Because I wasn’t allowed to have soft drinks when I was growing up, I took to sipping from the Pepto-Bismol bottle my dad kept in the medicine cabinet. I had seen him do the same from his stainless-steel flask, which he filled with a diluted hard spirit and tucked into the breast pocket of his brown leather jacket. On the evening of my parent-teacher conference, he and I separated for our respective sips before getting into the minivan. We both knew what Mrs. Wilkinson wanted to talk about. I had spoken fewer than thirty words over the past academic year. 

I had always been an introverted child—during recess, I used to sit in the sand and draw a circle around myself—but now that I was in sixth grade, my teachers designated my silence a sign of stunted development. Though I’d aced my written exams, Mrs. Wilkinson had made it clear that she wouldn’t let me pass if I didn’t make attempts to socialize. I’d been held back the previous year, and it seemed like I was going to be held back again. I was two inches taller than the tallest boy in my class, and I had started to bleed when I wasn’t injured, as evidenced by the crimson stain on the seat of my rhinestone-studded jeans. 

You don’t have to say anything, my dad said. But it will help if you pout a little. 

I nodded. 

What’s her name? Sherry? 

I shook my head. 

Mary, he said. 

I nodded. 

Don’t pout too much, or she’s going to think I’m abusing you. 

The sun was setting behind us as we walked across the playground. I noticed that our shadows were of equal length, although my hand reached up to hold his. I had been opposed to Mrs. Wilkinson from the beginning, but the rivalry didn’t mean anything without an adult on my side. 

We walked up the ramp to the portable classroom, a trailer propped on wooden slats. My dad let out a loud burp before kicking open the door. I gave Mrs. Wilkinson an apologetic smile but didn’t step across the threshold. She politely informed my dad that it was important to involve students in conversations about their academic progress, but he was already bringing a chair outside and closing the door. I was worried he was going to get me expelled, given how drunk he suddenly seemed, but I didn’t know what I could do about that. 

I positioned my chair so that Mrs. Wilkinson could see me through the window. She nodded as my father spoke, occasionally glancing at me as I played with my Tamagotchi Angel, a limited-edition release with a pair of wings printed on the side of its cracked glittery case. The goal was to revive my dead Angel by feeding her pie and candy, answering her prayer calls, and taking her out to play kickball. She was fairly high maintenance, requiring attention several times a day, but I had memorized what each sound meant and could press the button to wipe her butt or pay her compliments without taking my eyes off the blackboard. 

This time, after I tucked her into bed, my Angel burst into tears and made a high-pitched beeping sound. When I realized she was ascending to heaven, I considered interrupting the conference so they could watch with me, but my dad had told me not to disturb them. My Angel blasted into the stratosphere with a wink, growing opaque and distant until she was reduced to a black dot. I watched the slideshow of Japanese credits on the thumb-size screen, looking up only after the screen went blank. It was May in Eastern Washington, and wildflowers were starting to bloom in the cracks of the Astroturf. 

My dad convinced Mrs. Wilkinson that the reason for my shyness was not that I had a developmental issue but that I had a dad who was always drunk and talking over me. He led Mrs. Wilkinson to this conclusion by being drunk and talking over her, rambling for half an hour about how my silence stemmed from the vivid dreams my mom had had when she was pregnant. Dreams occur in a place beyond language, my dad said, and a part of her is still trapped there. My dad wasn’t the most imaginative person, but every once in a while he pulled off a stunt that surprised me. 

The day I received my end-of-year report card and the news that I would move on to junior high, he took me to Ruth’s Diner, a twenty-four-hour joint across the street from a Costco distribution center. It was my favorite restaurant because I liked watching the semitrucks file in and out of the loading zone; they looked cute without all their cargo attached. My dad and I were sitting across from each other in a cherry-colored booth when he asked me if I remembered his sister and her boyfriend, now her husband. 

She took you to see a Monkey King movie, he said. 

I shook my head. He got his phone out and showed me a picture of a woman I was certain I had never seen before. I hadn’t been back to Hongyan since I was a toddler, and the only memory I had of it was also the last memory I had of my mom, rinsing me with cold mountain water in the communal wash with butterfly pins in her hair. 

I want you to stay with your aunt and uncle this summer, my dad said. 

My dad had gotten good at interpreting my three expressions— approval, disapproval, and more information needed. Why would I go to his hometown to visit people I didn’t know? But my dad said that not only did I know them, I liked them. The more he insisted on this fact, the less convinced I felt. This was another reason why I hated talking—it was too easy to warp the truth. This year so far, I had said, Hello, Goodbye, Do you have change for twenty dollars, Where is the bathroom, and I love you. I had meant every word.