

“I’m sorry, Ma,” I murmured. It wasn’t safe for me to speak at a normal volume yet. 

Sorry wasn’t enough. Nothing would be enough. While sweeping all four corners of our cramped apartment, Mom continued to rant.

About the kitchen. About her job at the library. About the ungrateful kids who asked too many questions. About the people who checked out too many books. About the tuna smell that was stinking up the kitchen.  

Only when she began cooking dinner — bland chicken broth with ramen noodles and bok choy — did she fall silent. Food, no matter how plain it may be, always improved my mom’s mood. Just as she set out hot steaming bowls of chewy noodles bouncing in clear broth, the familiar sigh of dad’s voice sounded from the front door.  

He hobbled in, limping from his left leg as usual. Placing his bag on the sofa, Dad sank into his worn-out chair and pulled the noodles toward him. 

“How was work, Dad?” I asked. 

“Busy,” he responded.

And that was that. It wasn’t that my dad was grumpy or curt. He was just dog-worn tired, and I could see it in every crease of his face.  

We ate in silence for ten minutes. Only after slurping up every last drop of the soup did Dad raise his head and drop the bomb.  

“I got laid off.”

“What?” Mom snapped, her face suddenly red. 

“The company isn’t doing too well—” 

“You said this job was stable!” 

“I know, but my boss won’t tell me anything—” 

“Why can’t you just hold a job? You’re pathetic. I should just kick you out on the street now.” 

Dad just took it, not even bothering to defend himself. He just sat there, content and full, having grown an impenetrable skin against the barbs of Ma’s insults long ago. 

I didn’t say anything either. Honestly, I was just glad that Ma’s stinging rant wasn’t against me for once. But I knew exactly what would happen from here. It was time to move.

Even if I didn’t want to, it didn’t matter. In this household, I was clay; mashed, squished, and pressed by my dad’s endless search to find work and my mom’s nasty mood swings.  

Maybe it would be a good thing. By now, the whole school had probably heard from Charlie about that Chinese girl’s crazy mom.

“It must be because they’re Chinese,” kids would say.

And they would all give me sidelong glances as I passed in the hall, acting as if my short black hair and sensible glasses were anything but normal in their privileged lives.  

For all the times when moving felt like a disaster, there were times when moving was a rare blessing. 

We ended up moving four more times in the next year.  

From Woodbridge to Winnipeg, then to Toronto, then to Vancouver, and finally back to Toronto. By this time, I was entering my sophomore year of high school. My freshman year had been so choppy that I felt like I had accumulated what couldn’t be more than one month of quality academics.  

In Toronto, we settled into one of the many red-brick tract houses in Richmond Hill. The location wasn’t bad. We were across from a small forest, with a winding trail that led to an elementary school. I would spend hours swinging from the creaky swing set at that school, waiting for the sun to set and cherishing each minute I didn’t have to be at home.  

Often, I felt like I was waiting for something. What that was, I had no idea. 

The doors opened. A sea of foreign faces. I was the lone fish in a sea of cliques and squads. Looking around, I gulped hard. I was the only Asian.  

Clarity High School was possibly the most predominantly Caucasian high school I had stepped foot into so far. Usually, the schools had some African Americans, Mexicans, or even the rare Asian mixed in. Once, I met an Arabic person. But here? Every face that turned towards me with either a smile or raised eyebrow was white.  

So, this was going well. 

The first few classes were a blur. I sat alone, yet was constantly surrounded by throngs of people. Each teacher introduced me — “Everyone, this is Angela!” — and I would attempt a small wave and a smile.

Students’ eyes seemed to drill into me, into my too-pale skin and my nonexistent eyes. Some girls threw amused looks in my direction. I noticed many of them had those popular shoes, the ones with white stripes on the sides. Those same girls sported skin-tight tank tops and matching jewelry, all of which Ma would never have allowed me to wear.  

In my last class of the day, pre-calculus, I finally made real human contact. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a girl slide into the seat next to me. She was gorgeous, with silky blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Then, lo and behold, she tapped on my shoulder. 

“Hey! You’re new here, right?” she asked cheerfully. 

“Oh, uh, yeah. I just moved here,” I responded, taken aback. Someone was actually talking to me! 

“What’s your name? I’m Laura.” 

“I’m Angela. Nice to meet you.” I smiled weakly at Laura, who for some reason was beaming at me. Turning back to my planner, I doodled on the paper, not knowing what to do. 

“Watch out for the Sistas.” 

“Huh?” I looked up.  

Laura repeated, “The Sistas. They all coordinate their outfits every day. I think today is skirt day.”

She nodded toward a girl a few seats away, and I recognized her from my English class. She had glossy brown hair, as if straight from Teen Vogue. She was completely absorbed with her phone.  

“I think I saw some girls wearing matching skirts,” I said. “What’s so bad about them?” 

Laura’s jaw dropped. “What’s so bad about them?” she squawked. “Oh gosh, they are absolutely awful people. Snarky, self-obsessed, think that they’re better than everyone else.”  

“Oh.” I nodded sympathetically.

There were girls like “the Sistas” at every school I had attended. Usually, they didn’t pay me much attention. I wasn’t worth their time.  

At that moment, the teacher started class. Calculus had always come easy to me, so I had time to think as the rest of the class caught up.

Laura wasn’t quite in the same boat.  

“Need help?” I murmured to her after finishing the practice set in two minutes. It was excruciating to watch Laura jam her eraser into her paper again and again.  

“Please!” she sighed.

I showed her how to do the problem, and just like that, something sparked between us. Dare I call it friendship? 

At the end of class, Laura handed me a paper slip with writing on it. I read aloud, “1045 Baker Street, Richmond Hill. What’s this?” 

“My address,” Laura said proudly. “Come over whenever you want. You got plans today after school?” 

“Uh...”

I didn’t know how to respond. Ever since the tuna sandwich incident, I hadn’t hung out with anyone after school.

Struck by the depressing nature of that fact, I managed to nod my head and break out a smile. “I would love to come over!” 

“Yay! Meet me outside the band room at 3.”