"The Silence that Binds Us" by Joanna Ho, Chapters 1–20

She can brandish that hippo at me while gracefully hosting a dinner party, chatting up guests, and offering them tea.

I was wearing my nicest hoodie, but that didn't stop my mom's right eyebrow from twitching, though her smile never wavered as she greeted our guests.

She wore a loose black dress that hit modestly above her knees, the shapeless kind that would look like a potato sack on me but made her look like a model.

I gave him a death stare and he stifled a smile by blowing determinedly on his steaming bowl of niú ròu miàn.

My name was my mom’s idea. When she was a young graduate, fresh out of Taiwan’s top university, she saw a commercial for Maybelline makeup products that sang, "Maybe it’s Maybelline.” She thought it sounded beautiful and refined, everything she hoped her future daughter would become.

The smell of jasmine wafted beneath my nose as Celeste looked down and refilled teacups around the table before pouring her own.

“Danny used to practice with May in her room," said my dad, bobbing his head in a terrible mimicry of our dance moves.

We have a small closet in the upstairs hallway filled with bulbs of all shapes and sizes. LED, fluorescent, halogen, neon, CFL, incandescent—he has them all.

“Yam, pass me that bulb,” my dad said, balanced precariously in the air, one foot on my bed and another on the bookshelf.

Then he said with a slightly over-the-top conspiratorial tone, “Hey, last time I changed this bulb you told me about that boy, what’s his name? John, Joe, Jacob—”

He patted me on the back, then turned around at my bedroom door and said casually, “Your mom’s downstairs in the kitchen. I bet she’d love someone to talk to.”

I looked it up once, and the internet said it means “filial piety," which looks and sounds like gibberish to me. There really isn't a good translation. It's like obedient, respectful, caring, and every other desirable quality rolled into one intimidating word.

My mom's pregnant hippo plopped itself beside me and stared up with unblinking disapproval; she let it convey all her disappointment as she kept cleaning.

As the minutes stretched forward, I peeked at the pot in my hands to make sure the Teflon was still intact before stacking it on the drying rack.

Danny snuck in while whispering lyrics that graduated into a dramatic rendition of Sam Smith’s song "Lay Me Down.”

I was only in kindergarten, so I don’t remember their visit at all, but Danny begged my parents for a Stanford sweatshirt, and he wore it so much it smelled funky even after it got washed.

He applied early last fall but got deferred.

Tiya’s voice blasted through the tinny speakers of my phone as she sang Mimi’s song from Rent.

“We could watch Star Wars...” I said in my best tempting voice, but he just laughed and mussed up my hair.

I wanted him to stay, but it was like trying to hold on to a cloud, its wispy mist slipping softly through my fingers.

An ashen-faced police officer with dark circles under his eyes stood stiffly on the front step.

I stayed glued to my seat as my parents got up, my immobility a gaffe in my family's perfectly poised presentation.

I stayed glued to my seat as my parents got up, my immobility a gaffe in my family's perfectly poised presentation.

Our fridge was stuffed with meals stored in glass containers. Meals covered in tinfoil. Meals in takeout boxes. Meals clamoring for attention, piled one on top of the other.

I padded over to the hallway closet and fumbled through my dad’s lightbulb collection. I didn’t know what was what, so I grabbed the most generic-looking bulb I could find, padded back to the bathroom, and felt my way over to the counter.

Her face flushes and eyes widen as she remembers.

Taylor stands awkwardly before mumbling something indiscernible and backing away.

Everything on campus is almost exactly the same. Buildings grouped by subject. Red- shingled rooftops with awnings for huddling under on rainy days.

I look up and there is Tiya, resplendent and glowing with a thick goddess braid circling her head and resting over her shoulder.

Lost between the warring factions of my mind, I retreat into my silent cave and don’t respond.

She put catering on the back burner when Marc and Tiya were younger, and now she picks and chooses the gigs she wants.

Her walls are a haphazard, colorful, layered canvas of patterns that make perfect Tiya sense.

I haven’t had the courage to ask about the party yet, and here’s an opening I can’t ignore. The words leave my mouth haltingly.

Marc can’t suppress a smile when he sees my contrite-looking face poke around the door.

Marc’s room is the opposite of Tiya’s. Everything is on a monochrome grayscale color palette with wooden accents.