When Caroline left, I had no friends. Looking at Hilary, though, I started to loosen my grip on my mother’s hand. I was about to ask her if she wanted to play when Bea ran up and stood next to Father. Hilary eyed her, too. My sister was slightly taller and bigger than I was. She was often mistaken for the older one. But her pigtails and her fidgeting betrayed her nine years, and Hilary quickly turned her attention back to me.

Auntie Elizabeth turned to me and said, “Hilary is eleven, like you. She’ll be joining you in the fall for grade six at Mountain View Elementary.”

“Beatrice, fetch the Bundt cake I baked earlier,” Mother said, and then started telling Auntie Elizabeth about our school. When Bea returned, Mother gave her the cake and said, “Welcome to Sparwood.”

“Thank you,” Auntie Elizabeth said and walked back across the street, holding Hilary’s hand.

Mother released my hand and began to turn the jade bracelet on her wrist, winding it around continuously. She continued to fiddle as she watched Father shake hands with our new neighbour. Father’s hand was large, cracked from doing manual labour in the dry mountain air. Uncle Sam’s hands were soft, pudgy, and smooth, like the river rocks at the bottom of a mountain stream. Father towered over him, but Uncle Sam held his head high, meeting my father’s eyes through his spectacles. Father’s broad shoulders seemed to curl inwards, like an intimidated bull retreating to its pasture. Uncle Sam turned around and marched back to his new home.

“Why’d you give away our cake?” Bea asked.

“We are welcoming new neighbours. It’s always good to give something sweet to bring sweetness to their new lives,” Mother explained.

“What language were you speaking with Uncle Sam and Auntie Elizabeth?” I asked.

“Cantonese, a Chinese dialect. They’re from Hong Kong, where most people speak this dialect.”

“How do you know how to speak it? How come I don’t speak it?”

“A lot of my friends in school when I was younger spoke Cantonese. I learned from them. Your father doesn’t know Cantonese as well, since he went to English school. Our common dialect is Hokkien, the language you understand.”

Mother looked again at Father. He wasn’t smiling, the vein in his temple pulsing in time with the smoke that emerged from his cigarette. She placed her hand on his arm, but he brushed her away. Mother told Bea and me to go to the backyard to play, but I dragged my feet long enough to hear Father ask, “Why did you have to be so friendly?”

“They’re our neighbours. Don’t you want to have good relations?” Mother said.

“He’s management, Swee Hua. Did you see how they looked at us? They’re looking down on us.”

“From that house on the hill, yes, but that is all. Give them a chance, Ah Loy.”

“I don’t need to give them a chance. I know his kind.”

“We’re all Chinese. We need to stick together.”