your best american girl ✓

07 | bay of pigs

"菲菲, I have not see you in so long," my mom exclaims, as she puts her keys in a cube compartment stuck on the wall, next to the section where we stack all our classical Chinese CDs vertically. My mom's collection, obviously, not mine.

"Seen not see, mom," I correct, watching Faye, who is seated on the other side of the L-shaped suede couch, from the corner of my eye. Although it's technically her legal name, it's honestly a little weird hearing her being referred to by her Chinese name. In 9th grade, she started going by Faye after our English teacher, Ms. Martin, asked her if there was anything "easier" she could call her. The irony of it all is that unbeknownst to her, 菲菲 [FeiFei] is pronounced like Faye-Faye. I suppose the simplified spelling of her name makes it more palatable for American teachers.

"Yeah, Lee's always so busy now," Faye says, a hint of spite laced into her tone that doesn't go unnoticed by me. Is she having a dig at me or is she joking? Hard to tell.

"Ugh, you're right," my mom agrees, hanging her purse on the coat rack where the rest of our gear for snowy weather resides, "she's always out so late and I have no idea what she's doing."

"Oh," Faye says, horribly attempting to conceal her surprise, "I thought she was home with you, doing house stuff."

Mom scoffs, setting the white plastic bags filled with boxes of take-out on the table. "I wish. Lee hasn't picked up a mop since Thursday."

Would it kill you to compliment me for once in my life? Or at the very least, not tear me down in front of my already perfect best friend that is suspicious of me.

I know I shouldn't have been offended at my mom's crude remark, but I couldn't help it. Deep down inside, I know that my mom has always put Faye on a pedestal, and I hate it. I hate being constantly compared to her because whatever area my mom thought I lacked in, Faye excelled at.

Piano? She was a lead pianist in our school's orchestra. Me? I quit in 1st grade and decided to pick up a bass.

Speaking Chinese? She's fluent. Me? I try my best.

Academics? She scored 10 points higher than me on the SAT.

Looks? She's ten pounds lighter than me, an inch taller, and fairer skinned.

Personality? She's less crass and more ladylike than I am.

I try so hard, yet I'm still living in her shadow. How am I supposed to compete with that?

"Interesting," Faye comments, her monotonous tone irking me.

Crap. She's onto me.

What the fuck am I thinking anyway? I know better than to try to outsmart her. If she's going to confront me for something, could she spit it out already to spare me of any further embarrassment? Besides, dinner is about to be very awkward with my mom acting like a blissfully unaware mediator.

But the damage is already done, and the only thing I can do is roll with it, and hope for the best. Perhaps it is all in my head, and Faye's having a bad day.

Gulping, I unload the food, looking for my order, hoping that this will somehow distract Faye from the fact that I'm lying. I can't tell her the truth. Not when she knows Lulu.

"This is yours," I tell her, emptying the box with orange chicken in a bowl and handing her a pair of wooden chopsticks. Sometimes, when mom works late, we order food from Lucky House. Frankly, we probably make more authentic Chinese food at home (what Chinese place sells orange chicken?), but my mom works there, so we get a discount. Plus, once in a while, greasy fast food hits the spot. I can't complain. A meal is a meal.