Not Too Early
By Yimi Lu
The intersection was wrong.
I looked down at the address on the slip of paper in my hand, then back up at the street signs. I must have gotten off the bus too early.
It was late spring in Shanghai. The plane trees along the road were in full leaf, quietly hanging above the traffic. A fruit shop at the corner displayed fresh strawberries and cherries marked with a bright sale sign, alongside three kinds of apples with slightly different shades of red and two kinds of bananas. I paused for a moment. It was not the shop near my home. The owner was a middle-aged man; back home, it was run by a younger woman. Still, the sweet scent of the fruit eased my nerves.
I kept walking.
Two blocks later, a thin layer of sweat had gathered at the back of my neck. When I finally stopped in front of the immigration administration building, the glass doors opened automatically before I could hesitate. Cool air washed over me. Inside, everything seemed to flatten into shades of gray. The granite floor, the pale walls, the cold white lighting.
The security guard did not greet me. He looked at me for a moment, as if weighing something.
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen.” I said it quietly, unsure whether sixteen was an answer that would be accepted.
“What do you need?”
“Hum. I.” I stopped, the word stuck in my head. He was standing close, close enough that I could hear the soft sound of his uniform as he moved. I took a breath. “Passport. I want to apply for a passport.”
“First time?”
I nodded.
He leaned past me to press a few buttons on the machine. A slip of paper slid out with a mechanical sound. He handed it to me without looking again.
“Sit and wait until your number is called.”
The doors opened behind me as someone else entered. His attention had already shifted.
It was a weekday afternoon. The hall was not crowded. I chose a seat in the middle row. The metal was colder than I expected. I sat down anyway, careful not to do anything wrong.
My number was only five away.
I kept my eyes on the row of service windows. To the left, a man spoke impatiently to an elderly woman, his voice sharp even from a distance. To the right, a young woman smiled as she spoke to her client, her tone light, almost warm.
I found myself hoping, without a clear reason, to be sent to her.
When my number was finally called, it was her.
I walked up and said, “I’m here to apply for a passport.”
She took the slip from my hand and nodded. “Please fill this out.”
I looked down at the form. Name, address, identification number. I bent over it and wrote carefully, my hand unsteady. She explained each section as I went, her voice steady, unhurried.
“Where will you be traveling?”
“Singapore,” I said.
I did not tell her that I had only learned two days ago that I needed a passport to leave the country. I did not tell her that I was supposed to take my first SAT exam there in less than two weeks.
I handed over my ID card and household register. For a moment, it felt as if I had placed my entire life in her hands.
“I’ll be right back,” she said.
While she was gone, my leg began to shake under the desk. I tried to stop it, but it kept moving anyway, like a broken metronome. I stared down at the pen, replaying what I had written, as if something might suddenly be wrong.
She returned a few minutes later and handed everything back.
“It will be ready in five business days.”
“That’s it?” I blurted out.
She smiled. “That’s it.”
I gathered my documents, still a little dazed, and stood up. On my way out, I glanced at the security guard and gave him a small smile. I wasn’t sure if he noticed.
Outside, the sunlight fell over me all at once, warm and weightless after the cold inside. I took a breath and, without thinking, began to hum a tune from a pop song.
A week later, I picked up my first passport. A year later, I started college in the United States.
I got on the shuttle and did not get off too early.
Bio: Yimi Lu grew up in Shanghai and now pretends to settle in Northern California. She writes about people who don’t say what they mean. By day she builds code; by night she disassembles herself to see what remains. Her work appears or is forthcoming in MoonPark Review, Bright Flash Literary Review, among others. Find her at https://www.yimiwriting.com
Author’s Notes: The flash fiction is based on my true story of realizing I didn’t even have a passport before my first international trip, heading to Singapore for the SAT. I could not remember how I felt. I had no bandwidth to feel afraid or anxious, as my whole mind was working on how to make it work. Looking back, I feel like I can never be braver than my 16-year-old self, and I hope that courage can stay with me when I need it now and in the future.
