2023 Short Story & Essay Contest: Honorable Mention, High School Short Story Contest
“Are you eating ice cream?” asked a 7-year-old girl, peering over my shoulder and into the hot pink Thermos. I was not having ice cream for lunch. The soft purple circles were taro buns, one of my favorite Asian desserts. I shook my head to settle her excitement but it was already too late.
“Dena gets ice cream for lunch!” she exclaimed in awe. All the other children at our lunch table started chattering too.
“You’re so lucky!”
“I wish I could eat ice cream every day!”
“May I have some…?”
I sat on the smooth hardwood bench, unsure what to do. The afternoon sun beamed on my head as droplets of sweat started rolling down the side of my face. Would they laugh at me if I told them these were taro buns? Too afraid to correct the energetic second graders, I slid the Thermos back into my bag.
At home, I sprinted into the kitchen. Rushing to devour the unfinished lunch, I didn’t even notice my mother walking in.
“Why didn’t you eat your food?” she asked.
I contemplated whether I should tell her the truth but eventually gave in.
“I don’t want to bring Chinese food to school,” I said stubbornly. “Tomorrow, I’m going to buy lunch from the cafeteria.”
Even though everyone claimed school food tasted soggy and old, the lunch line always stretched into the hallway. For the rest of my elementary school years I, too, waited against the cold stone walls of the cafeteria, gladly soaking up the bits of America I did not have at home.
Just before the summer of eighth grade, my closest friend moved away. This effect rippled through my lunch group as everyone started to seek new companions. I was left to do the same.
Eventually, I befriended a girl in my science class. She took me under her wing, and I started to eat lunch with everyone at her table.
Each day, Anna would bring a triple set of food containers. The first layer held fluffy white rice. The second contained different Chinese vegetable dishes, and the final box had a small serving of meat. She also packed in her lunchbox a pair of chopsticks, which were protected by a gray velvet cover.
As I nibbled on my lukewarm chicken nuggets, I watched Anna patiently assemble her meal. The soft steam of eggs and tomatoes floated into the air, reminding me of China. The food took me back to a warm, cozy apartment. Wooden floors that squeaked when you ran too fast, and the bustling streets that provided comfort at night. I remembered stretching over a small kitchen counter, begging Grandma to let me sample her dishes—even before they had finished cooking.
“When you turn 5 years old,” Grandpa declared, waving his chopsticks in the air, “we’re going to start eating red peppers. Then you’ll be ready for any Chinese dish!”
“Are you sure?” I asked nervously. “What if it’s too hot to handle?”
“Of course,” he told me. “We just have to start training early.”
I never got to spend my fifth birthday in China because a few months later my parents brought me back to America. Although my grandparents also came, Grandma found it difficult to find the same rich ingredients here. Now, even as a 16-year-old, I struggle to eat more than five spicy Cheetos without gulping down water.
As the memories flooded back, I was excited to share our similarities with Anna.
“Hey, my dad makes that at home!” I exclaimed.
“I made this one myself.” Anna grinned.
I was astonished by not only how well she could cook but also the courage she had to bring it to school. Her toasty, flavorful dishes held so much more love compared to my soggy french fries and gray chicken nuggets.
Soon after, I started bringing Chinese food too. We spent lunch laughing and sharing the meals, each dish bringing us closer. One day, I decided to bring taro buns again.
“I have baozi for lunch!”
“Those look so good!” one of my friends complimented.
I felt a wave of relief and happiness wash over my body. The fear of being humiliated has been replaced with pride.
I smiled. “They are good. Even better than ice cream.”
