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Alana jolts upright on her knees, towering over the table as she flings a hand toward Dad. “No. Do encourage us, Father. It’s in your job description!” She begins counting on her fingers. “Parent. Male. Puns.” Her voice rumbles like the announcer at a wrestling tournament. “Encouragement.”
Mom rubs her temple. “All I wanted for my birthday week was to spend some quality time with my children…”
My heart sinks.
Alana scoffs, the epitome of offense. “This is quality time. The only thing that could make it better is if we were all positioned around the TV, watching anime.”
Mom scowls. “For the last time, Alana Charity Page, I don’t want to hear anything else about how you’re throwing your life away watching those useless cartoons—and—and emulating them. You are not Asian.”
“I’m at least as Asian as our milk, and that’s one of y’all’s fault, but that’s not the point. I’m not trying to be Japanese or Korean or Asian.” Alana pinches some squash onto her chopsticks. “I like what I like, and what I like doesn’t hurt anyone.”
“What you like hurts you. You don’t even have a real job.”
“Pet sitting is totally a real job.”
“It’s a job you made up so you could watch TV and eat other people’s food all day, and I have no idea why anyone lets you. It’s dangerous for both parties! You don’t know what kinds of people you’ll be working for; they don’t know if you won’t rob them. You should be more invested in an actual career, like your sister. She may not be doing everything right, but at least she cares about what’s important.”
“What’s important…” Alana clenches her free fist and draws it to her chest, like the main character in one of her action animes. “Family. Family is important.”
Arguments between Mom and Alana scatter throughout the rest of the meal, punctuating every bite and prefacing every pass the macaroni. Afterward, Mom throws up her hands, declares she has plans with friends through dinner, and marches out of the house, so Dad does the fatherly thing and turns on some kind of sport, talking over it with us about fifteen minutes before yelling at some referee and forgetting we’re there. Alana and I sneak away to our upstairs bedroom, which remains largely untouched since the days when we lived here.
Two extra long twin beds, framing a balcony window. One small bookcase filled with classics beneath the sill. Two small desks at each footboard.
It’s practically a dorm.
If you cut the room in half down the center, both sides would almost match. The singular difference is a lone Sailor Moon sticker in the top right corner of Alana’s desk, marring the white wood. Mom was livid when she found it. And they argued and argued. Over the importance of liking things with value and over the importance of not ruining furniture.
Sometimes, I can’t remember something someone has just told me, but I still remember Mom shrieking, It’s tacky, Alana! while I hid under my blankets and hoped everything would be back to normal in the morning. I still remember Alana slamming the bedroom door as she muttered Japanese under her breath. I remember her pulling my covers away and shoving herself under them with me. I remember her soft, I hate it here. I remember telling her it wasn’t that bad here and so many kids had it so much worse.
I remember her response:
I don’t mean here. I mean…everywhere. This planet is the worst, and I’m not even from here. You’re not from here either. We’re aliens. We don’t belong at all.
I thought she was referencing Sailor Moon, so I didn’t want to agree then and align myself with that crybaby of a main character.
But, even now, feeling alien resonates more than I want to admit.
Alana falls onto her bed with a wistful sigh. “Sometimes I miss the padded cell.” Propping herself up on her elbows, she looks at me. “You know, Mom doesn’t understand what she says, okay? It all comes out a lot harsher than she thinks and intends.”
I sit on my bed, careful not to squash the mysterious lump beneath the blankets that I’m almost certain is Ollie in Oxford form. “I know.”
“She’s got a lot of big opinions and struggles with that whole empathy thing. Her way is the right one. And everything else is hurting the people she cares about. She just wants everything to be right, so the people she loves will be right, and everything will be okay in the end.”
“Yeah.”
“If she were actually malicious, I’d have cut her off and dragged you out of here when I left.”
“Mm.”
Alana’s head tilts. “You okay?”
I jerk my attention off the mysterious lump of Oxford/Ollie. “Yes. Sorry.”
“Distracted again.” She falls back against the pale comforter and stretches. “What a plot twist.”
Rolling my eyes, I smile.
“Ooh. I know! Tell me about the guy.”
