All That Matters by Wayson Choy Page B

I could see what was done and what was not done. I didn’t have to wait for Jenny Chong.
    After Baby Liang’s arrival, rinsing the dishes was one of the jobs that Poh-Poh and Stepmother insisted I do. Only the dishes, though, not the knives or the pots and pans. I was five then and used to stand on a wooden stool to reach counter height, doing very little but passing along plates and utensils. It was like a game. I sang songs I learned from the Chinese United Church kindergarten and rattled the plates like cymbals. But now I was older, and I stood on a sturdy wooden crate to do the job.
    “So,” Jenny said to me in a stuffy voice, “start.”
    I decided not to. She was tall for a girl, but no taller than I was. I went to the back porch and got another crate.
    “What’s that for?”
    “You,” I said. “You rinse. I stack.” Rinsing was really more fun, and so I thought she might prefer it.
    She sneered. “Put this box on top of yours,” she said, “and you’ll
maybe
reach the counter.”
    I ignored her. She paid no attention. She stepped up on the box, brushing back her hair. She had unbraided half of one pigtail and must have been playing with it all that time in the parlour jail. It was messy. Her pinned flower looked wilted up close, but now I could see it was only scruffy pink tissue paper. She tried to turn on the brass tap, but there was a trick to turning it.
    “Let me,” I said, and stood on tiptoe on the edge of her box and reached over to the tap. The water started to trickle out. I turned the tap a little more. I would let her decide how much water she wanted.
    The sneer never left Jenny Chong’s face.
    “So,” she said, “why are you doing this sissy job?”
    “This a man’s job in all the Chinatown restaurants.”
    “This
”—she waved her arms—“a restaurant?”
    Stepmother said I was not to fight with girls, even if they teased. Even if they started it. And even if they deserved a sock in the mouth.
    “My sweet mother says you do just about everything”—Jenny Chong held her nose in the air and shut her eyes like a snob—
“just perfectly
.”
    “That’s right,” I said. “I’m not a
mo yung
girl like you. I’m tough.”
    “Tough?” She stepped back, looked at the stove, at the steam rising from the stock pot. “Bet you don’t dare stick your hand into that.”
    “Put on an apron,” I said. “There. On the hanger.”
    She hopped off the box. “You put yours on,” she said. “You think you’re so smart.”
    She threw a half apron at me and took the full apron for herself. She stared into the sink at the dirty pots and pans stuck with rice and food, the upside-down greasy wok lying on top. I could see she didn’t want to go near them.
    “We don’t have to do anything with those,” I said. “Just rinse these dishes for Poh-Poh to wash later.”
    “Shut your mouth,” she said.
    With my bare warrior hands, I could pick up Jenny Chong, spin her in the air like nothing, and toss her out of the kitchen.
    Poh-Poh’s voice startled me.
    “How come I don’t hear the tap running?”
    Mrs. Chong shouted out from the dining room, “Get busy,
mo yung!
I send you away. Send you away soon!”
    Being sent away did not seem to scare Jenny. Her eyes boiled with anger. She grabbed the brass tap and twist-turned it violently.
    I should have known to step back, but it happened so fast. A watery burst hit the upturned bottom of the wok and curved up in a sudden arc. A wave splashed full in my face. Eyes blurry with water, I pushed Jenny off her crate and blindly turned the tap.
    I gasped. I was soaked, from shirt to pants. Jenny Chong, apron thrown over her head, could not stop laughing. Too loudly.
    “What’s that dead girl doing!” Mrs. Chong shouted, and we could hear her chair screech back.
    Jenny’s hands went to her eyes, and her face contorted with fright. We both held our breath.
    Through the partly open door, we heard Mrs. Leong saying, “Don’t be so upset.”