New from Here

Chapter 1

My name is Knox and sometimes I just blurt words out. It drives everyone in my family crazy. I don’t mean to—I just really need to know things. Like right now, when my dad’s trying to explain the coronavirus to us and the reasons why we’re going to America.

It’s safer there, Dad says. They don’t have the virus.

How’s it safer? I ask.

"He just said! my brother, Bowen, erupts. Listen for a change, Knot!"

I glare at Bowen. Ever since I was about five years old, Bowen’s been calling me Knot instead of my name, Knox, as in Knot-from-this-family, even though I am definitely from this family and Bowen’s from planet Bully.

Stop it, Bowen, Dad says in his stern, deep voice. A taxi beeps loudly on the street below our apartment, as if to add, Yeah, Bowen! Hong Kong taxis are always beeping loudly.

Dad bends down so we’re eye to eye and goes over all the risks of the coronavirus again—pneumonia, difficulty breathing, and even death. I swallow hard.

This is serious, he says. It could be like SARS all over again.

When news of the virus dropped on my tenth birthday a week ago, we hadn’t even celebrated Chinese New Year yet. The last of the Christmas decorations hadn’t been taken down. That night, we all watched in horror at the footage of doctors in hazmat suits and patients lying in hospital corridors in Wuhan, China. I could hear the doctors saying in Mandarin, "People are dying! We need help!" No one even ate my rocket ship birthday cake, even though I worked on it with my little sister Lea for two hours and we used so much frosting.

What happens if we don’t leave? Are we all going to die? I ask.

No…, Dad says, in the patient yet worried tone he uses when I ask him if my finger will melt if I hold it above a candle for a really long time. But I think it’s better if you guys go to California. If it’s anything like SARS, we can’t take any chances.

Lea and I look at each other, alarmed.

What do you mean ‘you guys’? I ask. You’re not coming?

Dad sighs. Unfortunately, I have to stay behind and work. But Mom can take you—all her deals are on hold for now anyway.

Mom’s a banker. Her office building has lots of windows and lights up Central District, Hong Kong, even at night, because people are always working.

It’ll be fun! It’ll give us a chance to bond! Mom says brightly, looking up from her work phone. We’re at the kitchen table, and even though there’s a no-phone policy at the table—a rule Mom came up with—she always forgets and sneaks peeks at her phone.

At the thought of not going with Dad, I groan and kick my chair leg with my foot. It hurts but I don’t say ow in front of Bowen.

For how long? Bowen asks.

Until this thing is over. A month maybe? Dad answers. He crosses his fingers. Hopefully, it’ll be over by February.

A whole month? I shake my head. No. I can’t!

I feel the tears building inside. Dad’s my best friend! He’s the one who tickles me to bed every night. Who picks me up from after-school soccer and my six-year-old sister up from after-school art every day. Who hasn’t missed a single soccer game, even when Mom’s traveling for work. Who’s always there for us. I can’t be gone from him for that many days.

I’m not going, I say. Being stuck in America with my big brother will definitely kill me before the virus does. I’ll take my chances here.

Bowen immediately takes one of the surgical face masks on the counter and puts it on his face, like I’m already contagious. What a wimp.

My sister, Lea, tries to reason with me. But Knox, we can go to your beach!

I give her a faint smile. Knox Beach, in Northern California, is the beach I was named after. We go there every summer, and to our little house in El Tercera, which my grandma Francine left Dad. It’s right outside Berkeley, where Mom and Dad both went to college. There is a hill by our house with wild horses. I like summers in El Tercera because it’s really the only time we get to spend with Mom. The rest of the year, she’s always so busy with work.

Summer Mom takes us to the movies and to get frozen yogurt. Winter Mom loads us up on tutors and tells us not to bug her because she’s got to reply to this. Maybe it will be fun. I’ve never been to Knox Beach in the winter.

But then I look at Dad and my excitement dissolves. I vow not to ditch him for a beach.

Nope. I shake my head.

Mom stares at me. Knox…

Why do you always have to be so difficult! Bowen yells from behind his mask.

Mom orders Bowen to take his mask off his face at once and starts counting them. There are still twenty-seven left, including the one Bowen just wore for two seconds (ewww—I’m so not using that one! ). She hugs the box of masks in her arms as she looks out the window at the long line of people waiting in front of the pharmacy downstairs. It’s late January and freezing cold outside. Still, the line of shivering people snakes all the way down the street, even though the pharmacy—every pharmacy in Hong Kong—is completely out of masks.

These are more precious now than gold, Mom reminds us in Mandarin. Mom always speaks to us in Mandarin when something’s really important. The only reason we got ours was because Mom’s friend Auntie Jackie, in California, FedExed them to us. Mom says that’s a sign of a true friend.

I only have two true friends in the world—Dad and my friend Amir, who moved back to London. It took me nine years to find him because of my blurting-things-out problem. In the end, all it took to lose him was a raise for his dad. I can’t compete with a raise! That’s the thing about going to school in an international city like Hong Kong. People are always moving.

Thankfully, I still have my other best friend. And I’m not leaving him behind.

Chapter 2

Mom finally allowed me to go outside to play soccer because I was driving her nuts. I ask Bowen if he wants to come with me, even though he’s probably going to say no.

To my surprise, he says okay. He must really be bored at home. Even though we’re still in the middle of Chinese New Year holiday week, it doesn’t feel like Chinese New Year this year. People aren’t handing out lai sees on the street. Lai sees are red packets filled with money, and every year around this time, I always get a bunch from strangers on the street. They can’t resist me because I look so handsome.

But not this year.

I look around for Lea, but she’s FaceTiming with one of her fifty thousand friends from school, even though she’s only in first grade. I don’t know what her secret is. She’s not that great. As soon as I think that, I feel bad. After all, Lea was the one who insisted on mixing the yellow with the blue frosting to make green for my rocket cake because that’s my favorite color. She’s actually pretty great.

Anyway, Bowen and I put on our masks and head out. Mom didn’t want to waste two of our twenty-seven real face masks, so she puts a paper towel across our nose and mouth and fixes it with a rubber band. It works okay.

We get in the elevator and use little toothpicks that the building management put out to press the elevator buttons, instead of our fingers. It’s so weird to use toothpicks to press buttons, like we’re eating elevator-button fruit.

On Tai Street, everyone’s wearing masks instead of their traditional Chinese New Year changshan jackets. Even though the government hasn’t officially told everyone to, people know from SARS that masks help protect us. One guy doesn’t have a mask, so he puts a clear plastic water jug over his head. Bowen chuckles. The guy yells something at him in Cantonese. People are always speaking Cantonese to Bowen because he looks more like Mom and people think he’s full Chinese, whereas I look more like Dad and I don’t get it as much. Which is sad because I actually know Chinese.

As soon as we get down to the soccer pitch, Bowen takes his mask off. I take mine off too and kick the ball to Bowen. My twelve-year-old brother is a great athlete, fast and strong. He is the track star at his school, with thick legs that my lao ye says are like tree trunks. I run to keep up. Bowen passes the ball back to me instead of hogging it, which is nice.

I spot some kids from our neighborhood playing in the park next to the soccer pitch. I start running over to them.

What are you doing? Bowen calls, and chases after me. I try to outrun him, but he’s too fast. He grabs my arm. You can’t play with them!

Why not? I miss kicking the ball around with the other kids at school, and since the government announced school is closed indefinitely, even after the Chinese New Year holiday break is over, who knows when the next time I’ll play with other kids will be? So I tell my brother to bug off. You’re not the boss of me, I tell Bowen, shaking my arm free.

Bowen steals my ball away with his quick feet.

Hey! I shout.

I run after him to get my ball back. When we get to Tung Lam Terrace, the small, narrow lane leading to our apartment, I kick the ball from between his legs. What’s wrong with him?

Why’d you have to take my ball? I shout.

I’m trying to keep you alive! he shouts back.

Yeah right. Like he gives one boba about me. I hold the ball in place with my foot, crossing my arms at Bowen.

You don’t know if those kids have it or not…, he says.

What?

The virus! Duh!

They don’t have it! I say. Would they be playing soccer if they were sick?

The incubation period is fourteen days, dummy!

I hate arguing with Bowen because he’s always making up stuff that I don’t understand. What’s an incubation period?

"People are dying, Knox! Over four hundred people in China! Bowen says. Why do you think they closed all our schools?"

"Yeah, in China. We’re not in China!"

But we’re in Hong Kong, right next door! Bowen says. "Do you know how many people come across the border every day? Like millions."

Millions? I don’t think so.

I take my foot off the ball and let it roll down the hill, toward the soccer pitch. Forget Bowen. Forget the virus. I’m going to play with those kids.

Fine! Go! Do whatever you want! Bowen calls out to me. But don’t cry when they take you away from Mom and Dad and you have half a dozen doctors sticking long needles in you!

I stop walking, catching the ball with my foot. Needles? I hesitate for a second and turn around, torn between believing Bowen and hating him. I wish I hadn’t taken off my paper towel mask. It looked silly, but it was something. I sneak one last look toward the soccer pitch and hang my head as I follow my brother up the path to our apartment.

I hope the virus is over soon.

Chapter 3

My dog, Cody, wags his fluffy white tail when we get back to the apartment. Dad is cooking dinner. Another reason why I can’t leave him. I’d starve. The only things Mom knows how to make are reservations.

Mom looks up from her computer and bolts over to us with hand sanitizer as soon as we walk inside.

Rub your hands together! she orders, while she counts the seconds. I watched this YouTube video. You have to rub for twenty seconds! We rub and rub, even when we run out of sanitizer, until we finally get to twenty.

Now go take a shower, she says. And remember, put the toilet seat down before you flush!

Why? I ask.

Because the virus can spread through poop, my grandmother’s voice calls from the speakers of Mom’s computer.

Through poop?? Lea asks from the kitchen, horrified. She’s helping Dad with dinner and drops the wooden salad spoon. She runs from the kitchen island to her room, screaming.

I chuckle at my sister. Sometimes I forget she’s still six. Hi, Lao Lao. I walk over and wave, while Bowen takes a shower first. I miss my lao lao. She and my lao ye live in Beijing. I haven’t seen them since Christmas. They were supposed to come down for Chinese New Year, but then the news of the virus hit. Another thing the virus cancelled.

Hi, didi, she says, calling me by my nickname, the Mandarin phrase for younger brother. Even though the rest of Hong Kong speaks Cantonese, we’re Mandarin speakers because my grandparents are from Beijing. You excited about going to America?

I turn to my mom. I thought we decided not to go!

We haven’t decided yet, Ma, Mom says to Lao Lao.

What if it spreads there? Lao Lao asks.

"They have almost no cases," Mom tells her.

"But what if ?"

That won’t happen in America, Mom says. They have the most advanced medical system in the world. We’ll be fine.

"Just be careful. And tell the kids they must wear a mask on the plane. And Andrew."

Dad’s not coming, I tell Lao Lao. He has to stay here and work.

Lao Lao peers into the Skype at Mom. "He’s not coming?! So you’d be taking the kids by yourself ??"

You say that like it’s so impossible. Mom frowns at my grandmother.

It is impossible! I pipe in. We’re a handful!

Mom gives me a look.

The last time Mom took care of us on her own was before Lea was born. And she had Lao Lao to help her.

I’ll be fine, she insists. I shake my head. I’m not so confident.

I’d stay put and ride it out. Stock up on essentials, Lao Lao suggests, pointing to her humongous stash of groceries in her kitchen.

Wow. That’s a lot of flour!

Lao Lao tells me she plans on not leaving her apartment until this thing is over. Even if it takes five months. She’ll hibernate like a bear. Which makes me a little sad. Are we not going to see her the whole time?

Well, I can’t do that, Mom says. The kids need to go out and run around, especially Knox. She glances at me. You know how he is.

How am I? I wonder. And is that the reason we’re doing this? Because Mom thinks I can’t handle spending five months cooped up inside our apartment in Hong Kong? I can handle it. Despite what Lily, my therapist at school, says, I can stay put.

I sigh a little thinking about Lily. Now that school’s closed indefinitely, I wonder when I’ll see her again. Mom says after next week, we’re going to start online school. She says it’s gonna be fun, like a video game. I doubt that. I think it’s gonna be like the kind of video game where everything constantly freezes.

Lao Lao sighs and reaches out a hand to the screen. I wish I could help…, she says. But this virus. My age.

I reach my arms out to my grandmother, wishing I could give her a hug. My arms hit the sharp corners of our bulky Mac.

It’s okay, Ma. I’ve got this, Mom says. You just take care of yourself in Beijing.

At dinner, Bowen asks Mom, Are the doctors still planning on striking?

Mom sighs, glancing down at her phone. I don’t know, gege, she says, calling him by the Chinese nickname for big brother.

What’s a strike? I ask, feeding Cody a piece of Dad’s chicken piccata under the table. Dad’s chicken piccata is the best. He got the recipe from Grandma Francine, who got it from an old restaurant in San Francisco, before she passed away.

Dad explains a strike is when you refuse to do your job out of protest. Mom says the doctors in Hong Kong are concerned with the rise in cases and whether they’ll spill over into Hong Kong. When she says that, I close my eyes and think of the virus like a glass of orange juice.

They want the border with China to be closed so the mainlanders can’t get in, Dad explains.

Main-land-ers. I open my eyes wide. It’s almost a swear word now in Hong Kong. Ever since the summer, there have been protests all over the city against the government. At first the marches were peaceful, but then there were petrol bombs and tear gas. The protestors broke into the legislative building, shattering the glass doors. School was cancelled for two weeks. I saw the words F-bomb China People graffitied on the street. An old man was set on fire for disagreeing with the protestors.

I started wondering, am I a China People? My mom, my lao lao and lao ye—they were all born in China. If I am, does it mean I’m not welcome here?

If we get sick, we shouldn’t speak Mandarin in the hospital, Mom says. So people don’t think we’re mainlanders.

"We’re not mainlanders, Bowen insists. We’re Americans." He looks to Dad to make sure.

We’re definitely Americans, Dad says, chuckling as he adds, We have the tax returns to prove it.

It’s not just the tax returns, Mom says. Dad and I both grew up there and went to school there. We only ended up in Hong Kong because of work.

Well, not just because of work, Dad says, looking to Mom. You also wanted to be closer to your parents.

The point is, we’re also very Chinese, Mom adds with a smile. That’s why I named you Bowen, Lea, and Knox. After all my favorite places in Beijing, Hong Kong, and America. Her voice hitches. But right now, I need you three to lean into the Hong Kong and American parts of yourselves… okay?

I look down. I wonder if you took apart my body and sorted it all out, which parts are Hong Kong and American. My nose? My arm hair? My big toe? And which parts I would have to hide.

Chapter 4

The next day, I wake up to Dad’s voice on a conference call. I forget for a second that he’s working from home. When the virus news erupted, his office, like many offices in Hong Kong, had to close—I guess that’s one good thing about the virus! I scramble out of bed in my pj’s, excited to photobomb Dad’s Zoom.

I crawl into my parents’ bedroom, where Dad has set up his temporary office, trying hard not to giggle, then burst onto Dad’s screen! It takes Dad a second to realize I’m behind him, and when he does, he tries to block his camera with his hands, accidentally knocking over his coffee. All his coworkers see it and they laugh, laugh, laugh.

Dad doesn’t think it’s so funny. One look at his face and I run outside to grab paper towels.

I hear a loud Knox! from their room. Dad’s Zoom must be over.

I walk back inside with Cody.

Hey, buddy, that wasn’t really cool what you did, he says. It was an important work meeting.

I look down. I can tell Dad’s mad and it makes me feel terrible. I was just trying to be funny. What Dad’s coworkers were saying sounded so boring. But sometimes when I’m trying to be funny, I go too far. I wish there were a stop sign in my head before people skip right from laughing to frowning. But my brain only has GO FASTER signs.

Sorry…, I murmur quietly.

It’s okay. Dad’s face softens. I help him clean up the coffee as Cody curls up for a nap. I know it’s hard to get used to, me working from home.

I look up from the coffee mess. I shake my head—that’s not it. I love having him here. But I’m not sure when I can play with him and when I can’t.… The boundary is so confusing.

Dad must have sensed my frustration because he wipes his hand, puts the paper towels down, and asks, How about we play some soccer? He throws a pillow at me from the bed.

Cody lifts his fluffy head excitedly. I give Dad a funny look. Here?

He gets up and moves all the fragile items out of the way. Then he starts rearranging all the pillows. Before I know it, he’s built a pillow soccer pitch for me on his bed! I grin. Dad says I can’t kick an actual soccer ball, so I run out and grab my dog Cody’s squishy green rubber ball instead.

Score! Dad exclaims when I kick the ball between the two towers of Thai silk pillows.

I throw my arms in the air and run around my parents’ bed for the fans, pretending it’s a stadium. Cody chases me. Dad tries to score a goal too and lands with a loud thud on the carpet. I giggle. It’s so fun playing bedroom soccer with Dad.

After I score a few more points, we sit down on the bed to catch our breath. Dad’s holding the squishy ball. I’m still thinking about what we discussed during dinner last night. Hey, Dad… what do you think Hong Kong should do? I ask him. Should we close the border to mainlanders?

Dad leans over. A pillow from the fort falls down.

He considers the question carefully. I think it’s important to contain the virus and protect people, he says. But I also think that we should not use this as an excuse to be hateful toward people just because of where they came from. In moments of human tragedy, we need to show compassion and kindness.

I nod. Not just during human tragedy, I want to add. During regular times with your little brother, too, still thinking about yesterday at the soccer pitch. But I don’t say that to Dad. Instead, I ask him another thing that has been bothering me.

Why did Mom tell us to stop speaking Mandarin? I ask Dad. All my life, my mom’s been pestering me to speak more Mandarin. That’s why my grandparents are always coming down to Hong Kong and watching us, and she even got me a Chinese tutor—so my Mandarin would be native.

Oh, no… she didn’t say stop speaking it altogether, Dad says. Just not in the hospital in Hong Kong.

Why? I ask.

She’s worried you won’t be treated as well by the nurses and the doctors.

I look down. People hate us, don’t they? I mutter in a small voice. That’s why they burned that old man.…

Dad puts the squishy ball down. He looks into my eyes, his face serious. No, he says. They don’t hate you. It’s complicated, he explains.

I frown.

Dad sighs and says, The Hong Kong people just want more autonomy.

What’s autonomy? I ask.

Dad thinks for a minute. They want to be able to decide their own matters, he says finally.

That sounds good. I smile and say, I want more autonomy in my life too!

I’m sure you do, Dad chuckles. His voice trails off. He adds gently, Actually, if you go and live in America…

Here we go again. The thought of going