Vivienne had recently come to believe that I possessed the soul of an artist. The previous semester, I’d represented my high school in a painting competition. My art teacher had submitted a piece I’d made for class, an abstract expressionist reworking of a Ch’ing dynasty landscape in winter. I’d spilled some paint on a canvas, then, as a joke, added some realist pandas chewing on bamboo shoots in the foreground. The piece ended up winning first prize and had been exhibited for five days in a student show at the Hong Kong Arts Center. From that point on, according to Vivienne, I was an artist, with a good eye. Vivienne had excitedly bought me a stack of large, glossy art books and an assortment of supplies—drawing pads, paints, an easel, canvases of various sizes—that sat in a corner of my room in their plastic wrappings like mummies waiting to reanimate. Every week or so she’d ask me over breakfast, Anything inspire you lately? I’d shrug and shake my head, mutter something about schoolwork. Whenever she turned her hopeful gaze on me, my body would warm and quiver with a shame I couldn’t comprehend.

“Mrs. Ma.”

The sales clerk presented the cufflinks on a plump display cushion. They were square and thick and made of sterling silver.

“Well?” said Vivienne. “What do you think?”

A crab was engraved on each one. Too cute. It didn’t matter anyway. My father had a million cufflinks and wore none of them. My feet hurt.

“Why crabs?” I asked.

Vivienne stiffened a little. “I thought they were charming. And your father is a Cancer.”

“A fine choice for a birthday or a Christmas gift,” said the clerk. (The gold pin on his lapel flashed as he moved. Vincent Liu, Sales Executive. He was not too much older than me, maybe nineteen or twenty. Pale and sort of dreamy looking. He had an air of seeming completely unaware of his charms, which I found deeply appealing, though I doubted anyone had that kind of innocence.)

My stepmother smiled and shook her head. “It’s just a gift.”

“Well, your husband’s a lucky man.”

It was an obvious line, but Vincent Liu said it gently, in a way that seemed genuine and even a little regretful. He had such a nice voice…maybe he did mean it. It was time to leave. I picked up one of the cufflinks and pretended to inspect it.

“Nice,” I said to Vivienne. “You should get them.”

“Really? You think your father will like them?”

“Yeah, he’ll love them.”

Vivienne handed over her credit card.

“Your daughter has good taste,” he smiled.