Free Nothing But the Truth by Justina Chen

moves away from me, suddenly riveted by the arrival and departure times at a nearby kiosk.
    I struggle with the suitcase that Mama herself used when she left Taiwan seventeen years ago. Sweating, I stumble forward.
    Thank God for stanchions because even Mama realizes that while she can bash through a line of people, she can’t cut through metal and rope. A screaming toddler lies on the ground behind us, his hands and feet flailing, which is what Mama looks like she wants to do. She sighs heavily, jittery for having to stand still for once. Not a good sign.
    Her silence is golden for all of three seconds before the barrage of last-minute instructions.
    “You have airplane ticket? Registration paper?” demands Mama, staring at me like she expects me to have forgotten every thing.
    I nod and nod like I am a Patty Ho bobble head doll.
    “Remember, Auntie Lu lives in Palo Alto. You call if need anything. You have phone number, right?”
    I nod again.
    Yes, I have the phone number of Mama’s only sister in America. The last time I saw Auntie Lu was when I was nine. There are only two things I remember from her visit. The first is her present, dried cuttlefish that I nearly choked to death on. And the second is her fight with Mama over a man named Victor. I woke up the next morning, thinking I had dreamed about the yelling, but Auntie Lu was gone. So I’m not sure whether Auntie Lu is a stranger I happen to be related to. Or a strange relation.
    Regardless, Auntie Lu is on my Do Not Call list. Just the thought of a Mama clone hovering over me for a month makes me vow never to contact her.
    “You have cell phone?”
    The Patty Ho bobble head nods again.
    “But no call unless emergency. Too expensive.”
    Save the dime, Mama.
I can already hear my summer telephone conversations with her:
Mama: You study hard?
    Patty: Uh-huh.
    Mama: Math camp so expensive.
    Patty: Uh-huh.
    Mama: You friends with nice boy?
    Patty: (Silence)
    And then all I hear is a click on the other line. No good-bye. No I miss you. Just a dial tone of disappointment.
    It takes all of a half-second for the destructive force of nature that is Mama to blow away any semblance of customer ser vice. The check-in lady, a friendly grandmother in a uniform, beckons us with a warm smile and one plump hand. I almost expect her to push freshly baked chocolate chip cookies on me until Mama leads the charge to the counter.
    “
Aiyo,
why so slow?” demands Mama.
    The smile on the old lady’s face fades, sealing in any goodwill behind now-tight lips. Say hello to the unfriendly skies, not that Mama notices.
    Is it any big surprise that the check-in lady shakes her head after I heave my suitcase on the scale? With some satisfaction, she tells Mama, “That’ll be an extra seventy-five dollars.”
    Two dull circles of outrage blotch Mama’s cheeks. If the check-in lady knew any better, she would have gotten on the loudspeaker to announce, “Code red. Prepare for a public display of anger.” I cringe, look away and pretend that I’m with the tall, Asian guy at the next station. But he doesn’t notice me. Typical.
    With muscles I didn’t know Mama has, she hauls the suitcase off the scale and onto the floor, and wrenches the latches open. My man-magnet outfits, Janie-chosen and Laura-approved, fling out. Sure enough, they attract attention, but not in the way any of us imagined.
    “Mommy, what is that lady doing?” asks the toddler loudly, no longer crying now that he’s watching Mama, the yellow Teletubby in a live per for mance.
    That lady, I could have told the kid, is yanking out clotheswithout any clear plan except to put my suitcase on an immediate Slim-Fast diet.
    “Ummm, excuse me, ma’am?” The check-in lady is hesitant now. She’s probably afraid that Mama will karate chop her and stuff her headfirst into the rapidly thinning suitcase.
    She doesn’t have to worry. Mama ignores her to pick on me: “Why you pack so much?”
    I reenter my reality just as