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her purse and keys in the other. I immediately turn my back towards her and walk away from the shrine.
    “Well, thanks for the help with the calculus homework,” I say.
    Theresa gasps. “Did your mom just come home?”
    I hear Mom’s footsteps behind me as she approaches the dining table. “Yes.”
    “Do you think she suspects anything?”
    “No.”
    “We better get off the phone now.”
    “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I hang up the phone, a little too quickly. I deliberately slow down, to make myself look casual.
    “Who was that on the phone?” Mom asks.
    “Oh, it’s Theresa.”
    Mom raises an eyebrow. “I thought you despised her.”
    “That’s not true.” Well, at least not anymore.
    “I’m glad that you’ve finally swallowed your pride and allowed her to help you with your weaknesses.”
    I begin setting the table with our ivory chopsticks, porcelain bowls, and small dishes. Our chopsticks have our Chinese names on them, engraved and painted in red. Our dishes and bowls have hand-painted dragons. They are red with gold trim. In contrast to our beat-up furniture, our dining ware is probably pretty valuable, like our jewelry at the bank. Did that, too, come from our former life?
    Even before I untie the plastic bag and open the Styrofoam container, I recognize the scent of
cha siu
(barbecued pork),
chow fun
(flat rice noodles),
gai lan
(Chinese broccoli), and steamed rice. But overriding those tantalizing aromas is the smell of
fu
gwa
, bitter melon. As I open the containers, which say HAVE A NICE DAY! the steam covers my face, fogging up my glasses.
    “Four dollars,” my mother says triumphantly. She prides herself on her ability to get a good deal.
    As we sit down to eat, I notice how tired Mom looks. She is hunched over her food, in too much pain to hold herself up. She’s been awake since three thirty this morning, to work the five o’clock shift, and didn’t leave work until five in the afternoon.
    “Maybe you should lie down awhile before you eat,” I say.
    Mom waves me off. “This food costs money. We have to eat it while it’s still hot.” Then she smiles and pats me on the hand.
“Gwai nui
. You always look out for your mother.”
    The barbecued pork is red and shiny. The ends are slightly burned. That is the sweetest and crispiest part. Mom picks out the end pieces for me and the middle slices for herself. The
gai lan
glistens with oil and oyster sauce. Mom picks out the tender baby stalks for me while reserving the older, more fibrous stalks for herself. Mom’s chopsticks look like the beak of a mother bird pecking at a food source to regurgitate for her young. As she gathers the
chow fun
, she gives me the only two shrimps in the whole container and the brownest rice noodles, the ones with the most soy sauce. Then she gives herself the whiter, blander noodles and hardly any of the meat.
    “Mom, it’s okay. Save some of the good ones for yourself,” I say.
    “It’s okay, Fei Ting. Mommy always saves the best for you.Just study hard. When you become a doctor, you will make lots of money and you can buy Mommy the best food.”
    But what if I don’t get into Berkeley because I’m not taking calculus? What if I don’t get into medical school? Then Mom could be eating the middle parts of
cha siu
and the toughest stalks of
gai lan
and living in this cramped apartment for the rest of her life.
    As if reading my mind, Mom says, “If you were talking to Theresa about calculus, how come your textbook isn’t on your desk?”
    I look over at my desk. There is nothing on it except my pen and my blank speech. “I forgot my calculus book in my locker,” I say. “I was calling Theresa to get the questions.” Can Mom hear the lying in my voice? Can she hear my heart pounding?
    Mom’s chopsticks move on to the bitter melon with sliced beef. The shiny dark green crescents have eyelet patterns on the outside. The alkaline smell fills my mouth with a taste similar to that of an