Every slight shift was now a new wave of pain, felt sharply in my chest and back.
“Why are you moving like that?” Goh Goh said.
I closed our bedroom door. “You gotta promise not to tell Mom.”
“Whatever, yeah.”
He got off the phone, and I told him what happened. He had said once that if anybody messed with me, he’d gather backup. Though he’d gone to a nerdy high school and had earned high marks, he was not an angel. He’d been arrested for stealing a car.
“So you gonna help?” I asked.
“I’ll figure something out.”
I grabbed a change of clothes and went to the bathroom. I took off my shirt in front of the mirror. I had clusters of red marks on my chest, promises of blue and purple. I pressed gingerly on the marks. I turned on the shower and slipped out of my jeans.
The door burst open. I was in my underwear. My mother held a wire hanger. She sucked in a breath and started swinging the hanger at my chest. I put my arms out to block her.
“Gau daam?” she said. “Fong sau.” You dare? Drop your hands. “Think you’re so cool, huh? Look at you.” She pointed at the marks. “Let people beat you like that. Why do I have such a weak son?” She struck me on my thighs with the hanger.
I dropped to the floor and leaned against the toilet, my arms outstretched to keep her at bay.
“Fong sau,” she yelled, or maybe it was more of a cry. “Your brother and sister always say you’re up to no good, but I don’t listen to them. I say ‘Sai Lo’s a good boy.’” The hanger whooshed and smacked me on the arm, on my thigh, on my shin. Compared to the earlier beating, none of this hurt, but I began to sob. I tried to say something, but it was hard to form a coherent sentence.
“Talking back?” She threw the hanger at me. Said I’d never leave the house again, then stormed off.
I used my foot to swing the door closed. I rested my head on the toilet. I sat there long enough that the tall mirror I was facing fogged up once again from the shower. I used my fingers to draw my tag, but within seconds the steam covered my name, its outline slowly vanishing.
parents’ room/mom’s room/my room
Even when Bah Ba was living with us, we never called it my parents ’ room, just Mom’s room. The shag carpet was red. The bed cover was red. Everything on the dresser was hers, a nail polish rack, jewelry boxes, the childhood pictures of us. Hanging on the wall was a framed photo of her in a wedding gown. On top of the radiator sat three Snoopy stuffed animals, each one with one of our initials sewn onto its ear by our mother. All Bah Ba had in the room was a two-drawer nightstand where the boom box sat, and a roll-top desk piled with bills. Inside the desk was a harmonica. I never heard him play it, the box worn and dusty, a holdover from Hong Kong. There was also, above the bed, a black and white picture of Bah Ba and my mother, side by side on their wedding day, my father youthful, my mother without makeup.
Also in this room was my desk, made of particle board, some flimsy shit you had to assemble. There was no accompanying chair. To sit at the desk, I had to sit at the end of the bed, but at least the desk could fit in their room. It didn’t fit in mine. Goh Goh already had two there, one made of maple wood, the other a computer desk big enough that included a shelf for his encyclopedia set and a shelf for his printer. His computer was off-limits to me, but when I was younger, I’d cheer for him as he played games, RPGs, Impossible Mission, and strip poker. Like Bah Ba, my room wasn’t my room.
When Bah Ba moved out, I began to treat Mom’s room like it was mine. She’d be in the kitchen the whole day. The only time she used her room was to sleep or when Willie came over. I’d lock the door and get on the phone, using three-way to make prank calls with friends.
My mother began to stay over at Willie’s on the weekends. I’d sleep in her room, in her bed. It was better than sleeping in a bed next to my brother. Our two beds were lined against the wall, perpendicular to each other, so that if I snored, his feet didn’t have to reach far to kick my head.
Sleeping in my mother’s room also meant it was easier to sneak out. I’d pull all-nighters, roaming the streets with a spray can in the kangaroo pocket of my hoodie. By this point, Rob had already quit tagging. If you asked him what he was now, now that he wasn’t a writer, he’d say he was a pimp. He broke girls’ hearts. I’d listen in on the conversations on three-way, the silent witness.
A few times, I snuck a girl into my mother’s room, but that was weird, fooling around in her bed with that wedding photo of her and Bah Ba above it, looking straight at the camera, straight at me. My mother left the photo up, I guess, for future visits from Bah Ba. She didn’t want to rock the boat. He was still paying our bills.
Most of the time, I’d just chill in that room and turn on Bah Ba’s stereo. I didn’t have my own, so it was the only time I could blast my music, Bay Area gangsta rap and East Coast boom bap. Some nights when I had the room to myself, I’d wake up in the middle of the night and peer out the window. The Back would be pitch-dark. Someone was always knocking out the bulbs. The windows
