Chapter 2 Becoming Better for Me

That night, we went back to our tiny apartment with the leaky roof.

My father hadn't said a word even after we got home. Instead, he grabbed a pair of clippers and stood in front of the cracked mirror. Then, he shaved off the bleached hair he had always been so proud of, leaving nothing but a close-cropped buzz cut behind.

Finally, he crushed the half-pack of cigarettes left in his pocket and dumped the pieces down the drain.

Meanwhile, my mother filled a basin with cold water and scrubbed the heavy makeup off her face with a bar of soap until her skin was raw.

After that, she took a pair of scissors and snipped every pair of ripped fishnet stockings in the closet into strips of rags.

Once they were done, their eyes were red rimmed as they raised their hand and swore under the dim lightbulb, "We're going to live like decent people from now on. We won't give anyone a chance to call our son a little gangster ever again."

From that day on, my father started delivering takeout come rain or shine, while my mother pushed a rusty secondhand tricycle to the night market and sold grilled cheese sandwiches.

During the day, she would stay home working on handmade crafts until her eyes were bloodshot from the strain.

I was there when my father gave himself a buzz cut. I was there when my mother walked out of the door without even the slightest hint of makeup on her face. I was there to witness how they'd clumsily taught themselves how to be the kind of adults they thought I deserved.

My vision had always been filled with countless floating comments. Back then, I was still too young to understand what they were saying.

"Who would've guessed that two people from the bottom of the barrel would turn over a new leaf all for their son?"

As I grew older and started elementary school, I gradually began to understand the comments drifting through the air.

Our neighbors and relatives all looked down on my family, especially my father's cousin, George Cheney, and his ilk.

They were always posting snide remarks about us in the family group chat.

"Well, look who's delivering takeout again. Frankie, how much can you possibly make in a day? Then again, that's all you'll ever amount to. Your son's doomed to struggle in the dirt right along with you."

Whenever my father saw those messages, he wouldn't say anything. Instead, he would just lock his phone and ignore the insults. Still, I was never ashamed of my parents. To me, they were the best parents in the world.

One winter, the three of us walked past a huge department store display.

An aircraft carrier building set caught my eye, and I could not help but stare at it for a few seconds.

My mother followed my gaze and spotted the 200 dollar price tag.

She immediately frowned, grabbed my hand, and grumbled, "200 bucks for a hunk of plastic? That's highway robbery. There's no way we're buying it. I'll make you a beanbag when we get home."

She hurried me away with long, quick strides.

Just then, another floating comment drifted across my vision.

"Tanya is already figuring out how to sell another hundred grilled cheese sandwiches tonight. She'll buy it for Shawn tomorrow no matter what. Last night, she stabbed a needle clean through her thumb making crafts to earn extra money. The wound is still infected and oozing."

My nose stung, and I almost burst into tears.

I squeezed my mother's callous and freezing hand before saying loudly, "Mom, I don't even like that building set. It's ugly. It looks way too easy anyway."

She froze for a moment. A flicker of guilt crossed her eyes before she reached over and gently ruffled my hair.

Whenever they went out, they never acted like what you'd call a model citizen. They still acted like the kind of people no one wanted to mess with.

My father always wore a hard expression, while my mother still spoke in a loud, rough voice.

However, the floating comments told me why they did it. They had no one to rely on. They were afraid of being bullied, so they had to look intimidating to keep away those who would hurt them.

My mother carefully ironed every crumpled dollar she had earned at her food stand just to get me enrolled in the best elementary school in our area.

My father emptied every last cent of our savings. Then, he tracked down relatives he had not spoken to in years, borrowing money from one after another until he scraped together the expensive enrollment fee, all for my sake.

They sent me to a good school because they did not want me to walk the same road they had.

When I was in fourth grade, my deskmate, Daisy Ward, suddenly burst into tears in class. She said the limited-edition fountain pen her mom had brought back from overseas was gone.

Our homeroom teacher, Victoria Leigh, was a shameless classist snob.

She didn't even bother investigating. Instead, she marched straight to my desk and turned my backpack upside down onto the desktop.

Soon, my worn-out textbooks and the cloth pencil pouch my mother had sewn for me spilled across the desk and onto the floor.