Double Happy

Fiction by Sarah Chin

I looked above Headmistress Klose’s head at the stained-glass window behind her. Set into the glass was the shape of a single white calla lily, the school flower, and the motto “Mores Mulierem Faciant”. Manners Make a Woman. The same words were painted above the door to the dining hall, the same door Monroe and I had walked through just an hour earlier for dinner after putting on our black arm bands.

“The Supreme Court recently ruled that these arm bands are protected free speech,” Monroe said, as we had rehearsed. We decided that she should do the talking. I stood there quietly, trying to look defiant despite Headmistress Klose’s withering gaze. I was hyperaware of how sweaty my palms were. After several attempts to discreetly wipe them on my blue, plaid uniform skirt, I decided to keep them plastered by my sides, fidgeting slightly in the hopes of wicking away the sweat.

“Well, under the Florence Grummold Upper School dress code, no additions to the uniform are allowed. That includes any and all sorts of arm bands,” Headmistress Klose said. With her severe, chin-length bob, crisp blouse, and grey skirt suit, Headmistress Klose was one of those women I imagined as being born old and immune to protestations of teenage girls.

“Headmistress Klose, with all due respect, Jane and I are engaging in civic action which is our duty as American citizens,” Monroe said. “We are standing up against a war that is morally wrong and if I learned anything from reading Antigone in drama class, it is that our duty to morality lies above the laws of the state.”

“The point of having you read Antigone was to introduce you to the conventions of Greek drama, not to have you stage a revolution,” Headmistress Klose said, not hiding her annoyance. “Besides, the laws of the dress code lie above all. No arm bands.”

“But—” Monroe started.

“That’s final,” Headmistress Klose said. “Hand them in.”

Monroe scoffed as she unpinned the black band from her uniform cardigan, placing it in Headmistress Klose’s open palm. I followed suit.

“Miss Schuyler, you’re dismissed,” Headmistress Klose said to Monroe. “Miss Lim, a word?”

I exchanged a look of panic with Monroe. This was not something we had planned for.

“Remember,” Monroe whispered. “Under the fifth amendment— “

“Miss Schuyler,” Headmistress Klose said. “Out.”

Monroe gave a particularly pronounced eye roll before leaving the room.

“Have a seat, Miss Lim,” Headmistress Klose said. 

I sat in the large wooden armchair facing the Headmistress’ desk. At this level, we saw eye to eye. I shifted in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position where there clearly was none.

“How are you doing, Jane?” Headmistress Klose said, her mouth twisting up into what I imagined was her best impression of a smile. It only served to accentuate the wrinkles around her mouth. “How are your parents?”

“They’re fine,” I said.

“What’s the name of their restaurant?”

“Double Happy,” I replied.

“Double Happy,” she said, sounding out each syllable. “What an interesting name. And is that in Chinatown?”

“Queens, actually,” I said. “Flushing. Near Murray Hill.”

“Ah, that’s right,” she said, still smiling. “I have yet to visit but perhaps next time I’m in the city,” she said with the sound of someone who clearly had no desire to visit Flushing or Double Happy. “And how do you feel like you’re fitting in?”

I played dumb. “Fitting in?” 

“You know, at Florence Grummold,” she said. “I know you have already been here for a few months but we haven’t had many Oriental students. You are actually our first Chinese student—”

“I’m Taiwanese, actually.”

“Yes, well, I just want to make sure that Florence Grummold is a good fit for you.” She smiled, more genuinely this time. It made my chest tighten. “Some of our scholarship students, well—they just find that they’re not quite up to the challenge.”

“I think I’m fitting in just fine,” I said, trying to keep my voice even.

“Are you making friends? I know you and Miss Schuyler are roommates, but I want to make sure you’re able to meet other girls as well.”

“I have other friends,” I insisted. I did have other friends—just no one who I clicked with as much as Monroe.

Her unnerving smile faded slightly. “That’s wonderful to hear.”

I didn’t reply, forcing myself to look straight at her. I could see the wisps of a unibrow. I made a mental note to tell Monroe later.

“A word of advice,” Headmistress Klose said, her eyes hard. It felt like they were boring into my skull. “Perhaps you should stick to your studies more. I would hate to see your place here endangered by something as silly as this.”

“Of course,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral. “I understand completely.”

“Wonderful. I’m glad we have an understanding,” she said. “You may go.”

I got to my feet and went to the large, heavy oak door. I opened it just enough to slip out.

Monroe was waiting outside, leaning against the opposite wall. “What happened?” she asked as we started walking.

I shrugged. “Just the ‘you should know better thing’,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. 

Monroe laughed. “I think they gave up telling me that sometime last year. Glad to see they haven’t given up on you yet.”

“Yeah,” I said, trying to smile.

“You want to go hang out in the common room?” Monroe asked, wrapping her arm around my shoulders.

“Sure,” I said. 

We walked out of the administration building in silence. The sun hung low in the sky, making the white of the Tudor Revival-style buildings look even brighter. The only sound was a single bird chirping, apparently unaware that it was evening. 

It was always quiet here. The Florence Grummold School was tucked away in a picturesque corner of the Hudson Valley. It was just two hours on the train to Penn Station and then another forty-five minutes to an hour to stinky, noisy Flushing. I felt like I was on an entirely different planet among the gaggles of girls with their brown and blonde braids and pleated skirts, girls who strolled the manicured lawn and discussed debutante balls and The Carpenters and whether Radcliffe or the newly co-ed Vassar would be the best place to meet a nice guy. It was always so jarring to go home to Flushing during school breaks, trading rolling green hills for concrete and asphalt, loitering massage parlor girls, claustrophobic sidewalk fruit stands next to black trash bags oozing foul-smelling liquid. There was no way to stroll in Flushing.

“What’s wrong, J?” Monroe asked. “You’re very quiet. You’re not worried about being in trouble are you?”

I paused, feeling slightly embarrassed. “I guess a little,” I admitted. “I just worry they will take my scholarship away.”

“They would never do that,” Monroe said. “That would be illegal.”

“I don’t think it would be illegal since apparently they can do whatever they want,” I said. “I thought the Supreme Court argument was airtight.”

“Me too!”

“Should we sue them?” I asked. 

“Probably not, but we definitely have to do something about this.”

“Agreed.”

Monroe sighed. “You remember Sherry, my friend who goes to Barnard?”

“Of course,” I said. It would be hard to forget because Monroe mentioned her every five seconds. Their families had summer houses next to each other in the Hamptons, so they had grown up together. I think it made Monroe feel cool to have a friend who was a Barnard girl.

“Well, Sherry said that she and her friends wore black arm bands to class and a professor actually applauded them.”

“Seriously?” I asked.

“Well, no, not literally. But he totally supported it.” Monroe sighed again. “I wish we had teachers like that.”

“You know, I bet we do,” I said. “They’re just too afraid of Headmistress Unibrow.”

Monroe smiled gleefully. “Does she seriously have a unibrow?”

I wiggled my index finger in the middle of my brow bone. “You bet.”

“Man, I am so glad Headmistress Klose let us finish eating before she called us into her office because that seriously made me lose my appetite,” Monroe said.

We both laughed as we walked into the dormitory building. It was always buzzing at this hour since classes and rehearsals and sports practices were over. All the girls just hung around, giggling and getting on each others’ nerves. 

“Ugh, the goon squad is here,” Monroe whispered to me, as we stepped inside the 11^th grade common room. At the table, a few girls from our grade were sprawled out, doing homework. The TV was playing a rerun of The Andy Griffith Show that no one seemed to be watching. Monroe stooped down next to the TV and began to scroll through the channels before settling on the news.

“We were watching that,” Charity Ryan said, not looking up from her overly highlighted copy of The Scarlet Letter. 

“No you’re not,” Monroe said, plopping down on an overly ornate Victorian arm chair. “You’re not even looking at it.”

“Yeah, I’m listening. It’s something people occasionally do, Monroe,” Charity said, sneering. “You should try it.” The girls around her snickered. 

“Fuck off,” Monroe spat. A hush fell over the room, apart from the drone of the news anchor in the background. 

“If you don’t change the channel back, I’m going to report you for making hateful remarks,” Charity said. She was so pale that you could see a flush creeping down her neck.

“Fine, whatever,” Monroe said, climbing to her feet but leaving the TV untouched. “Let’s go, Jane.”

She stomped out of the room and down the hall. I followed behind. 

“Charity Ryan is a bitch,” I said quietly. “And her new haircut looks stupid.”

“I feel like Charity Ryan is everything I hate about being here,” Monroe said.

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “She’s as dumb as a doornail, but I heard she still got an A in French last quarter because she called her old au pair for help.”

“No, it’s not that,” Monroe said. “It’s that people don’t care. We’re in the middle of a war and no one here seems to notice.” She stopped, turning on her heel to face me. “It’s like, ‘oh, well, it doesn’t affect us because we’re not the ones being sent off to war.’ How messed up is that?”

“Very messed up,” I agreed. 

“Ugh,” Monroe said. “I hate this place.”

“Just one more year and then we’re gone,” I reminded her. 

“I have to call Sherry and tell her about this bull,” Monroe said. “Maybe she’ll have some idea of what to do next.”

“Yeah, I also promised a friend from home that I would call tonight,” I said. It was a lie, but it didn’t really matter. “I’ll take the third floor phone, if you want to take the second.”

“Hopefully Missy Kaufman isn’t hogging the phone again,” she said, rolling her eyes. 

We walked up to the second floor and found that, luckily, Missy Kaufman was nowhere in sight. I headed up to the third floor, pulling my coin purse out of my pocket and hoping I had enough for a short call. Tina Nakamoto was there, unlocking the door to her room. I waved to her and waited for her to go inside her room and shut the door before I put the coins in the payphone and dialed my parent’s number. I suppose I didn’t need to be so cautious around her, but it was a force of habit.

“Hello, Double Happy Restaurant,” my mom said in a monotone voice, the syllables forced through her thick accent.

“Hi, Mama.”

“Oh, Xiao An,” she said, switching to Mandarin. “I was just wondering when you would call.”

“How are you doing?” I asked in Mandarin, lowering my voice.

“Oh, tired, very busy, but making do,” she sighed. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” I said. “Just busy with school.”

“What? I can’t hear you.”

“I’m good. Just busy,” I said a little louder, looking around the hallway. 

“You need to study hard, Xiao An,” she said. “You know that.” 

“How are things there?” I asked.

“Okay. Same old, same old. This morning, your father and I came to the shop and some one spray paint the—the—”

“Graffiti?” I asked in English.

“Yes, they graffiti on the shutter. I write down because I want ask you what it say.”

“It’s probably just nonsense,” I said, slipping back into my whispered Mandarin. Her broken English felt more grating than usual. “They usually just write their names or something.”

“Ba!” I could hear her yell to my dad, switching back to Mandarin. “Where is the thing I wrote down?” A pause. “Baba is going to find it for me,” she said. “Ah, you know, today I saw Mrs. Gao—do you remember Mrs. Gao?”

“Yes, I remember Mrs. Gao,” I said. 

“Mrs. Gao told me that Mrs. Wang’s son—do you know Mrs. Wang?”

“Yes, Ma, I know Mrs. Wang,” I said, rolling my eyes. “What’s your point?”

“Well, Mrs. Wang’s son arrested because he went to this anti-Vietnam protest.” My mom clicked her tongue. “It’s so shameful. How could he do something like that to his family?”

“Maybe he was just trying to stand up for what he believes in,” I said, pointedly.

“Ai-yah. What’s the point in that? Mrs. Gao told me he might not be able to go to medical school now. He was going to be a doctor.”

“Of course he was,” I muttered.

“You know,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “These things are very dangerous. In Taiwan, the government killed many people just for protesting. One day, my neighbor went to a protest and never came back.”

“Mom, they wouldn’t do that here,” I said.

“They said the same thing there,” she said. “You must promise me you won’t do anything like that, okay?”

I felt anger boil up inside me. “What, do you support the war?”

“Of course I do,” Mama said. “You don’t know how scary communism is. My family lost everything. We only left for Taiwan—”

“With the clothes on your back, I know. You’ve told me that story a million times,” I snapped.

“Besides,” she continued. “I’m an American now, and I support my country. You know, your dad and I came here for a better life for you. We work very hard to let you go to that school.” 

“I know, Ma.”

“So that’s why you have to study hard.”

“I know, Ma.”

“Ah, here comes your dad,” she said. “Here’s what the spray paint—”

“Graffiti, Mom,” I said in English. 

“Yes, it said g, o, o, k,” she said, sounding out each letter carefully. “Do you know what that means?”

I felt as if the floor fell out from under me. I imagined what the word would have looked like scrawled on the rusted metal shutter. Did they know my parents? Or was it just based on the faded yellow awning reading, “Double Happy Take Out”, in that awful chop suey font? Would it have made a difference if the sign specified it was Chinese take out? If they saw my mom sitting behind the register on her black plastic folding stool, wearing her faded red apron, counting out change and trying her best to pronounce the “K” in “thank you, come again” like I reminded her to do, would they have seen her as American?

“Xiao An?” she said. “Are you there?”

“Yeah, yeah,” I replied. “The word doesn’t mean anything.” Of course, it meant something, but there was no point in telling them.

“Huh, so weird,” she said. “Anyway, after we close up tonight, your dad is going to paint over it.”

“He’s not up on the ladder is he? I told you, you should get someone to help you with that.”

“Ah, he’ll be fine.”

“Ma—”

“Don’t worry so much,” she said. “All you should worry about is studying hard, okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

“And no protests, okay?” she said with a laugh, as if the very idea of me going to a protest was a joke to her.

“Okay, okay” I said, ignoring the pit in my stomach. “I should go. I don’t know how many minutes I have left.”

“Okay,” Mama said. “Remember to call on Friday because Auntie Ling is coming to visit. She wants to talk to you about sending Stacey to your school for high school.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll talk to you then. Bye.”

She had already hung up the phone.

I collected my change and shuffled back to my room, my stomach still somewhere near my feet. When I opened the door, Monroe was sitting on her bed, scribbling furiously in her notebook.

“Jane! Thank God you’re back. I was talking on the phone with Sherry and I heard something big.”

Monroe’s eyes were bright and wide, the way they were when she was cooking up a plan. “She said that the students are holding a big strike tomorrow to protest Nixon expanding the war into Cambodia. Isn’t that exciting?”

“The students at Barnard?” I asked.

“No, it’s everyone. Like, students across the city. How exciting is that?”

“Very exciting,” I said, not feeling very excited at all.

“Anyways, I was talking to her and she said that high schoolers are doing it too,” she said. “We have to do something.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, afraid of what she would say next.

“We have to strike!” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Klose will never expect it here, but it’s all these rich people who are calling the shots. We need to bring the fight to their daughters. I know that Cindy Sanderson in the ninth grade’s dad is a senator. Imagine if we got her on our side!”

“I don’t know, Monroe. Have you ever even talked to Cindy Sanderson?”

“No, but it doesn’t matter. Sherry was saying that tomorrow is going to be a wake up call for the whole country. Nixon is going to realize he can’t just push young people around.”

“And what do you suggest we do?”

“I was thinking we walk out in the middle of first period so we attract the most attention and maybe do a sit-in at the administration building with signs and stuff. Or, what also might be cute, is something like a ‘sleep-in’ like we don’t get out of bed at all. Plus, I think people would want to do that because it means they get to stay in bed and then we can get those goons who otherwise don’t care about this sort of thing—”

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” I blurted out.

Monroe arched an eyebrow, the way she always did whenever she was annoyed. “What do you mean?”

“I just mean the protest thing,” I said. “I don’t know if it’s such a good idea.”

“Why not? We already agreed that we need to follow up on the armbands. This is our chance!”

“Well, it’s just—I don’t know how much we’re accomplishing by protesting here.”

“Our armband thing worked—”

“We only got to wear them for half an hour. I didn’t even get to finish my pudding before we got pulled out of dinner,” I said. “Plus, I don’t think anyone noticed we were wearing those arm bands for the first twenty minutes.” 

“So? We can’t just give up,” Monroe said. “We’re the ones who are right here.”

“I know, it’s just—”

“I mean, this is the future of our country—” Monroe paused. “And it’s, like, pan-Asian solidarity, right?”

We were both silent. I could tell that she knew she said the wrong thing.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” I said, quietly.

“Fine,” she snapped. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe there’s no point in trying to change people’s minds here.”

I grabbed my French textbook and notebook off my desk. “I’m going to go study in the common room.”

“I’m going to go to The City tomorrow,” Monroe announced.

“What?”

“You heard me,” she said, coldly. “I’m going to The City to protest with Sherry because apparently no one here cares about the blatant injustice happening in our country.”

“And how are you going to do that?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Walk to the train station, buy a ticket. Maybe I’ll just hitchhike— “

“You’re not hitchhiking.”

“Why do you care?” Monroe snapped. 

“Come on, Monroe. You know this is insane.”

“The only insane thing right now is the fact that Nixon is expanding the war into Cambodia—”

“Do you even know where Cambodia is?”

“Yeah, it’s next to Vietnam, dumbass. Not that you give two shits about it—”

“Okay,” I said, throwing my hands up. “Fine. Go to New York. Get yourself expelled. See if I care.”

“They’re not going to expel me,” Monroe said, with an irritating amount of confidence.

“Monroe, you are literally running away from school. If we got hauled into the Headmistress’ office for wearing some arm bands, you’re going to get expelled,” I said. “Trust me. Klose said they could take my scholarship away.”

“I am not afraid of the danger. If it means expulsion, it will not be the worst of expulsions—expulsion without honor.”

“Do not quote Antigone at me,” I said. “Seriously, Monroe, this isn’t a joke.” It was half an expression of anger and half a plea.

“I’m being serious,” she said. “Are you really going to sit by and let them do this?”

I could have thought of a million reasons. My mom, telling me to stay out of trouble. My dad, trying to scrub the graffiti off the shuttered storefront. The college acceptance letter, the one I had been dreaming of for years, the one that promised a different life. But all I could think of in that moment was Stacey, Auntie Ling’s daughter. Their family owned a dry cleaning business in Sunset Park, and now Auntie Ling wanted to send Stacey here, to Florence Grummold, presumably so that she would have all the same opportunities I was currently considering throwing away. 

I didn’t know Stacey particularly well, but I wasn’t going to mess things up for her.  

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I am.” I stalked out of the room with my books in tow, slamming the door behind me.

The common room was empty when I got there. I sat down and tried to do my homework but I couldn’t focus. I flipped on the TV and watched the evening news until the lights out bell rang. When I got back to the room, Monroe was already in bed, pretending to be asleep. I knew she couldn’t sleep with the lights on.

“Good night, Monroe,” I whispered, switching the lights off.


* * * * *


When I woke up the next morning, Monroe was already gone. Around lunchtime, I was called to Headmistress Klose’s office. A police officer, Monroe’s first-period English teacher, and Headmistress Klose were there, but I told them I had no idea where she had gone. I could tell that Headmistress Klose didn’t believe me. Even if I was mad at Monroe, I wasn’t going to rat her out.

The second day Monroe was gone, people started to notice. But there were bigger things to notice. For the next few days, most of the grade sat around the common room in the evenings, silently watching the news. Even Charity Ryan shut up.

The images were awful—crowds of angry students, of armored policemen, bombs, smoke, the bodies of the dead. They kept showing this one photo of a girl, crying over a college student who had been shot by the National Guard. She wore her hair like Monroe did. I felt my chest tighten.

“How could this have happened?” someone whispered. No one answered. 

Monroe wasn’t at school for a while. I heard rumors she had gotten expelled, which made me sad but also a little bit happy that I was right. It was like justice had been served, even though I knew it wasn’t justice at all. I spent the next few days in a numb fog of math class, choir rehearsals, and homework. I started sitting with Tina Nakamoto at mealtimes. We had been paired together for our Antigone scene study in drama class, and she had always been nice to me. She even let me play Antigone.

I hardly slept at night. I was angry at Monroe’s sudden departure, sad at the rapidly deteriorating state of society, numb to the way that life still seemed to move on around me despite it all. Underneath everything, I knew there was guilt. I told myself that maybe one day I would be able to stick my neck out like Monroe did. I just needed to lay low and do things right for a little bit, establish my footing a little bit more so that I wasn’t one small slip-up away from a one-way ticket back to Queens. Or maybe opinions were things that only adults were meant to express, since it seemed like every adult had an opinion about mine. 

These were the things I told myself and only half-believed. The other, growing half of me, the part that became more active as I lay awake at night, knew that I was—and would always be—a coward.

Scenes from the news played out in violent Technicolor dreams. Five days after Monroe left, I dreamt I was in Flushing, wading through a crowd of soldiers and Florence Grummold girls marching in sync to protest chants. I didn’t know why but I knew I was looking for Monroe. Up ahead, I saw a woman in a black turtleneck smoking a cigarette. I recognized her as Sherry from the pictures Monroe had pinned up on her bulletin board.

“Do you know where Monroe is?” I tried to ask, but the English wouldn’t come out. Instead, I was horrified to hear my words in my mother’s soft voice. “Monroe zai na li?”

Sherry sneered at me, flicking the ashes off her cigarette.

I woke up and stared at the ceiling for an hour until my alarm clock went off.


* * * * *


A week later, I opened the door and found Monroe, sitting on her bed, scribbling in her notebook.

“Hey,” she said, nonchalantly, as if she had only been down the hall.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Oh, man, J. You should’ve been there,” she said, breaking into a grin. Her eyes were wide the way they were whenever she was really excited about something. “It was unbelievable. There were so many people! I went with Sherry and her friends, and they were all so cool—”

“I meant with the school,” I said, flatly. “They called the police, you know.”

“Klose called my parents and I got a real earful from my mom on the drive back.” She smirked. “I just told her I was visiting Sherry because I want to apply to Barnard, so I don’t think she’s too mad about it.”

“And the school?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, are you in trouble?”

She shrugged. “I was suspended for a few days, which was fine because I just spent it with Sherry in New York.”

“But you’re not going to be expelled?”

Monroe laughed. “They would never do that to me.”

I was so angry I could barely speak. None of this was fair, but none of it was surprising either. The only surprise was how quickly I knew what I needed to do. 

I ran out of the room, slamming the door behind me. I ran down the hall, out of the building, feeling my feet pound against the sidewalk through my penny loafers that I knew had cost fifteen dollars because my mom had set aside from the register everyday for a month to help me buy my stupid uniform and stupid penny loafers. Monroe Schuyler never had to think about how much her penny loafers cost. I knew it wasn’t her fault, but I could feel the anger pulsing red-hot through my body, down my legs, to my toes.

I ran straight to Headmistress Klose’s office and knocked on the door.

Sarah Chin lives in Chicago, IL. A two-time Best of the Net nominee and a Best Microfiction nominee, her work appears in places like The Cincinnati Review, Electric Literature, Wigleaf, and SmokeLong Quarterly. Find her at sarahchin.net.