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the shape of a pyramid at the shrine, thinking that would impress my mom. Instead, she slapped me and removed the fourth orange. It turned out that four is a bad luck number, because the word for it,
“sei,”
is pronounced exactly like the word for death,
“sei,”
only in a different tone. That confused me. They were dead anyway. But I guess to Mom, they aren’t.
    My grandmother’s face in the ancestral shrine stares back at me, her eyebrows drawn in a frown. She looks as though she can read my intentions. What if Mom is right? What if our ancestors are still with us? The eyes and ears of the dead are scarier than those of the living. They are silent yet everywhere. There is no escape. I tell myself to stop being superstitious, but I can’t prove my ancestors’ absence any more than I can prove their presence. I only have this eerie sensation that I can’t brush off.
    If spirits really do exist, then Popo probably knows about my speech enrollment. She probably knows about the appointment slip in my pocket, the one I failed to submit on time. Maybe she is blocking me from writing this speech.
    Panicked, I pick up the phone and call Theresa.
    “Wei?”
says Nellie.
    “Auntie Nellie? It’s me, Fei Ting,” I say in broken Chinese.
    “Oh, Fei Ting! Have you eaten?”
    “Yes.” Actually, I’m starved, but saying so would make it sound like my mom isn’t feeding me. “Is Theresa home?”
    “She is. What do you want to talk about?”
    “Um … schoolwork.” Technically, that’s not a lie.
    “Oh, so hardworking. Theresa! Hurry up! It’s Fei Ting!”
    Theresa takes the phone. “Hello?”
    “Theresa, I’m stuck on my speech—”
    “Hold on.” There is a pause. It sounds like Theresa is moving to another part of the house. “Mom, stop following me. I need some privacy!” Theresa says in English.
    “Privacy? What you need privacy for?” Nellie says back in English. “Keep secret from me?”
    Theresa groans. Then I hear the door shut. “Sorry,” she says to me.
    I give silent thanks for Theresa’s discretion. “I don’t know if I can go through with this. I feel like Popo’s watching me.” I’m whispering, as if keeping this conversation out of Popo’s earshot.
    “Didn’t your popo pass away?” Theresa is whispering too, as if Popo might hear her as well.
    “Yes. That’s what makes it worse. I feel her eyes in the photo watching me.” As I listen to myself whisper, I hate how nuts I sound. A Chinese person would berate me for my sins and urge me to heed my guilt. Everyone else would laugh me off as superstitious. Only Theresa can stand in the middle and seeboth sides. “I almost want to cover her face with a towel so she can’t see me,” I say.
    “No! That feels … sacrilegious.” Theresa pauses for a moment. “I’ve got an idea. What’s the sweetest treat you’ve got in the house?”
    “Well …” I open the pink bakery box on our kitchen table. “There’s
dan tat
and
bolo bao.”
“Dan tat”
means “custard tart,” and
“bolo bao,”
which translates as “pineapple bun,” is just a plain bun with a crusty sugar topping that looks like the outside of a pineapple.
    “Which is your favorite?”
    “The
dan tat.”
    “Offer that to the shrine.”
    “But that’s the last one.” I cringe at my own selfishness.
    “Even better,” says Theresa. “It’s showing your sacrifice. As you offer it to her, explain that you did your best to straighten things out. Promise that you’ll make amends. You will write your speech to praise your mother as an unsung hero. So you’re turning a bad thing into a good thing.”
    I pick up a
dan tat
with one hand and the base of the rotary phone with the other as I hold the receiver between my ear and my shoulder. I walk to the shrine, reluctantly place the last custard tart in front of Popo, and make my promise. “It’s done,” I say to Theresa.
    Suddenly, my mother walks in. She is carrying our takeout dinner in one hand and