Free Face by Aimee Liu, Daniel McNeill

do with the end of your friendship?”
    He tipped his head back and balanced the bottle on his forehead. “He didn’t like the way I played pinball.”
    “Get off.”
    “You ask him.”
    “I’ll do that.”
    He looked at me sideways. “You seeing him?”
    “Hadn’t planned on it till now.”
    He set the bottle on the floor and pushed off his shoes. “Be careful.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Just don’t trust him too much.”
    “Something wrong with social history?”
    “Maibelle, you and I are more Chinese than Tommy. Dad was born in Shanghai, grew up there. Tommy’s family’s been here three,
     four generations. But look who’s still locked into the ethnic heritage trip. He was doing that when we were in school. It
     drove me crazy.”
    Henry’s outburst confused me. This was obviously an old debate for him, and he’d firmly staked out his side, but when? And
     why this anger?
    “When the guys in Anna’s high school class got drafted, they didn’t go off to fight for China, and the ones that died, died
     for America, not the Magic Kingdom.”
    “Middle Kingdom,” I said, laughing in spite of Henry’s uncharacteristic seriousness. “Magic Kingdom’s Disneyland.”
    “Same difference. Disneyland and China are both based on fairy tales. It’s like all these so-called Afro-Americans running
     around in dashikis with beads in their hair, expecting everybody to say hallelujah because they’ve suddenly found their roots!
     Give me a break. It’s as bad as Anna and her fruity cult.”
    He finally smiled.
    “As bad as Tommy changing his name to Tai,” I said.
    “No shit.”
    He closed his eyes and lavishly draped one arm over the back of the couch. In high school Henry used to sit in the kitchen
     while Mum was making dinner, and he’d get her steaming on something like the Cuban missile crisis or the real value of pinball
     arcades to the American economy. Pretty soon they’d be slamming dishes, screaming at each other, having completely flipped
     their original positions but remaining diametrically opposed. While they seemed to think these battles were fun, I fled whenever
     I heard one starting. Now, to my surprise, I felt willing and able to take Henry on.
    “Aren’t you ignoring one fundamental factor?”
    “Hmm?”
    “Looks! Skin color. Hair. Eyes. Body type. Far as most whites are concerned, Chinese are Chinese—for that matter, any Oriental
     is Chinese—and blacks are black. No difference where they were born or what language they speak.”
    “That’s bull. I’ve heard the Movement leaders say if you’ve got one drop of nonwhite blood you got to consider yourself mi-nor-i-ty.
     That means you and I should sign on the dotted line as Chinese-Americans. Yah! Life’s too short to waste on an ethnic identity
     crisis.”
    “But you’re the original chameleon. With Miss Argentina, you’re a Latin lover. With that girl Lina you’re a Slav. In Chinatown,
     you were the pinball wizard, and if you’d had green hair and purple eyes it wouldn’t have made a dent in your popularity.
     I always felt shut out because I didn’t look Chinese enough to pass.”
    “You felt shut out because it’s your nature to feel shut out. Admit it, you didn’t fit in any better in high school or college
     than you did in Chinatown. Difference was, you could hide behind your camera, and you got a lot of stroke for your pictures.”
    He wasn’t even looking at me. He actually had his eyes closed.
    “Since when did you become my psychoanalyst?”
    “Since you were born. Comes with being Big Brother. You were so busy feeling shut out, you never knew anybody noticed. No
     big deal. But maybe you should realize a lot of people do notice. That wounded-bird quality even turns some guys on.” He opened
     his eyes just wide enough to leer at me.
    “I’m no wounded bird!”
    “I’m generalizing.”
    “Well, you’re out of line!”
    But after a few minutes sulking on my bed I realized