An Echo in the City

by K. X. Song

Genres: YA Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Two star-crossed teenagers fall in love during the Hong Kong protests in this searing contemporary novel about coming-of-age in a time of change.
 
Sixteen-year-old Phoenix knows her parents have invested thousands of dollars to help her leave Hong Kong and get an elite Ivy League education. They think America means big status, big dreams, and big bank accounts. But Phoenix doesn’t want big; she just wants home. The trouble is, she doesn’t know where that is…until the Hong Kong protest movement unfolds, and she learns the city she’s come to love is in danger of disappearing.
 
Seventeen-year-old Kai sees himself as an artist, not a filial son, and certainly not a cop. But when his mother dies, he’s forced to leave Shanghai to reunite with his estranged father, a respected police officer, who’s already enrolled him in the Hong Kong police academy. Kai wants to hate his job, but instead, he finds himself craving his father’s approval. And when he accidentally swaps phones with Phoenix and discovers she’s part of a protest network, he finds a way to earn it: by infiltrating the group and reporting their plans back to the police.
 
As Kai and Phoenix join the struggle for the future of Hong Kong, a spark forms between them, pulling them together even as their two worlds try to force them apart. But when their relationship is built on secrets and deception, will they still love the person left behind when the lies fall away?

Release date: June 20, 2023

Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers

Print pages: 352

Sample

THE SCHOOL BELL RINGS. I ELBOW MY WAY INTO the jail-like corridors of Whitney American School Hong Kong, searching the mass of people for a blond head about a foot taller than the rest. Charlie shouldn’t be difficult to find as one of the few expat kids at Whitney, and the loudest one at that. Once, I overheard him asking a question in AP Chemistry, and I’m not even in AP Chem. I’m in normal Chem, which happens to be in the next room over.

Today, Charlie’s making himself scarce, much to my frustration. I take one more cursory scan over the crowd before heading out back to the football field. No sign of him there either. WHERE ARE YOU? I text. Charlie knows patience isn’t one of my virtues. I check my phone again.

Someone grabs my shoulder. “Charlie! Finally, you—”

It’s Osprei, my older brother. He raises a cool brow, cocking his head to one side. This is his signature move that makes everyone from middle school girls to old grannies swoon, but his charm has zero effect on me. I fold my arms across my chest.

“You’re not happy to see me,” he notes, using Cantonese slang.

I roll my eyes. “Your powers of inference amaze me,” I reply in English.

He scowls. “Inference?”

I’ve given myself a migraine from too much eye-rolling. “It means ‘teoi leon.’”

He still looks confused. Osprei may be a pro with the ladies, but his prowess in dating doesn’t translate to prowess in academia. He’s twenty-one and just barely passed secondary school. He’s now in year two of his associate degree and still trying to get into uni. At this rate, I’ll graduate before he does.

“Some of us don’t spend all our time watching American TV shows,” Osprei retorts, in English now. “Some of us have lives.”

“You should still be scoring higher than me in English,” I point out, “seeing as you were in the States longer.”

Although Osprei and I were both born in Hong Kong, we were raised in Cary, North Carolina, where Osprei got stuck with a southern drawl. (My accent comes straight from the set of Friends.) I spent all of elementary school in the US before moving back to Hong Kong when I turned eleven.

“But I guess my English is better than yours now,” I say with a shrug, smirking.

“Helps to have a white boyfriend.”

“Charlie’s not my boyfriend!”

It’s his turn to smirk. “For now.”

“What do you want anyway?” I ask, wrinkling my nose. “And why are you here? You better not be dating one of my classmates again.” I remember last year’s nightmare when Osprei asked out my badminton friend Melody, then promptly dumped her after a week. Melody hasn’t spoken to me since. (As if I have anything to do with my brother’s frivolity!)

“No way,” he says. “I’ve moved on to a more sophisticated crowd. I like a woman who knows what she wants.”

“A woman who knows what she wants wouldn’t want you.”

He flashes his signature crooked grin at me. God, we go to the same dentist, but I swear his teeth are whiter than mine. Another one of life’s injustices.

“You’ll see soon enough.” He yawns, not bothering to cover his mouth. “Mom wants me to drive you home. She needs Uncle Chow for Dad’s airport pickup tonight.”

Uncle Chow isn’t our biological uncle. He’s actually our family driver, but he’s been driving us for years, since as long as I can remember, so he’s more family to me than my real uncle. Than my real dad, even.

“Wait.” I perk up. “Dad’s coming home?”

Osprei presses his lips together, dismayed at my excitement. “He’s staying at a hotel tonight. He said he’ll stop by for dinner tomorrow.”

“Dad’s in Hong Kong and he’s staying at a hotel?” I shriek. Two pigeons and a football player turn their heads my way; I lower my voice. “Why doesn’t he just stay at home like normal? He can stay in the guest room if Mom doesn’t want…”

“Because nothing is normal, okay?” Osprei says through his teeth. “He said he doesn’t want to disrupt the family schedule. He’s probably heading off to New York the day after.”

It’s been a month since Mom and Dad filed for a divorce, and Osprei’s right, nothing’s been normal since. Mom’s been using the fake-polite voice she usually reserves for customer service 24/7. She also spent two thousand dollars on Zen meditation crystals, but that’s another story. Meanwhile, Dad’s disappeared off the face of the earth. He’s a businessman in the shipping industry, so although this isn’t new, the complete radio silence is disconcerting. It shouldn’t surprise me to learn that Osprei, the only and eldest son, has been receiving updates, while I, the middle child, have gotten nothing. Not even an obligatory “How are you” text. Not even a question re: my SAT scores. (Shitty. Don’t ask.)

Osprei’s phone chimes. “Let’s get outta here,” he says, scrolling through his texts. “Suki’s meeting us out front.”

I scan the schoolyard one last time to check whether Charlie’s materialized. No such luck. I guess he doesn’t need to know that I’ve just failed my SATs. On that matter, does Mom really need to know either? I shake my head and force myself to think of something else. “Who’s Suki?” I ask as we cross the atrium. I recognize some of my classmates gossiping on the front steps, probably comparing SAT results.

“You’ll see,” Osprei says, an annoying lilt to his voice.

Sure enough, when we get to the curb, there’s a girl waiting for us near Osprei’s car, leaning against the door holding a cup carrier with three bubble teas in one hand. She has pink and blue streaks in her hair and wears no uniform; instead, she’s in ripped jeans and Converse. She hands a jasmine milk tea to Osprei, who answers by kissing her on the lips, effectively answering all my questions in half a second. (At least he’s efficient?) I don’t bother introducing myself to her; all his girlfriends pass with the regularity of the seasons.

“Do you want one?” Suki asks in Cantonese. She offers me a taro milk tea, which I accept with bewilderment.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” I say, though taro is my favorite flavor.

Suki shrugs. “I work at a boba store. It’s free.” She shows me her gap-toothed smile, which is oddly charming. “My name’s Suki. I go to the University of Hong Kong but work down the street at Sharetea. Osprei offered to give me a ride to my afternoon class, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” I respond, before sipping my milk tea. Suki seems more mature than Osprei’s usual sort. For one, she actually attends uni, and two, she hasn’t called Osprei any pet names in front of his sister, a courtesy his previous exes didn’t afford me.

Suki turns to Osprei. “Make sure you’re on time tomorrow. The Guardian reporter said she’ll meet me at Starbucks at four o’clock sharp. I can’t be late.”

My head shoots up. “Did you say ‘the Guardian’?”

Suki pokes at the dregs of her boba with her straw and nods as if this is perfectly ordinary. “They’re doing a story on the pro-democracy protest movement.”

“But… what does that have to do with you?” I wince, and soften my tone. “I don’t mean that you’re not qualified—”

Suki laughs. “I get it. Why would some random first-year with pink hair be getting interviewed by the Guardian?”

So she is getting interviewed. I bite my lip, unable to mask my brimming curiosity.

“I’m helping organize the HKU student protest movement,” she says. “You should come by. We’re demonstrating this Sunday against the extradition bill. You might’ve heard of it?”

A few classmates have mentioned it, but truthfully, I haven’t paid the news much heed, what with my SATs coming up. “I know something about a man getting tried in China and that people are annoyed,” I say, flushing.

Suki gives me a wry smile. “Annoyed is an understatement.” She leans in. “People are fucking furious.” She tilts her head and points at me in a conspiratorial manner, and suddenly I understand why Osprei likes her. “And you should be too. Come on Sunday and learn more. It’ll be… educational. Your brother’s going.”

I turn my incredulous gaze on Osprei. “You are?”

“Why not?” he says nonchalantly. “Besides—”

“Nix!” Charlie runs toward us at last, his long legs taking the stairs two at a time. His blond hair is tousled and windswept, and his uniform collar creased and turned up. Charlie is just sixteen like me, but already six foot. It’s unfair, really. When we first met, we were the same height, but then I stopped growing, and he didn’t. I think he leached my growth spurt from me, like a tree that saps nutrients from its neighbor’s roots. (Charlie tells me my theory has no scientific basis. He’s clearly in denial.) “Sorry I’m late,” he pants, out of breath. “Mr. Yim held me back.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why?”

“Never mind,” he says in a rush, avoiding my gaze. “It doesn’t matter.” I’m about to press him further when he asks, “How’d your SATs go?”

“Well,” I adjust the strap of my backpack. “I—”

“Nix,” Osprei interrupts, jerking his head at the car. “Suki’s class starts soon.”

“Come with us?” I plead to Charlie. I need him as an emotional air bag for when Mom inevitably hears my test results and explodes. “I can tell you in the car.”

“Where are you going?” he asks. “And nice to meet you, I don’t think we’ve met.” He offers a hand to Suki. “I’m Charlie Henderson, Phoenix’s classmate.”

“Kwan Suki,” she replies. “To answer your question, they’re dropping me off at HKU. We’re also going to a rally on Sunday. You should come along.”

I nudge Charlie, jumping onto this subject change like it’s the last lifeboat off the Titanic. “Let’s check it out. It sounds interesting.”

Charlie looks reluctant. “I don’t know,” he hedges. “I’m taking my SATs soon, and there’s college prep.…”

I really don’t want to talk, listen, or even think about college prep right now. Not when it’s uncertain that I’ll even get into college. “This will be good material for your personal statement,” I tell Charlie. Suki snorts. “You can talk about having a life outside your grades.”

“Good point,” he acknowledges, though I was mostly joking. (Mostly.)

“So that’s settled,” Osprei says. “Let’s move.”

“Hey,” Charlie says after getting in the car, looking around at all the half-finished drinks in the cupholders. “Where’s my bubble tea?”

Suki suddenly seems not to understand English.

THE APARTMENT IS CLUTTERED AND BARE AT the same time. Cluttered with outdated newspapers, unrecycled beer bottles, rusted picture frames, convenience-store ramen. Bare of proper furniture, a dining table, even a lamp. It’s dim inside despite the scorching Hong Kong sun. The curtains are drawn, and dust accumulates on the sill, as if my father hasn’t bothered to crack a window in months. Years, even.

I set my solitary suitcase down by the front door, then remove my shoes. I dread the thought of living here alone with my father for the next day. For the next year. For the rest of my life.

So I just won’t think about the future.

The past still holds Ma, and Shanghai. It is hard to believe that I boarded a plane and left behind the mainland only yesterday. It is harder to believe that only a year ago, my mother still smiled at me, still told me she would never give me up. Well, Ma lied. I don’t blame her. These things run in the family.

According to my passport, I’m a Hong Kong citizen, born in Tung Wah Hospital a few blocks from this apartment. But by all other definitions, I’m Chinese. I’m reminded of this fact about every other second I spend on this island. From the traditional fanti characters stamped on the street signs, to the Mong Kok shopkeepers shouting at me in incomprehensible Cantonese. I barely understand it anymore.

I thought I could snap my fingers and go back to full fluency just like that. It was my mother tongue, after all. Strange that I grew up here when I have no memories of this place. Strange that I’m supposed to believe I’m a Hong Konger, that I belong here.

That the man in the picture frame is my father.

I glance back at the old photograph by the front door. As I stare at my father’s face, searching for some ounce of familiarity, all I recognize are those eyes, deep set and wide, dark as charcoal. I realize: It’s not because I recognize my father’s eyes. It’s because I recognize my own.

My bedroom is the size of a storage closet. I can barely fit my suitcase through the door. My few belongings—a wardrobe of monochrome shirts, a collection of sketchbooks and ink pens—are shoved in the bin under the bed. I don’t have much stuff. What I did have, I left behind in Shanghai.

Like Ma. I left her behind.

I sink down onto my new bed and pull out my phone, which was an expensive gift from Ma before she got sick, before the hospital bills went into the thousands. Mindlessly, I open WeChat. I go to my most recent chat thread, which features an avatar of a hedgehog. Ma.

Flew to Hong Kong today and moved into Father’s apartment, I write. His life looks quite lonely and sad. He’s definitely still a bachelor, as you guessed. At least he has an extra bed.

My message goes out into the void. I know it will never be read, and yet, pressing send relieves the weight on my chest.

From the plane, Hong Kong looks so small. It’s tiny compared to China. Now I think I get why you left. It’s the size of a prison cell.

I hunt through my photo gallery and send the picture of the sketch I made on the plane. It’s the first drawing I’ve attempted since Ma passed. The picture’s rough, with loose, sloppy lines, but Ma always liked my panoramic drawings. “You need to think bigger,” she would say, studying each piece with narrowed eyes. “Don’t get too bogged down in the details.”

Ma was always the real artist, the one with vision. I just like to copy things, to capture on the page what I see in real life. That way I don’t have to let it go. That way it will last forever.

But nothing ever does.

The hedges outside the police academy are perfectly coiffed, like the wigs of rich ladies. I hesitate before the glass doors, but they slide open for me easily, soundless in their judgment.

Inside, I wait for the elevator. My ears are hypervigilant; so are my eyes. At any moment, I could run into my father—for the first time in twelve years. He was too busy to pick me up from the airport, too busy to give me the key code to his apartment, which Neighbor Tao gave me instead. Work is his life; his life is work. So I guess it’s only natural he expects the same from me.

The elevator arrives and I wipe my sweaty palms on my trousers before pushing the button for the third floor. Seconds before the doors close, a hand shoots through the crack. I straighten, wondering if I will see my father at last.

Instead, a stocky, moon-faced boy with a silver earring shoulders in. “Sorry, in a hurry,” he pants in Cantonese. He presses floor three, never mind that the button is already lit. “You heading to the recruitment office too?”

I nod.

“Don’t be nervous, bud,” he says. “Oral interview’s a joke. The physical exam is where they weed out the losers.” He gives me a blatant once-over, appraising me like a car salesman. “Something tells me you won’t have trouble in that department, though.”

I tip my head but don’t respond.

“You don’t speak Canto?” he asks in Cantonese.

I shrug, still not facing him. “I prefer Mandarin,” I say in Cantonese.

“But your accent’s perfect! You must be a natural.” He grins and thumps me on the back. “Where’d you move from? Macau?”

“Shanghai.”

His grin fades. He removes his hand. “The mainland.”

The elevator chimes; I’m the first out.

In the recruitment office, there are two dozen other candidates sitting in neat rows like passive chess pieces. I’ve barely taken my seat to fill out the paperwork when an officer appears in the doorway.

“Marco Tsun Hei Wong?”

“That’s me,” the moon-faced boy says, tugging at his earring. The officer frowns at it before ushering him down the hall.

I look down at my application, filling in the appropriate boxes. Secondary School Graduation Date: 2019. Age: 17. Height: 1.83 meters. I hesitate before Name, the easiest of questions. Do I spell my name in traditional or simplified? Do I pronounce my name in Mandarin or Cantonese? Do I claim to be a native, or do I tell the truth about where I’m from?

“Zhang Kai En?”

A female training officer smiles at me, motioning for me to follow. I match her quick strides down the carpeted corridor, passing several rooms with interviews in progress. We cross through a common area, where I hear hushed voices issuing from the kitchen. One voice gives me pause.

I see him as we round the corner. His face is cast in shadow, but I can make out a defined jaw, salt-and-pepper hair. He’s tall, and there’s something about the way he carries himself, a slight tilt to his stance.…

My heart drops. I feel a swooping sensation in my stomach and remember I haven’t eaten anything today.

“We’re planning to send some of the trainees undercover,” the man drinking coffee next to him says. “The ones who can pass for uni students.”

My father says something so low I don’t catch it. His voice, a gravelly rumble, sounds like it does in my dreams.

“It’ll get worse before it gets better,” his companion responds. “Those protesters are like spoiled kids. They don’t know how to take no for an answer.”

My father turns toward the watercooler, toward me. He is a handsome man, there’s no doubt about it. Strong brow, deep-set eyes, high nose bridge. My hands itch to draw his profile on paper, render it with acrylics, or maybe oils if I could afford them. I want to use color for his lips, which are thin and curved and dark, so dark they’re almost purple. His skin is tan, weathered and darkened from sun. There’s a scar on his neck, and his veins are greenish blue. Yes, I think, I would use color for this portrait.

Then I recall my mother’s face, the memory trailed by a stab of guilt. I always thought Ma was beautiful, in the way every child admires their mother, like sprouts turning toward the sun. She was called homely by most, even my grandmother, but she never minded much. She thought looks were only useful in what they got you, never of any value in themselves. I remember a nosy shopkeeper who kept eyeing us together, who claimed Ma was lucky for having such a handsome son.

“Where did he come from?” the shopkeeper asked. “He looks nothing like you.”

Ma didn’t answer. But now I know: I look like my father.

The interviewer taps me on my shoulder. “Zhang Kai En?”

Father hears my name and turns. I watch the cool appraisal in his face, the lowering of his brows. It’s an expression I can’t place until I’ve walked into the interview room. That’s when I realize what it is. Indifference.

He doesn’t give a fuck about me.

Numbly, I sit in the lone folding chair before a panel of four officers. I can barely see their faces through the blur of their matching caps and uniforms. In my clouded vision, they all look the same. They all look like my father.

“Let’s start with an easy one. Why do you want to become a police officer?”

Heat creeps up my neck. Why do I want to become a police officer? It’s a stable income, I guess, solid health insurance, a way to pass the days. It’s also what my father asked me to do. “Asked” is a misnomer. He didn’t exactly leave me a choice, did he?

“My father is an inspector with the Police Tactical Unit,” I say, my voice hoarse.

The man on the left leans forward. “Who’s your father?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” the woman says. “Look at him. He’s the spitting image of Officer Cheung.”

Murmurs go around the panel. I can tell by their eager expressions that Father is respected here, revered even. Oddly, I envy them. I wish I could respect my father too. But I don’t know him. “He’s always impressed upon me the importance of the police force.” My father and I have never had a real conversation. “So I’ve always wanted to become a police officer, like him.”

The lies feel like sandpaper on my tongue, rough and abrasive. I wanted to be an artist, like my ma. But Ma wasn’t an artist, not really. She was a public restroom cleaner, a sanitation worker, a waitress when times were good. She worked three jobs to put me through art classes. After she passed, Grandma admitted that Ma used her medical stipend for my art supplies. So I guess she died so I could make a stupid surrealist oil painting that explores the nuances between adolescence and the uncanny. And I was naive enough to think that stuff actually mattered.

So I grit my teeth and lie. I lie and I lie and I lie.

Marco finds me after the interview. “Kai, is it?” he asks. His silver earring has disappeared. “How’d your interview go?”

I start for the exit; he follows me. “How do you know my name?”

“Everyone’s talking about you. Your dad’s one of the big shots, right? Officer Cheung.” He grins. “He’s a celebrity around here, but of course you already know all about that.”

The elevator’s stuck on floor two. “We’re not close.”

“Hmph,” Marco says. “Well, he took down a human trafficking ring a decade back. It’s practically legend. That’s how he got the—” He motions to his neck. “One of the triad bosses tried to strangle him with a chain. They say he doesn’t back down, ever.”

I decide to take the stairs. Of course, Marco follows.

“Maybe with your dad’s connections, you could even get us the undercover gig,” he continues, panting as he keeps pace with me. “Apparently, they’re selecting the top trainees to go undercover as uni students. How fun would that be?”

I shove open the exit door at the base of the stairs, squinting against the afternoon light. Even the sun feels brighter here than in Shanghai, though maybe that’s only due to the lack of smog. It’s a beautiful day, and I resent Hong Kong for its beauty. I wonder—would Ma have lived if she’d stayed here? She would’ve had health insurance at least.

“I took acting classes back in primary school, you know.” Marco is still rattling on next to me, but I find my irritation subsiding. As we leave the police academy, the tension in my shoulders dissipates. “We could pretend to be intellectuals, studious nerd types,” he says, laughing. He clearly sees himself as the opposite.

“You could start by running your mouth less,” I tell him.

He snickers. “Touché. Maybe you’ll be the nerd on your own. I’ll be the jock, what do you think?” He flexes his bicep. “All the ladies will come running.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”

“You’re right,” he sighs, sounding rueful. “Rule number one about undercover: no g. . .