Girl in Reverse (9781442497368) by Barbara Stuber Page B

something special?” Her voice rockets out of her mouth, probably from years of commandeering a kitchen over the sizzling stove and dirty dish sprayer.
    â€œNo, ma’am, I just dropped by. I’m uh . . . a friend of Mr. Howard, who cleans here.”
    â€œMr. Howard? Ah!” Her hands fly up. She gives me a bow. “Mr. Howard best chef anywhere. Even China.”
    Chef? “But . . .” My words catch on the net of assumptions I have made about Mr. Howard. My face burns. I scramble for a way out of my mess. “Yes, h—he mentioned his dim sum and the long-life New Year’s noodles.”
    Mrs. Chow nods as though she can taste them this minute. I tell her my name is Lily and—thank you, God—shedoes not ask any questions. I scan the crowded displays. Back scratchers, fans, cloisonné mirrors, ashtrays, and shiny wrist rests with the calligraphy sets. Of course, there’s no bootie to match mine. Just black cloth slippers with straps like Gone Mom wore. I spot a carved box like mine—bright red with sticks of incense lined up like cigarettes.
    â€œLacquer,” Mrs. Chow remarks. “Sap lacquer tree, dry, and carve. Very strong.”
    My incense box is better, with sharper carving and clearer layers of color and it contains the few remaining perfumed flakes of Gone Mom.
    â€œYou know Mr. Howard in school?” Mrs. Chow asks, her dark eyes round and bright.
    â€œYes.”
    She tilts her head. “You only Chinese person there?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThat hard. You brave girl. No Chinese sister, no brother?”
    This sentence comes out without my permission. “I have a brother but he isn’t Chinese.”
    Mrs. Chow pauses a minute, thinking. She nods to herself and resumes unpacking a box of cutesy Chinese dolls wearing bright jackets and painted-on sandals. The faces are all identical. The girl dolls have thick bangs and shiny black braids with tight bows at the bottom. Mrs. Chow flaps her hand at me. “Take time. Look.”
    â€œOkay. Thank you.”
    â€œTouch! Touch!” She blows a wooden flute, points to a calligraphy set, and pushes a ceramic dragon labeled QUI toward me. “Qui baby dragon. Say chew , like ah . . . choo ! Best Chinese stuff anywhere. Touch China here. Taste China here. Better than big art museum. Pfff!  ” She waves away an imaginary museum, then rubs her hands together. “Can’t touch China in art museum. All antique.”
    I read the labels on a shelf of small sculptures. BUDDHA—AWAKENED SPIRITUAL TEACHER , PHOENIX AND DRAGON—ANCIENT MYTHICAL SYMBOLS , CHIMERA—GUARDIANS AGAINST EVIL SPIRITS , and BODHISATTVA . I recognize the word from my fortune cookie. Some figures are painted gold. Others are bronze with fancy necklaces and scarves. The description of the bodhisattva is simple and confusing: “An enlightenment being.” Enlightenment being? “Person who shows compassion for others without judgment.” I pick up a bodhisattva. It is surprisingly heavy. I balance it on my hands, raise it high. The face is serene with a slight smile. The fingers are bent in what looks to be Chinese sign language. Mrs. Chow points to the crystal embedded in the forehead. “Called urna —the bodhisattva’s wisdom eye . Can see right to heart.” She motions to an alcove in the wall behind the front counter. On it sits a large statue with candles and incense sticks. “Bodhisattva a person of good spirit who bring people together. Very earthy.”
    â€œI got a cookie fortune once that said, ‘Bodhisattvas surround you.’ ”
    Mrs. Chow smiles, pats her heart. “Mr. Howard my bodhisattva.” She claps her hands. “And he good cook!” Her laugh winds around her front teeth. She gives me a deep look, as if my face is a map she’s reading. “You very pretty, Lily.” I touch my cheek. The