“Hurry,” Fan says, “Dun wan anyone scolding us.”
I walk closer to the burning receptacle, feel its heat against my bare leg, and let the bill fall into the fire. The paper shrinks and begins to curl in on itself the second it hits the flame. A puff of smoke rises, and I try to blink it out of my eyes, but Fan rushes me to get back over the wall before I can see clearly again. I make it back by feeling for the top of the wall and sliding down onto my patio.
“Sorry,” Fan says, “Dun wan us to get into trouble.”
“It’s okay,” I say, wiping tears that have formed to clear the smoke from my eyes. “My parents are probably wondering where I am.”
***
Later that day, I wander into the living room to find Dad watching whatever he can find on the local TV channels, a Chinese soap opera with English subtitles.
“We’ve gotta get cable. I can’t miss the Super Bowl for this crap,” he says, gesturing toward the screen with the remote.
“You chose to come here,” I say.
“No one chooses where God calls them,” he says.
Just then, the doorbell rings. I couldn’t have asked for a better-timed escape, and I rush to open the door. Jean stands on the doorstep with an excited smile on her face. I invite her inside, but she says she has homework to do.
“I came to invite you to dinner tonight. My parents said can,” she says.
“Oh, I’ll have to ask my mom, but I’m sure it’ll be fine,”
“Just come over at 8:30 if she allow,” Jean says, turning to leave.
“Okay, thanks! Do I need to bring anything?”
Her front door closes behind her before I can finish my sentence.
Mama is ecstatic when I tell her that I’ve been invited next door for dinner and says she’ll make chocolate chip cookies for me to bring, telling me she doesn’t care what country we’re in. It’s never polite to show up to someone’s home empty handed. I help her make the cookie dough from scratch using her mama’s recipe. The kitchen gets unbearably hot while we’re baking, so I ask Mama to watch the last tray in the oven while I go upstairs to take a cold shower, leaving the water heater off this time.
Mama waits by the door at 8:30 with a perfectly arranged serving dish full of still-warm chocolate chip cookies. I make the five-second walk to Fan and Jean’s front door and turn around to find my parents watching me waiting at the door.
“Mom! Dad! Go back inside,” I whisper.
“Sorry, honey. Have fun! We want to hear all about it later,” Mama says, pulling Dad back inside with her.
The door opens, and Fan pulls me in by the wrist, taking the platter of cookies from me and saying how good they smell. We walk to the table, but she stops me. “Take your shoes off, can?” she says, motioning to a shoe rack that lines the wall right inside the door. I take my flip-flops off and place them on top of another pair of shoes.
The table is covered with nearly as much food as the table full of offerings for the ghosts outside on their back patio. Jean pulls out a chair for me between her and Fan and right across from their Dad, who doesn’t look up from his phone as I approach. I sit and swing my bare feet against the cool tile as Mrs. Tan walks out of the kitchen with yet another dish.
“Hello, Mrs. Tan,” I say. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Call me Auntie and my husband Uncle,” she says, smiling.
Mrs. Tan serves piles of bee hoon, baby kai lan with garlic and oyster sauce, and drunken prawns onto my plate. We eat in silence, which I would normally hate, but I’m much too busy enjoying the food to want to make small talk. I help myself to seconds of everything, which makes Mr. Tan laugh, the first and last sound he makes all night. For dessert, Mrs. Tan brings out individual plastic tubs of soya beancurd. I’m a little hesitant as I stick my spoon in and find its texture more slippery than I expected, but I’m pleased to find that it tastes like a lighter, nuttier version of vanilla pudding.