12

MY SLEEP IS AGITATED, COLORED BY FRENETIC BURSTS OF DREAMS. OFpeople laughing, of people chasing me. I wake up exhausted and disoriented the next day before my alarm even rings, so early that it's barely light outside. A quick check confirms it's 6:15 a.m., more than an hour earlier than when I need to be up by. I mutter extravagant curses at the sleep gods and gingerly make my way to the kitchen for some coffee.

There's a crack of light from the study, which is unusual—both my parents would normally be in their room at this hour. I pause a few steps outside the door, where Stanley and my mom are having a hushed, agitated discussion.

"The numbers don't work, Stan," she says. "Especially after Agnes's physio bills came in and the insurance told us they won't reimburse all of them, those…those—" She says something in Cantonese that makes me blush. "Urgh. We'll have to—I don't know, just..."

Stanley sighs. "I know, I'm trying to figure it out with the school. Maybe I can sub in when Clara Sim goes on maternity leave, teach English."

"That's a lot of prep work."

"It's fine."

"We could sell my car.…"

"That old clunker? It's not going to net us much and might end up costing us more if we need to take private hire cars or taxis, especially for my job." Kuala Lumpur is a sprawling city, with only certain areas being quite well-connected with public transport; it can be terribly difficult to navigate from one end to another without a car. As a litigation clerk, my mother's job involves some traveling for administrative and outreach purposes, and in her state, it didn't make sense for her to be traveling in a crowded bus or MRT.

"I could ask for overtime at the law firm," she says. "I'll speak to Khairul."

"You're already working pretty hard, Ling."

"It's a desk job, Stan."

"The doctor says your pregnancy is—"

"Stanley, I'm fine. Middle-aged geriatrics like me have babies at this age all the time these days," she says curtly.

Stanley sucks his teeth. "Ling, you know that's not it. You have underlying—"

"Mooooooommm," Rosie sobs. "Mom! Mom! I had a nightmare!"

"I'm putting a pin in this conversation," my mother says, already striding across the room.

I panic and sneak back down the landing toward my room, entering just as I hear the study door open on its creaky hinges and my mother's careful tread as she makes her way past my door to Rosie's. That was a narrow escape. Thank goodness I play enough tactical games to know how to evade capture from hostile forces.

Okay, maybe I should try to game a little less.

I text the proprietor of Seoul Hot, Mrs. Yoon, to ask her if I could come back to work, my fingers mentally crossed that she's in a good mood.

Who this?she replies almost immediately. I press my lips, simultaneously impressed that she's up and annoyed that she hadn't saved my number. Before the accident, I'd been doing at least two four-hour shifts a week. I reply with my name.

Oh. Maybe next Friday? Usual time? Can you serve customer?Good to know my health matters only in relation to my ability to perform.

I flex my calves. I don't think it's a good idea to stand on my feet for four hours in a row, even if it's been two months since my accident.

Sure, I say.

~

"You're entering a stand-up comedy competition with Taslim? Yaasssssss!'" Zee says, gleeful.

I muster a half-hearted smile at her enthusiasm. My heart isn't in the conversation. From my vantage point by the window, the emerald lawn sparkles, freshly watered by the sprinklers. Inside the air-conditioned cafeteria where Zee and I are catching up over lunch, students are laughing and chatting as they queue up for the meal of the day (cod fish fingers—made from actual Atlantic cod and not "cod"—or veggie burger), checking out the different fresh juices lining the counter, helping themselves to premium condiments (that nobody ever steals!) and paper napkins and fresh slices of lemon and lime for their water. It's hard to reconcile that with the financial pressures at home.

"Look, if you need me to, I'm willing to take Taslim out," Zee offers gallantly.

"Like, murder?" I say, raising an eyebrow.

She sputters. "Er, what? I meant blackmail. We ferret out his dirty secrets and use them to get him to drop out of the competition."

"Wow, you are so much more morally superior."

"I'd do anything for you," she says. She widens her eyes. "Just like how you'd do anything for me, won't you?"

"Not murder," I say firmly. You have to draw the line with Zalifah Bakri.

She fiddles with a pin in her headscarf and looks at me coyly. "But you'd set me up with Vern, right? Isn't he your friend?"

"Zeeeeeee," I groan. "I just started stand-up. I need to be taken seriously."

"You do hear the contradiction in that statement, don't you? Anyway, dating is serious stuff, and it can be done on the down low." She flutters her lashes. "Your girl is low-key obsessed with Vee, he's so mysterious."

"I'll see what I can do," I say, refusing to commit to Zee's crush swings. Before Taslim, it was a visiting debate team champion. I'm hoping she'll drop Vern soon. "Speaking of which, I thought you didn't like stand-up comics. Too needy, your exact words."

"Nothing about Vern is needy, that's why," Zee says. She really is great at sussing people out. "So, tell me more about this competition."

I bring up the website so we can go through it together. "The competition has two legs. The qualifiers in Kuala Lumpur will be at the end of December, just before our semester exams; the semis in Singapore for contestants from Thailand, Malaysia, and Singapore will be early January; and then the finals in NYC during spring break. Winners gets ten thousand US dollars and a chance to perform at Comedy City in New York, opening for some hot new Netflix comic."

"Oooh, Netflix," Zee says, eyes wide. She looks at the sponsors and the lead judge that has been confirmed for the NYC leg. "Wow, this competition is a huge deal. Just qualifying for this would look so good on your college applications. With your improved grades—fingers crossed—you'll definitely have a higher chance of getting at least a partial scholarship somewhere in the US."

My stomach clenches; from everything I heard this morning, I'm not sure if a partial scholarship will work anymore. "There's a chance I won't be able to go to the States unless I get a full-ride scholarship," I admit.

"But isn't the NCAA your dream?" Zee says naively.

I turn away, my chest clenching with rare irritation against Zee. Of course it is. I have always wanted to play at an NCAA Div I school, to compete with the best in the world. But now that my athletics scholarship has been withdrawn, I'm constrained by my options. I need a school to give me a full ride or a very good partial ride. I might even have to consider a Div II school, given my current grades and the scholarship options they might offer me. I have to be practical to even have a chance to walk on, otherwise I'd have to look at options closer to home, forget the NCAA, forget the Malaysian Olympic gold—

Not everyone will achieve their dreams in life.

"You'll be able to study in the States, I'm sure of it," Zee is saying, oblivious. "And then we'll visit each other wherever we go! Road trip! We'll have so many formative experiences together—me, away from my family's influence, charting my own path to financial freedom, you, a superstar runner again and maybe a Netflix comic in the making!"

Every word she say rubs me the wrong way. "Let's change the subject."

There's a pause as Zee gathers herself. "Right, so, what do your parents think about you trying stand-up?"

"They don't know," I admit after a lengthy pause, toying with a sleeve. "And I don't plan on telling them—yet."

"But what about the open mikes? Aren't they usually in the evenings?"

"I was hoping you'd be my cover," I admit. "Pretty please?" I smile with teeth and she recoils.

"I guess that's fine by me," she hedges. "But how long can you keep this from your parents? What about permission to enter the actual competition itself? Flights? Don't you need a legal guardian to sign release forms?"

"I'm sure I can convince her by then," I lie. I don't want to tell her that I've been forging my mother's signature for years, starting from I was nine.

"What about your practice sets?"

"Most of the places the comics perform at are public, family-friendly places. Like restaurants and performance art places. Don't need their permission to enter such establishments."

"What if…what if something happens to you?"

"I'll be fine," I say. "I'll send you a pin of my every location, so you just have to send the police there if you don't hear from me after a performance. I don't want to tell my parents till I absolutely have to." Like when I reach the finals. Yeah.

She boggles at me. "But I don't get it—why don't you want to tell your parents?"

Zee and her parents are close, thick as thieves. She tells them everything, including her crushes. They consult her on their corporate social media strategy. She voluntarily holidays with her mom one-on-one and plans to do so till one of them drops dead—her words (she's not very superstitious). "Because my mom will stress out, she'll worry for my safety, and I don't want her to worry about me, so I'll have to lie to her."

"Every mom worries."

"Yes, but my mother is—" I hesitate. My mother had been through so much with me. Before I happened, she had been a star student, a perfect daughter. When she got pregnant, her conservative parents disowned her, she had to drop out of university and take care of me, and in the end, she became a clerk instead of the lawyer she should have been. It must have been tough for her as a single mom, shouldering her failed dreams. I must have caused her depression. The truth bubbles to my lips and I swallow it back down. "My mother is…delicate, especially now that she's pregnant….I don't want her to stress out, particularly since stand-up's not the coziest place for girls." I quickly mention a couple of scandals in the light of #MeToo, and Zee winces.

"Look, I'll let her know if and when I reach the finals." I cross my fingers behind my back. "It's just the way it is, the way it has to be with my family."

She adjusts her headscarf and considers me silently. Finally, she says, "I don't understand it, but you're my friend for some reason, so I'll support you."

"Thanks, Zee," I say, grateful.

"Don't forget your promise," she says, already scrolling through her messages, muttering something about "I told them fire-eaters and velvet curtains don't mesh!" I tune out. On any given day, Zee is involved in two dozen other social things at school besides her social media obligations. This year she's been nominated as the chairperson of the school's charity gala early December. She's the most hardworking person I know.

"What promise?"

"Setting me up with Vern," she reiterates. "Don't let me wander alone in a love desert anymore."

"Oh dear God."

"Please, Ags, I want a love story for the ages—preferably something I can document for my Stories in a rose-hued reveal."

She makes pleading eyes at me and I groan; I have my suspicions about their compatibility, but try turning down manga-eyed Zee Bakri.

"Fine, but I promise nothing," I grumble. Life was already complicated enough without cross-cultural matchmaking.