Check out the cover and excerpt below, and pick upyour copy ofOutrun the Moonon May 24, 2016.
Today, I will walk on air.
After scores of solo flights, Tom finally deemed it safe enough to bring me aboard.
Both the balloon and I are itching to take off.
Outside the basket, Tom holds out his tongue to test the wind.
The bald spot on his head is growing back, to my relief.
We use English with each other out of habit.
At school, they prohibit us from speaking our native Cantonese.
Its hardly more than a babys breath!
Youre not having second thoughts, are you?
His smooth good fortune forehead wrinkles.
Tom has the kind of golden face that stays handsome even when hes worried or annoyed.
Im already onto third and fourth.
I wince at the mention of four.
Tom glances at me standing motionless.
Ive never told him that I dont like fours, after a lifelong string of mishaps involving that digit.
He knows I normally scoff at my mas fortune-telling superstitions.
He would just tease me.
But today, I refuse to be outdone by a number.
I force a grin.
I didnt spend two hours pumping the balloon with air to keep my feet on the ground.
The predawn April chill makes me shiver through my quilted jacket.
I cant deny the light breeze.
But were only making a quick trip up and downten minutes of weightless suspension, tops.
A portable stove with a funnel top directs heat through a hose into the throat of the balloon.
It puffs up like a proud mother owl.
I fill my own lungs, and my excitement surges once again.
He uses the wrench side to lock the stove door.
Youll break my basket.
They use bamboo for tiger cages.
I cant be worse than a tiger.
You dont know yourself very well.
Ill need to be a tiger if I want to have my own global business.
Just dont bite anyone.
A smile slips out, and my heart jumps.
I grin back, but his gaze slides away.
He yanks out the first few stakes with the spench.
Be careful near the drag rope, and dont touch anything.
By that, I mean do not make contact between yourself and any part of the Island.
The basket jerks as he digs out a stake.
My skin warms as I imagine the two of us snuggled in this bamboo capsule.
The silk deflates ever so slightly on one side.
Maybe the winds are more combatant than I thought.
His teakwood eyes peer evenly at me.
Be back in a second.
You dont stop mentioning it long enough for me to forget.
He hikes back to his cart and is soon hidden by a grove of pine trees.
What did he forget?
We unloaded everythingtools, ropes, and candied ginger in case of nausea.
The silk caves even more.
The Island is collapsing!
The breeze eats my words.
I tug at my hair.
My arms still ache from holding up the silk as it inflated earlier.
I promised I wouldnt touch anything, but surely hed understand.
I finger the key used to regulate hot air flow into the balloon.
I slowly twist, and within seconds, the silk becomes plump again.
Easy as catching rain.
The basket suddenly lifts.
In desperation, I grab again at the key but somehow pull it straight out of the socket.
Heart thundering, I jam it back in, twisting and twisting, but nothing catches.
The last stake unplugs like a rotting tooth, and the Island breaks free.
I start to rise, up, up, and away.
I clutch the side of the basket, hanging on for dear life.
Tom tears at his hair when he sees me.
He shakes his fist.
Theres a panicked jerkiness to his movements that Ive never seen before.
My stomach drops as the balloon tips to one side.
I glance down at the shrinking scenery, a hundred feet below me now.
Im not ready to join you in the afterlife.
Good-bye, solid Earth.
Good-bye, dear Tom.
A flock of seagulls squawks insults beside the basket, and a cold streak runs through me.
Theyll puncture the silk.
Shoo, you flying rats!
I never thought too hard about my convictions and wonder if its too late now.
In a flurry of wings and beaks, they fly off after it.
I nearly sob in relief.
Thats one bridge crossed.
My eyes catch on the grappling hook that Tom called the drag rope.
Maybe its like an anchor?
I drop it over the side.
The basket jerks as the hook reaches the end of the line.
Nothing happens at first, but after a good minute, the Island finally stops swinging about.
I am not descending, but neither am I ascending.
The basket has leveled out about a hundred and fifty feet above the ground and is slowly drifting west.
I can make out the blond blocks of St. Clares School for Girls in the distance.
A new sun has rinsed the sky pink and yellow.
My brother, Jack, will be wiping condensation from the windows before leaving for the Oriental Public School.
I must get out of this alive.
That chuen pooi bulb was going to be our ticket to a good life.
I couldve bought us out of Chinatown!
I had a plan!
Ive gone stark raving mad.
I am talking to a balloon, one hot air bag to another.
A rope hits me in the head, and I grab it to steady myself.
Was that why Tom was shaking his fist at me?
He was telling me to pull.
I peer into the throat of the balloon and cautiously give the rope another tug.
The basket spins, then drops several feet.
I fall down in a heap, as dizzy as a fly in a whisk.
The balloon jerks, but I dont dare peek over the side, afraid of tumbling out.
Once my head stops spinning, I stare up into the throat again.
There are three ropes hanging.
Mercy, keep your weight on the floor.
Toms voice sounds distant, coming from somewhere under the basket.
I want to sob in relief.
I stop myself from hugging his ankles.
Dropped it enough for me to catch the grapple.
See, this pulls the main vent and helps you go straight down.
In no time, were back on the ground, the silk billowing like a cream-colored ocean.
Tom helps me up, and I hug him close, trembling.
His solid warmth defuses all my fear, replacing it with something giddy and hopeful.
Im sorry, I say.
No, Im sorry.
I shouldnt have left you.
For a moment, his eyes look haunted and I dare to hope his concern is more than brotherly.
Then his features harden.
He gently pushes me away.
My cheeks brighten at the rebuke.
Keeping the injury out of my voice, I ask, What did you have to go back for?
He digs into his pocket and holds up an ugly wrinkled bulb.
It looks like a mans energy pouch, I say when I see the chuen pooi.
The tips of his ears grow pink, and my laugh rings out like a shovel striking gold.
Our ticket to a good life just blew in.
Chapter 2
The three oclock funeral peddlers voice pierces the thin windows of our two-room flat.
In Chinatown, someone is always hawking something.
Tom will keep my misadventure a secret.
He might have his opinions, but hes loyal to a fault.
My brother, Jack, breathes noisily beside me as he practices hemming a towel.
Jack ties a knot, then holds up his battlefield of stitches.
Nice, but you sewed your towel to your pants.
He slaps his head.
I was always borrowing it from the library at Laurel Hill Cemetery.
Jack quiets when I remove another treasure from the chestour map of San Francisco, the latest 1906 edition.
I spread it onto the concrete floor.
Were exploring early this month.
He digs around in the chest.
The tea tin rattles as he pulls out our Indian head penny.
Jack shines the penny on his shirt.
Its my turn to throw, I tell him, holding out my hand.
Well, look at that!
He stammers when hes excited or nervous.
I point, and Jack leans over.
Looks like were visiting Chocolatier Du Lac.
Jacks eyes grow hungry.
Jack shoots to the door without bothering to fold the map or snip the towel from his pants.
I leave a note for Ma, whos out visiting clients.
Sky lanterns sway from building eaves, the same lanterns that inspired Toms Floating Island.
It had been his dream to join the Army Balloon Corps, until he learned the Corps disbanded.
Jack looks back at me.
English only, Jack.
Today we shall be as American as President Theodore Roosevelt himself.
Folks are more apt to do business with people who do not seem foreign.
And I am hurrying.
Its these boots that are taking their time.
Taller people inspire confidence, and the boots put me in the neighborhood of five foot five.
But trolleys cost a nickel per rider, and I have only one to spare.
The longer the wait, the sweeter the taste, I tell Jack.
He knots his mouth into a tight rosebud, and his sticky hand stops yanking so hard.
It wont always be this way, not if I can help it.
A frown burrows deep into her face as we pass.
Bossy cheeks, she mutters after me.
She has always disapproved of my free-spirited ways, so different than her daughter, Ling-Ling.
The girl sits as still as a vase inside the shop, a basket of buns on her lap.
I force myself not to react, herding Jack toward Montgomery Street, the main route through North Beach.
Cheeks are a measure of ones authority, and my high cheekbones indicate an assertive, ambitious nature.
Is that why Tom has been acting so funny?
At least to me.
If I were more demure, perhaps Tom would be less ambivalent about our fortuitous match.
A respected herbalist needs a proper wife, someone who doesnt parade down uneven streets.
Someone who doesnt bribe her way into elite schools.
I nearly collide with a water trough, scaring away thoughts of Tom.
The towel flaps against his thigh with every step.
I pull him slower again.
Ah-Suk tonified Jacks internal energy with his five-flavor tea, but we must avoid overexertion.
You think theyre as good as Lil Betties?
you’re able to get Lil Betties on any street corner.
These chocolates are special.
The mingled scent of garlic and ocean brine signals that North Beach lies ahead.
The avenue grows dense with Italians hurrying in and out of shops.
Jack squeezes my hand.
The paving stones are newer here.
Maybe theyre afraid well track dirt through, and thats why theyre ngok.
He uses the Chinese word for hot-tempered.
We have the same dirt under our shoes as they do.
Are we mad when they use our streets?
He pans his thin face at me, waiting for an explanation.
We are something to be ogled, lower even than black ghosts.
Were more mad that theyre mad when we use their streets.
People openly stare at us, even in our western clothes.
I realize Im now pulling Jack and force myself to slow our pace again.
Ahead, a woman with an enormous hat attends to her produce stand.
Checking for traffic, I guide Jack across the street to avoid any accusation of stealing.
A young man with teeth like yellow corn flicks the ash off his cigarette and leers.
I attempt to sail by like I have not a care in the world.
But as we pass, the man unfolds himself and peanut shells waterfall off his dungarees.
He towers over me by a head.
Pigtail Alleys that way.
He stabs a tobacco-stained finger toward Chinatown.
Youre blocking the footpath, I say evenly.
With a laugh that smells like wine, he glances at the two other men peeling carrots behind him.
Whadyaknow, she speaks English.
Wouldnt I like to show him how much English I speak.
Jack tugs at my hand, and I squeeze his palm reassuringly.
When life puts a stone in your path, it is best to walk around it.
I pull Jack into the street.
The man places it on his greasy locks, presses his hands together, and bows.
No walkee on street without paying ching-chong toll.
My cheeks flame, and I can feel the button about to pop off my collar.
I attempt to snatch back my hat, but he holds it out of reach.
Pay the tolla dollar for you and the bambinoand maybe Ill give you your hat back.
I will not, even if I did have a dirty dollar to throw at swine like you.
Oh ho, shes got some pepper in her sauce, eh, cugino?
He glances again at his friends, who are now grinning.
G-g-give, says Jack.
His fists clench, and his chest begins to move as quick as a birds.
G-g-give it
Its okay, Jack, I tell him in Cantonese.
Your mouth dont work, bambino?
Or maybe hes some kind of idiota.
He taps his head.
It is all I can do to keep from clouting him in the mouth.
A corner of the white fabric peeks out in stark contrast to the black of my funeral dress.
I jerk away, but he snatches the bundle from my pocket.
I found my toll.
The man discards my hat onto a newspaper full of carrot peelings.
Jack fetches it, his face pale.
The man unties the handkerchief, but doesnt find the coins hes looking for.
He holds the shriveled bulb to his nose, then quickly pulls it away.
Chuen pooi smells like ripe feet.
One of his friends peers at the herb, then shrugs.
The first man snorts loudly, but then his derision gives way to uncertainty.
It is the energy pouch of a farmer who tried to pass off a guinea hen as a chicken.
The words are out of my mouth before I know what Im saying.
Chinese people have many ways to make those who cross us pay.
I draw myself up as tall as I can and summon my haughtiest demeanor.
Lucky for him, hed already had five sons and didnt need it anymore.
The man blanches from under a grove of black whiskers.
At that moment, the mahogany-haired waitress pokes her head out the door.
She glares at the men through her almond dragon eyes, a shape that indicates determination.
How long does a smoke take?
I seize the moment and pluck my belongings from his grasp.
Clamping my hat back onto my head, I sweep Jack away, hoping they dont follow.
The shop occupies one corner of the manufacturing plant, a brick structure that spans the whole block.
A bay window provides a view of perfect rounds of chocolate arrayed neatly on cake stands.
Jack stares at the bounty without blinking.
Each morsel looks to be dressed for Easter mass with sugar bows, flowers, and little polka dots.
Bet they charge a sweet premium for those bitty flourishes.
This is the best thing Ive ever seen, says Jack, practically drooling.
Come on, then.
The smell of burned sugar assaults us as I initiate the door.
I knew it wasnt going to be easy, and yet her instant dislike puts straw down my back.
Too bad the marble floors amplify sound.
Used to cost two dollars to wash em.
South of the Slot, too!
Jack tugs my dress, and I bend so that our faces are even.
Choose the one you want, but dont touch anything.
With a solemn nod, he stuffs his hands in his pockets as if he doesnt trust them.
He wanders around the room, peering into the glass cases and up at the shelves.
Perfect ears like pink seashells hold back blond plaits that cascade down her starched apron.
She goes to stand by Jack, probably to ensure he doesnt pinch anything.
Even the shopgirls outrank us.
Finally, the fleshy customer leaves in a cloud of perfume.
Madame Du Lac points her chin in my direction and says in an arctic voice, We are closing.
Jack crooks his finger at a chocolate that looks like a domino.
The shopgirl languidly produces tongs from her apron.
Just a minute, Elodie, says Madame Du Lac.
That will be twenty cents, she says to me.
I could buy twenty Lil Betties for that.
Which ones cost five cents?
Madame Du Lac points to a dish of chocolate-covered peanuts on the counter.
You may get two cacahouetes.
Even the peanuts here are pretentious.
When the woman makes no move to dispense the treats, I realize shes waiting for me to pay.
I step to the counter and plunk down my nickel.
Thanks to the shoes, I have a good three inches on the shop owner.
She squints at the coin without picking it up.
Maybe she thinks its stolen, or that it will give her the bubonic plague.
After another moments hesitation, she scoops it up to deposit into her brass register.
We are not so different after all, you stale old pastry.
The nuggets nearly drop, but he snatches his fist closed.
He offers one to me, but I shake my head, forcing a smile.
I want to take those peanuts and stick them up her nose.
For a moment, the only sound is the crunching in Jacks mouth.
Madame, my name is Mercy Wong.
I wondered if I might speak to your husband about a matter of personal importance.
Her eyes ice over.
What matter could someone like you have with my husband?
St. Clares School for Girls.
She looks me up and down.
St. Clares does not take riffraff.
Her eyes flick to my calloused hands resting on the counter, and I snatch them away.
The shopgirl, Elodie, returns to her chair but keeps an eye on me.
I remind myself to be unsinkable.
I can do the work.
I graduated from the Oriental Public School with the highest marks.
Impossible, Madame Du Lac pronounces in French.
It is time for you to leave.
Jack looks to me for guidance.
I strain to keep my emotions in check and produce the small bundle from my pocket.
The womans crinkled lids peel back, and she draws in a breath.
Yes, it is.
A nice chunk like this is hard to come by.
I owe Tom at least a years worth of haircuts for this.
Her carriage loosens like parchment unrolling.
She glances uneasily toward the shopgirl, who has given up the pretense of writing.
Elodie, leave us, sil te plait.
Elodie peaks an eyebrow, then sets down her quill and exits through a back door.
Used primarily for coughs, chuen pooi is also known to fade freckles and lighten the complexion.
Madame Du Lac twice asked Toms father to sell her some, but he refused.
It is against his principles to sell the expensive herb for vanitys sake.
According to Tom, Madame even faked a cough.
How do I know thats the real thing?
she says regally, her aquiline nose flaring.
Lets go, Jack.
I pocket the chuen pooi and pull him to the door.
It is an act, but one I take great pleasure in delivering.
We have suffered too much insult not to milk this moment for all the cream.
Before I touch the door handle, Madame says, Arretez.
I exhale a pretend sigh and crook my ear in her direction without turning around.
Perhaps there is room for a discussion.
Not good enough by a mile.
I clasp the brass knob.
Her shoes clack toward us.
She favors one side when she walks, the way people do when they are nursing an injury.
Surely you cant expect my husband to admit you just like that.
All I ask is for a meeting to introduce myself.
As I peer down at her, she crosses her arms and bristles.
He will be at the school Monday at noon.
I shall tell him to expect you.
I begin to leave, but she clears her throat loudly.
The herb, yo.
You will understand if I do not trust you.
Smiling, I pluck the bulb from my handkerchief and drop it into her waiting hand.
She colors when she sees the full glory of its suggestive shape.
But how do I make a preparation?
I will give instructions to your husband on Monday.
You will understand if I do not trust you.
Creases form around her mouth.
She casts a dark look at Jack, as if he must be to blame.
For that, I needle her further.
And my brother really wanted this one.
I cross to the plate with the domino bonbon and lift off the glass lid.
You dont mind, do you?
Madame Du Lacs bony chest pigeons, probably filling her lungs for a good spouting off.
But then she nods, lips pursed tight.
He tugs at his collar.
Theyre not as good as Lil Betties.
Madame turns as red as a strawberry.
I do not crack a smile, though the effort gives me a stitch in the side.
Replacing the lid, I chirp, Good day, Madame.
