In China, patients demanded IV drips of antibiotics and fluids, not willing to wait to heal on their own from colds or the flu. “There’s a special cash price.”īy the time the mother left-left and returned from a trip to the bank to withdraw funds-Mama Fang had pocketed four thousand dollars, and it wasn’t yet noon. Leaning over the counter, Mama Fang lowered her voice. Mama Fang did not move, did not say a word, and the mother offered twice, then three times the class fee to move her son higher on the wait list.
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“I can pay the full amount now,” she said, thrusting forward her credit card while extolling her son, his obedience and his brilliance. The customer’s imperious reserve crumpled after realizing she’d treated the proprietor so dismissively. Mama Fang nodded, her expression proud and disdainful, to indicate that she was in fact the owner.
Xiao Jie, as if Mama Fang were pushing a cart at a dim sum restaurant, as if she weren’t at least twenty years older than this woman, as if she were still the household help sleeping in a room off the kitchen in Hong Kong. “ Xiao Jie”-Little Miss-“when will your boss be in?” One year without the amino acids, vitamins, and minerals supplied through the IV that enabled the students at Little Genius to study longer and harder, to ward off and recover from colds, to sharpen their eyes and to brighten their skin. One single year that would determine the entire fate of her child: which university, which profession, which spouse, and thus which grandchildren.
“But I can add you to the wait list.” She knew what the mother would ask next: how long? “One year.” One year in which her child would fall further behind, one year in which rivals would vault ahead with the miracle study aid that Mama Fang had introduced to Silicon Valley. The motion detector chimed over the front door, and as Mama Fang rushed into the reception area, she found a woman impatiently tapping her credit card against the counter. The teenagers at the tutoring center in Cupertino bent over their worksheets didn’t gossip, didn’t text, and didn’t fidget while hooked to the silvery lines with the ghostly look of jellyfish trailing their tentacles. The drip of dozens of IV bags sounded like the patter of rain, a steady beat over the scratch of pencils at Little Genius.
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