Chapter 1My mother and I came from the moon. My father, a mythical god named Pangu, created the world out of chaos.
This is what I believed as a child.
We were ancient stones misplaced in the world. For years, I dreamed of a new sky filled with clouds so delicate and low, I’d catch them in a jar, like fireflies. When released, Mother and I would join them. Tiny gems hovering above the dark sea.
Though my mother and I came from the moon, we lived in a small Midwestern town called Briarplace. She and I would sit outside on the front steps of the apartment on hot, humid summer nights. Mother with her paper fan, opening it with a flick of the wrist. The paper let off a peculiar odor, a combination of incense and mold. A magnificent phoenix stretched along the folds in luminescent yellow, red, green, black and white feathers. The bird was Feng Huang, a Chinese Phoenix, with the head of a pheasant and the bright tail of a peacock. A symbol of peace and prosperity sent from the heavens. Sent for us.
“Someday we’ll be just like this bird and fly away from here,” she said. “You and me. Free. Phoenix and Dragon.”
To my mother, we were two inseparable entities. A circle of opposing energies. Yin and yang. Darkness and Light. Phoenix and Dragon.
Sunlight playing over a mountain and a valley. Something she had read on Taoism.
We were two whimsical creatures with great wing spans, traveling through space and time. We had each other and that’s all that mattered.
Everything changed the year I turned fifteen. The stars collided and my life turned upside down and spun, spun, spun, out of control.
Dear Pangu, As a kid, whenever things got crazy and I started to get stressed out, I’d talk to you—my father. I was told that you were hairy and fearless. The creator of the universe. I screamed to the heavens. Pangu! Pangu! Where are you? I knew that if I waited long enough and if I kept real quiet, ready to receive, you’d answer me. And the funny thing? I swear you did. Your breath became the wind, your eyes the sun and moon. Your blood turned into rivers. Your voice the sound of thunder. Like I said: I was a kid. At almost fifteen, I know I shouldn’t be talking to you, but I still see your image at night, hovering among the stars. You’re the only father I’ve known. Forgive me, but I’m in desperate need of help. It’s my first semester of sophomore year at the new private school, Briarplace Sacred Sacraments, and I already hate it. The one and only person that actually talked to me moved last week. Go figure. I won’t even say his name. I’m trying to pretend he doesn’t exist because it’s easier that way. Just like everything else in my life. Like the fact that I don’t belong at a private school. For one, we can’t afford it. Mother had to work double shifts at the restaurant for months. She even sold her favorite pair of jade earrings and a bracelet so I could attend this year. Not that it matters—I’ll get kicked out eventually. Moving to the new school hasn’t prevented me from cutting classes. Mother sent me to Sacred Sacraments because she thinks I need help with my faith and I know she’s frustrated with the imaginary world I live in. Always drawing. Always in my head. “Life doesn’t exist in your sketchbooks and it’s no wonder you suffer from migraines,” she says. But the truth is, she’s the one filled with stories, she’s the one who told me about you, and besides, my art keeps me alive. I live, only to vanish into mysterious worlds. Plus, the saints saw auras, too. Mother has no idea, but I believe in God. I pray every night on my knees next to the bed. Last night, I prayed to blend in, like the color beige. Also, Pangu—my birthday’s in a few days. There’s something about turning fifteen that makes me nervous. What should I wish for? Do you think I’ll feel different? Older and wiser? Thanks for listening, Pangu.Yours,JChapter 2
A few days before my fifteenth birthday, I looked in the small mirror by my bed as soon as I woke up. Nothing had really changed. Freckles and pimples: still there. I dragged myself out of bed, hoping to find Mother in the kitchen, making her homemade rice porridge with ginger root and scallions. Hoping to hear the kettle, whistling steam for her tea. I loved to drop the dried chrysanthemums into the hot water—watch the petals unfurl. Instead, I heard the echo of the cupboard doors banging against the wall, dishes clanging.
Mother was frantically searching for something, her long hair pulled in a tangled knot on the top of her head. She was in her silk robe and slippers. I was pretty sure her foul mood had to do with her latest boyfriend and the breakup, which I knew was partly my fault. She was going to be so pissed when she found out I had chased him away.
I mean, the dude was lucky. He made enough of an impression to earn one of my catchy nicknames. Yogi. Over the years, her boyfriends had become a simple equation of logic. If I chased them away, then everything would stay the same. Just the two of us.
Another reason I wrote to Pangu: I figure he’d agree with me. It had to be done. He and I were always planning ways to get rid of Mother’s endless list of boyfriends.
So—I ignored Mother and pulled out a couple of slices of stale bread and made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. That’s when I spotted the white paper bag with her pills—tucked in the corner of the counter, next to the rotting banana. The prescription was supposed to help with her episodes, which is what she called them. She also took other herbs she got from a friend to help ease her pain. A pain I didn’t know much about. Just that it usually coincided with a breakup. But she swore by the remedy. And she definitely needed something, at that moment.
I grabbed the paper bag from the counter. “Looking for these?”
She whipped around and I tossed the bag to her and she caught it midair. “When did we get this?”
“Yesterday.”
How could she have forgotten? Rain had pelted down on us as she and I rode our bikes, pumping our legs and screaming, trying to escape the downpour to get to the drug store on time. Mother insisted that we take bikes to save on gas. “Don’t you remember?” I asked her.
“Yes, of course.” Her face pinched. “Aren’t you going to be late for school?”
I took a bite of the sandwich and swallowed. “I’m going. Don’t worry.”
Admittedly, she had a right to be concerned. I’d been skipping classes again and one day I was going to pay for it. Especially if the social worker at school got involved—like she did with my friend. I called her the Keeper, because she seemed like the Keeper of my destiny. For a split second, I imagined being dragged down the hall, a door slamming, never seeing my mother again.
You wouldn’t let that happen, would you, Pangu? We didn’t usually talk about that kind of stuff, but the threat lingered around me like a ghost.
Changing schools had only made things worse.
Later that morning, outside by the bus stop, I thought about the letter to Pangu in my sketchbook, hoping he’d heard my pleas.
I waited for the trees to speak. For the clouds to stir.
A leaf appeared and twirled in the wind. Speckles of sunlight glistened along the sidewalk and it’s all I needed for a reply.
Copyright © 2025 by Selina Li Bi. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
