The legendary mo seto, p.5
The Legendary Mo Seto, page 5
I wonder if Mom’s thinking the same thing. She’s hunched over, staring at her hands. She’s so different now from Mom earlier, with her soft smile and twinkling eyes and enthralling story….
I wish she could be this happy every day.
I wish I could feel this close to her every day.
Mom’s not a hugger. Still, I put my arms around her and rest my head on her shoulder. I’m here, I say without words. After a moment she reaches an arm around me and strokes my hair, weaving her fingers through my long strands, over and over. It’s so soothing. I could sit like this forever.
* * *
I wake to the rise and fall of Mom’s steady breathing. Streaks of dried tears have cemented to her cheeks. I ease myself out of bed, set her laptop on her bedside table, and shift the blanket over her shoulders.
Poking out from underneath the covers is the red book.
Should I? I hesitate before grabbing the book, turning off the light, and dashing to my room. I center the book on my desk, flick on my lamp, and photograph every page with my phone.
On the last page the fighter stands with her arms above her head, her body stretched like a bird about to take flight. Somehow she looks taller, intimidating. Powerful.
Four scribbly-looking Chinese characters I don’t recognize sit under the drawing. Even though Dad hasn’t replied to any of my other messages, I quickly text him the photo, along with a What does this say?
Click. Whirr. I send the photos to my printer. The printouts emerge crisp and clear. I listen for sounds of Mom stirring, but the house is silent. Adrenaline pulses inside me like I just finished a sparring match.
After straightening out the paper sheets, I staple the ends into a booklet.
I grasp the original book. It feels light and heavy at the same time. I wish I could keep it, but I tiptoe to Mom’s room and place it back under her covers. She turns to her side, but her breathing remains steady.
The Cody Kwok photo on my desk watches me sneak back into my bedroom. His cheeky smile makes it seem like he’s in on the secret too. I don’t know why Dad hid this book in the first place, but it doesn’t matter.
“I have my own copy now,” I tell Cody.
I bundle myself and my booklet under my blanket, and flip to the first illustration. Using my phone as a flashlight, I examine every dip, every bend, and every pivot of the martial arts technique.
“So, it looks like I circle my arm like this, and I flick my hand like this,” I murmur, trying to mimic the illustrations, only to have my fingers get tangled up in my sheets.
“Step forward like this.” I kick my leg out, sending my teddy flying onto the floor.
“Swoop down and turn.” I roll over onto my back, my blanket flopping over my face.
I try to imagine how the technique would look in real life, my brain replaying each move on repeat—a martial artist’s version of counting sheep—until my eyelids become heavier and heavier and I’m seeing the moves in my dreams.
* * *
Dad’s call wakes me early Saturday morning. I press speakerphone. “How come you haven’t called for so long?” I mumble groggily.
I circle my arm, my hand flicking my blanket off my body as I get out of bed.
I step forward.
I swoop down.
I turn.
I blink. Wait, wasn’t I just dreaming about those moves? Am I still asleep? My eyes fall to the booklet on my bed, pages crinkled, open to the first technique.
“Mouse, are you still there?” Dad’s voice. I shake my head to clear the fog.
“Sorry, I just woke up. What did you say?”
“I said I have been busy.” Dad hurries on, his whisper low and scratchy, like he’s that kid in the back of class with a cell phone trying not to get caught. “Is everything all right, Mouse?”
“No.” I push my body onto my elbows and pound a fist into my pillow. “Everything’s awful. I’m not allowed to audition for the movie because they’ve got some ridiculous height requirement.”
Dad exhales. But instead of regret did it sound almost like… relief? “Maybe it is for the best.”
“For the best? What do you mean?”
Dad hesitates. “I just mean you should take this time to practice, continue to get better.”
Dax’s face flashes through my mind, his final punch. I quickly change the subject. “I’ve been trying out Xiao Xi’s techniques.” My voice rises. “How could you keep this book from me?”
“I thought you said Mom took it away.” His tone is soft, but something sharper lies underneath.
“She did, but, ah…” If I tell him I made a copy of the book, he might tell Mom to take that from me too. Better not risk it. “Why can’t I see it?”
“It is… complicated. I want you to delete from your phone that photo you sent me. Whatever you saw in the book, erase it from your memory. Never tell anyone about this.” He sounds tense. “Xiaoxi-shu is not for you.”
“Why isn’t it for me?” Suddenly it comes to me in a flash, like something I’ve known all along. It’s a feeling that has been simmering, like magma inside a volcano that finally erupts. Me losing those past competitions. Dad walking out on my match. Dad saying that I should continue to get better. “You—you don’t think I’m good enough to learn it.”
“I—” Someone shouts in the background. “I must go,” Dad says, his voice lowered to a hush.
I strain my ears to listen. Is he at work? Why would he have to work at—I look at my Cody Kwok clock—eleven p.m. Beijing time?
“Goodbye, Daugh—”
“Wait, Dad,” I interrupt quickly. “Can you just tell me what the page I sent you says?”
Dad is silent. Then he murmurs, “ ‘Water becomes cup.’ Now delete the photo.”
He hangs up without another word.
I feel like a shell strewn onto the beach, discarded, empty. Dad used to tell me I could achieve anything I desired, be anything I wished to be. He used to text me back. He used to talk to me for as long as I wanted. He used to believe in me. Now he’s far away, maybe at some secret house, hiding away from his disappointment in me….
“Ugh.” I pull myself out of bed. I slide open my desk drawer, grab a pencil, flip to the last page of my book, and write the English translation Dad told me under the Chinese characters. Water becomes cup. What does that mean anyway?
There’s no water in the drawing. Or cup. Why would Dad care so much if I have a photo of this, when I can’t even understand it?
Xiaoxi-shu is not for you. Dad’s words ring in my ear.
A burst of anger. Xiao Xi isn’t only your relative, Dad. She’s mine, too. Doesn’t that give me the right to know her martial art?
I clutch my booklet defiantly, but I don’t feel like reading anymore. I take one long look at the cover and slip it under the useless audition folder on my desk. I delete the photo from my phone, as ordered.
CHAPTER 10 I WISH I WERE NACHO
I can’t fall back asleep after Dad’s call, so I throw on my old black sweatpants and a black oversized tee to match my mood. I read the audition flyer from the folder again, willing the number five to disappear. Five feet. But it just sits there mocking me. One number that holds so much weight.
The only good thing about today is that Nacho’s back from camp. This week’s been the longest I’ve gone without seeing my best friend, and I can’t help feeling like something’s missing.
“Mom, I wish I were Nacho,” I say, plopping my head onto the breakfast table.
“Hmm, Nacho? I don’t wish you were Nacho.” Mom glances up briefly from her laptop. “And get your hair out of your bowl.”
“But if I were Nacho, I’d be bigger, I could beat Dax, I could audition to be in a movie with Cody Kwok.” What does it matter now if she knows about the auditions?
“If you were Nacho, you wouldn’t be my lovely daughter, Mo.”
I lift my head. Oat milk drips from the ends of my hair. “I don’t want to be your lovely daughter Mo. I want to be your lovely son Nacho.”
“I already have a lovely son. His name is Justis. Now finish your breakfast.”
While I push my chia seeds around in my bowl, the doorbell rings. Mom pops up to get it, and I hear Nacho’s familiar voice. I sit up straight and feel a weird urge to smooth out my hair. When Justis starts to cry, Mom detours upstairs to his bedroom, and Nacho walks through the hallway. He grins when he sees me, his smile lighting up his face. Vivi’s right, it’s a very nice face. Why didn’t I ever notice it before? Something inside me flutters.
“Knock, knock,” Nacho says, even though there’s no door into the kitchen. He pushes his glasses up. “So, guess whose photo won first place in—”
You look like a young Clark Kent. “Argh,” I groan. The flutter disappears. I slump back into my chair. If I were tall like Nacho, I’d get the movie role for sure. Then Dad would let me learn Xiaoxi-shu. He’d be proud of me. He’d come home, and never travel again. Mom would be happy. And so would I.
“Good to see you too, Modesty,” Nacho says. He is wearing a faded blue tee with holes and, ironically, the words “Brand New,” khaki shorts, and a spotless white baseball cap. He’s the only kid I know neat enough to wear a white cap. Or white anything. “I know today’s audition day, so I came to distract you.” Nacho picks an apple from the fruit bowl. “Even though, you know, you barely texted me back the whole time I was at camp.” He takes a bite, looking at me pointedly.
“Just—just a lot going on,” I mumble, cupping my cheeks with my fingers.
Nacho stares at me for a long time, like my face is a work of fine art. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. I feel my cheeks flush.
Finally he sets down his apple. “Modesty. I’ve known you forever. I know you better than I know anyone else in this world. It’s not just the auditions, is it?”
Don’t cry. But of course my eyes don’t listen. I dig the heels of my palms into my eyelids, but it doesn’t help. One hot tear splashes into my bowl. Then another. And another.
Nacho doesn’t say anything. Instead he pulls over a chair—I hear it scraping against the ceramic tiles—and does something he’s never done before. He leans and wraps his arms around me. It feels kinda awkward. But… kinda nice? I let my body collapse into his and bury my face into his shirt. He smells like Mr. Garcia’s weekend ricotta pancakes, all browned butter and pure maple syrup. I breathe in deeply, and a hint of fresh lemon tickles my nose.
It all comes tumbling out. How Dad’s away again. How sad Mom’s been. How Dad said I need to practice more and get better.
How he thinks I’m not good enough.
I almost tell Nacho about Xiao Xi’s book, but I bite my tongue. Never tell anyone about this.
I wipe my nose on Nacho’s shoulder. “And now I can’t even audition for the Cody Kwok movie and get the part and show my dad I am good enough. I’m great. I’m…” My hair cascades over my face as I bow my head and whisper, “Fierce.” The word comes out sounding like a question.
“Modesty, listen.” Nacho’s voice is soft, softer than I’ve ever heard it before. “I don’t know what’s going on with your dad, but I know he loves you and he’s proud of you. My parents say you’re all he talks about when he comes over for tea. And”—Nacho gently brushes back my hair and looks me in the eye—“how could he not be?” The corner of Nacho’s mouth curls into a sheepish smile. “You’re the coolest person I know.”
It’s like someone dialed up the sun. The kitchen looks brighter, and the air feels warmer. “Maybe I just needed a good cry.” I smile shakily back. “Thanks, Nach.” Our noses are inches apart. His eyes hold mine, hot-chocolate brown with flecks of gold. I squint. Has that gold always been there?
Abruptly Nacho jumps to his feet. He takes a few steps back. There’s a strange look on his face, but in an instant it’s gone. “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s get your mind off things. Wanna watch a Cody Kwok movie?”
“Ugh,” I groan.
Nacho slaps his forehead. “I shouldn’t have brought that up.”
I clench my spoon and squeeze my eyes shut. It’s hopeless. There’s literally nothing I can do about the movie auditions.
When backed against a wall, a tiger learns to fly. At first Dad’s words are quiet. Then they start echoing off the sides of my skull, louder and louder, filling every space.
Fly.
Like the woman in the red book, her arms above her head, her fingers grazing the stars.
Like Xiao Xi when she guided the remaining rebels into battle.
We must fight, she cried. They saw her, atop her horse and covered in armor, as someone great, someone powerful. They let her lead. They believed in her.
That’s it.
We need someone bigger.
I drop my spoon with a clatter. “If they want bigger, I’ll give them bigger.”
I’m not a tiger, but I can become one.
I too will fight.
I will fly.
CHAPTER 11 WATER BECOMES CUP
Huh?” Nacho frowns. “What do you mean you’ll give them bigger?”
“Exactly what I said. I’ll get bigger for the auditions.”
He gives me his best You’re out of your mind look. “Hate to break it to you, Modesty, but it’s not like you can scarf down three hamburgers and become the Hulk. Last time I checked, the human body doesn’t work that way.”
“No, not food.” I shake my head impatiently. “Clothes. Like platform shoes. People wear those all the time. And I’ll have your audition folder, so they’ll assume Vivi okayed me.”
“Do you even own platform shoes?”
“No.”
Nacho raises his eyebrows. I raise mine higher.
Okay, so I don’t have a horse, or thirty pounds of armor like my ancient relative—or even a basic pair of platforms—but I’ll figure it out. “Be right back.” I run out of the kitchen, snatch my beat-up high-tops from the front door, and dash up the stairs. I close my bedroom door and sit at my desk, examining my shoes.
They’re well worn and dirty, but that just gives them character. I slip them on. The soles are one inch of rubber. Great, I’m now four-foot-seven-and-a-half. Only four and a half more inches to go.
I retrieve my copy of Xiao Xi’s book from underneath the audition folder for moral support. “Can I really do this?” I ask it. Can I really fool the audition people? Fool Cody Kwok? I sigh. “There’s no way.” I lean back into my chair and kick off my shoes with so much force, they fly across my room and hit the wall, leaving a dirty smudge.
Suddenly a gust of wind rattles my open window, ruffles my hair, and ripples the surface of the glass of water next to me. Then—swipe, swipe, swipe—the wind riffles through the pages of my booklet before fading with a gentle poof. I stare down at the fighter on the last page of the book and my messily scribbled translation.
Water becomes cup.
“Huh,” I say. Why, oh why, did Xiao Xi have to speak in riddles?
Water becomes cup.
“What’s so special about water?” I stick my finger into the glass, and the water parts around it. I whirl my finger until the water turns into a mini-tornado and splashes onto my desk, and the droplets flatten against the smooth surface. The remaining water inside my glass quickly settles back to being all calm and glass-like.
It hits me.
Water is formless. It changes shape depending on its surroundings. Water poured onto a desk takes on the flatness of the desk. Water poured into a cup takes on the shape of the cup.
Another breeze flutters the audition poster at the edge of my table, making it look like Cody Kwok is waving at me.
What would Cody Kwok do?
Cody is confident and courageous. He wouldn’t let a minor detail like size prevent him from achieving his goal. Neither did my ancestral grandmother.
I need to be like water and become a cup.
I need to become a martial arts movie star.
I slip Xiao Xi’s book into my desk drawer and scan my room. There. A pair of dirty socks that just missed my laundry hamper. I scoop them up and stuff them into the heels of my high-tops. I step in. Taller, yes, but—I try to walk and nearly roll my ankle—too unstable.
Next I try a fistful of cotton balls. Too soft.
A triangular tube of hand cream. Too hard.
My forgotten PB&J sandwich. Too smooshy. (And gross.)
I’m sitting on the floor holding my teddy and a pair of scissors trying to decide if Teddy’s legs would make optimal wedges when Nacho opens my bedroom door and walks in with a “What’s taking you so long?”
Snip.
Teddy’s leg falls onto the floor.
Nacho’s eyes bulge. He stumbles to a stop, holding his palms up. “I know you’re disappointed about the auditions, Modesty, but I need you to drop the scissors and step away from the bear.”
I roll my eyes and wave my scissors at him. Nacho runs out the door. “It’s not what you think,” I call after him. He peeks around the doorframe as I stuff the leg into my shoe. “Promise I’ll sew you back up later,” I whisper. Teddy doesn’t look amused.
I tighten the laces around my ankle and stand. I hop up and down on one foot. I throw a front kick and then a roundhouse. So far so good. Now for the ultimate test: a spinning back kick.
Just as I swivel, Teddy’s leg slips inside my shoe, throwing off my balance. I crash onto the floor, narrowly avoiding the edge of my bed frame. “Back to the drawing board.” I sigh. “Maybe a wedge of cheese?”
“I’ve heard people say that cheese smells like feet, but that’s taking it too far.” Nacho wrinkles his nose. “Okay, I know what you’re trying to do, but you’re doing it all wrong.”
He turns, and I hear him striding to the end of the hall to Justis’s room. He reappears holding tubs of… I squint…
“Play-Doh?”
“Yeah, you need some kind of mold to hold your foot in place. Also…” He plucks my pillow from my bed and picks up my scissors.
Half an hour later I’m examining myself in my full-length mirror, wearing my old, beat-up high-tops, looking incredibly normal. Just a girl in her old, beat-up high-tops. What’s not reflected in the mirror is the fluttery, fizzy feeling inside me.
