Ma and I went out to the park again. This time the objective wasn't a biological endurance test in toxic air. We were on a hearts-and-minds mission: fulfilling our quota of neighborly socialization.

  According to Ma's Field Manual, a "good reputation" was built on the backs of talkative grandmas. She didn't seem to realize that our family's standing in the community had been KIA (Killed in Action) years ago, ever since "The Experiment" left a ginormous crater in the park that the city council still hasn't forgiven us for.

  We entered the Hot Zone, scanning the perimeter for high-value targets.

  "Target, three o'clock," I whispered, spotting a flash of white afro-hair on a bench.

  Ma adjusted her imaginary goggles. "Job well done, Probie. Initiate approach. Keep it tight."

  We moved in. Grandma Mong was the Boss Level of neighborhood grandmas. She was decked out in "urban camo"—rings on every finger, earrings the size of satellite dishes, and heels that clicked against the pavement like a countdown timer.

  When I was five, I'd asked why she was always so flashy. She'd smiled that wrinkly, tactical smile and said, "My extraction date is coming up, child. Might as well travel first class."

  I didn't understand the "extraction" part until the grandpa across the street got his own permanent orders to leave the neighborhood last year.

  We sat down, flanking her. Grandma Mong looked us up and down with the practiced eye of a veteran scout. "My, my. What do we have here?"

  Ma gripped Grandma Mong's hand, establishing a secure link, and delivered the payload.

  "Mong Ma. I think I've introduced my daughter to you before." Ma gestured to me and I bowed. Grandma Mong nodded.

  "Mong Ma," she said, her voice steady as a sniper's breath. "My child is very popular. I am worried. Strangers flock around her like a pasar malam."

  Ma said it so calmly too, like a fact, like weather, like something already decided.

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  I maintained my poker face, though my brain was screaming. Negative, Commander! The only people lining up to see me were the teachers, and they weren't looking for autographs—they were looking for the most efficient way to beat me upside down.

  But I didn't say anything then. I just sat there patiently, listening to Ma blabber about my fictional popularity. I waited until we were home, until the door clicked shut behind us. I took a nice bath and sat at the kitchen table, replaying the conversation. Had it boosted our nonexistent reputation at all?

  "Ma," I said, without filtering my next sentence. "That thing you told Grandma Mong? It's wrong."

  The temperature of the room dropped by a degree.

  Uh oh. I used the wrong last word.

  Ma paused. Just a fraction of a second. Enough for me to notice.

  Wrong was not a word people used with Ma. Not safely.

  She turned slowly, studying me the way she studied cracked fruit at the market. Not to see if it was broken, but to see if it could still be sold.

  "What did you hear?" she asked.

  I repeated it. Every word. I didn't dress it up. Didn't soften it. I just handed it back to her exactly as she'd handed it to the world.

  For a long moment, she said nothing. The kettle clicked as it cooled. The house settled around us, old wood sighing.

  Then Ma laughed.

  Not the sharp kind. Not the kind that cuts. This was softer. Almost fond.

  "Oh," she said. "Is that so?"

  She moved past me, unhurried, pouring herself a cup of tea she hadn't boiled yet, muscle memory doing the work. She leaned against the counter and finally looked at me, really looked at me.

  "You know," she said, "I wasn't wrong when I said it."

  I frowned. "But it's not true."

  She took a sip of empty tea, as if it tasted of something real. "Truth isn't the point."

  Truth... isn't the point?

  "In order to successfully con a person," she said at last, "they must first con themselves."

  I stared at her. The kitchen felt smaller, the yellow light of the bulb suddenly harsh. That... that makes some sense?

  "If they want it to be true, it will be," she continued. "All I did was give them the permission they were already looking for."

  Something shifted in my chest. Not fear. Not yet. It was something colder—the sound of a door locking. My stomach knotted, my spine prickled, and for a moment my hands rested heavily on the table, waiting. My palms were slick, my breath caught for a fraction of a second.

  "So you knew," I said. "You knew the popularity thing was a lie."

  Ma took another sip of her cold, unboiled tea. Her face was a mask of serene, unbothered wisdom. But I knew the truth: inside her head, she was currently quietly congratulating herself for sprouting profound wisdom by accident.

  I nodded.

  Not because I agreed. Not because it made sense. But because I knew better than to argue with a lesson she had already decided I'd learned.

  And because, deep down, part of me realized I was nodding on my own. My stomach tightened. And that made me uneasy.