My mother and I considered Faye the most beautiful woman in the world. Neither of us had ever seen anyone else carry such an ethereal face, either in China or in America. Faye was the epitome of cool. I didn’t care about Abercrombie logo T-shirts or milkshakes or Tamagotchis. When I wasn’t thinking about mermaids or swimming, I was thinking about Faye. My mother played her CDs to and from practice, Faye’s crooning accompanying our journey. When I recall the lactic acid cooldown of post-practice drives, I hear Faye’s slow yearning beats of nostalgia.
