Chapter 17

From the diary of Monica Tsai, backed up on three servers spanning two continents

October 28, 2018 (2018-10-28T23:33:40.720614)

loc: Cambridge, Massachusetts. United States of America (42.3721865,71.1117091)

This whole semester has passed so slowly until today. When Louise arrived at the train station like a burst of color and jumbled my thoughts more than ever. Maybe I’ll save this entry as a particular challenge for EMBRS, to see if it, with its state-of-the-art natural language processing, can even sort me out. Because I am so confused.

She was easy to spot among the crowd, a head above most people, her smile already wide. She had cut her hair even shorter than the last time we met. I counted the number of steps it took her to reach me. We should probably hug, I was thinking, even as she wrapped her arms around me and squeezed tight.

“Wow, what service!” she exclaimed. “Picking me up from the station.”

“My grandparents would have kicked me out if I didn’t.” We sat down at one of the rickety tables where I had french fries laid out. She dropped her duffel bag on the ground. I handed her a bus pass.

She took it and flipped it between her fingers.

“Is this your grandfather?”

I told her how grandfather had insisted she use his discounted pass. She studied the picture.

“He looks like a nobleman. Full pure white hair. Neat tie. Very dashing. It’s my honor to impersonate him.” She devoured the fries.

As we took the bus home, I pointed out the various sights: my high school, the tennis court where grandmother taught me how to bike, the corner where I last saw the busker dressed as a bear playing the keyboard. Louise’s game is tomorrow, and she’s staying with us for two nights. When I tried to tell my grandparents that she said she had friends whose couches she could sleep on, they became furious and insisted she use our empty bedroom. It was the room we saved for my father, those in-between years when he’d return for a few weeks.

“This is it,” I said after walking the block from the bus stop to the home where I had grown up. It was smaller than the houses in Cherry Hill, and, like many in the Boston area, much older. I found myself nervous, wondering what she would think of it. I could hardly believe she was here.

“Amazing.” She looked up at the house. “This is always what I imagined New England to be like.” She bounded up the porch steps, and I unlocked the door for her.

“Oh!” grandmother exclaimed when we came into the kitchen. The overhead fan was whirring and the pork sizzling. “So tall!”