I think I'm one of the rare teens who has a really good relationship with my parent. To be fair, I was only really close with my dad, but, hey, one half wasn't bad. It was better than a lot of teens. But getting delivered to your front door by the police and having them tell your dad that you were arrested for fighting puts a strain on the relationship. Especially when it's the fourth time in a month

            "You said you wouldn't do this anymore." He peered at me from over his steepled fingers. "You said you were going to stop fighting." A dull weariness had crept into his voice and posture.

            My eyes prickled. "I tried. I really tried not to. But I can't control it!"  I pressed the heel of my hand to my chest as an uncomfortably pressure built there. My father looked at my cautiously. "Don't worry. It won't come out. Not here."

            He rubbed his eyes with his hands. "I can't take this anymore. This is the fourth time this month alone. Can you just try to avoid people who make you angry?"

            "No." I rubbed my chest again. "Can I just go to bed? It's been a long day." My stomach growled. "Actually, can I eat first? I missed dinner."

            "I hope you like cold pizza," Dad said, "because that's all you're getting." I walked into the kitchen and pulled open the box. Almost the whole pizza was left.

            "Haha! Sweet," I said. My dad looked mournfully at the remaining pizza as I shoved half a slice in my mouth.

            "There's not going to be any leftovers, are there?" he asked. I crammed the rest of the slice in my mouth and moved on to the rest of the box.

            "No. I might need more, actually." I looked doubtfully at the rest of the pizza, but I couldn't stop eating. "You got any ice cream?"

            He looked at me with an expression between amusement and weariness. "Kid, you are going to eat us out of house and home."  I finished off the pizza and pulled a string of cheese from the bottom of the box and ate it. "There's more ice cream in the freezer."

            There was a pint of chocolate chunk on the bottom of the freezer. I pulled it out, as well as the biggest spoon we had, which was the side of my hand. It was a struggle to get it into the container. "Sorry," I muttered unapologetically. My stomach was growling.

            Dad smiled wearily at me. "I understand." I crammed most of the spoonful into my mouth, struggling not to choke on it. "Easy, catfish. Don't choke."

            "Mmm," I mumbled through the spoonful. Catfish. Most dads have cute nicknames for their daughters, like pumpkin or sweetheart or something. My dad calls me catfish.

            The story behind it is that when I was little, my favorite fish in out fish tank was the little catfish. It still fit even after we got rid of the fish because I swam like one. Still, he could have given me a more attractive nickname. Catfish weren't that attractive.

            The rest of the ice cream tumbled out of the container and fell onto the table. I stared at it. "Oh." What I really wanted to do was put my face in it and start eating, but I got the idea that my dad would not approve. Carefully, I scooped it back into the container, then crammed most of what remained into my mouth. "You want any?" I offered my dad the last meager scraps of the ice cream.

            He sighed, but a thin smile lifted the corners of his mouth. Dad looks like me, except that he's a dude. We have the same, slanted eyes, almost black, though mine can look dark brown in the right light. Our hair is thick and black, though mine is far longer than his. He's got a tattoo of a Chinese dragon, his symbol on the zodiac as well as mine, winding around his arm. Dad's more tan than I am, though. I'm pale as milk.

            "I'm going to bed," I muttered, standing. Dad put a hand on my shoulder, comforting and steadying. "Goodnight, Dad."

            "Goodnight catfish," he said. He hugged me, then kissed my forehead. "I'll see you tomorrow."

            I hugged him back. "Sorry," I said, but I was talking to his chest and in a whisper, so I don't think he heard me. 

            When I was released, I headed for the stairs. My room was big, the second biggest bedroom in our four bedroom house. I was an only child, so I got the pick of the lot. It was sky blue and cream all over, with a massive Chinese zodiac painted on the ceiling. Only the dragon was in color.

            My family was big on the celebration of our culture. I was Chinese and so were both of my parents. My dad was far more traditional than my mom; I wasn't even sure she believed most of this stuff. I believed, to an extent.

            My stomach growled and I groaned, falling back on my bed. I wasn't hungry anymore. I felt uncomfortable, almost sick. Sighing, I pressed my face into my pillow, slipping into a sugary coma.

            Shouting woke me next. My mom was howling at my father, who was yelling back with equal volume. Their words were indistinct, but it wasn't hard to guess what they were fighting about, because it was what they always fought about: me.

            I crept out of my room, then walked to their bedroom door. "I don't care!" Mom yelled. "We need to do something!" Her voice broke with desperation.

            "Sending her away won't help her! She needs her family! Especially now that-" My dad's voice lowered until I could no longer hear it, but I was to horrified to care. Send me away? But...

            The urge to be sick hit me with an unexpected force. I clamped a hand over my mouth. Oh, please no, not here, not now.

            I sprinted for my room. The urge to be sick was fading fast, but the urge to sob my eyes out was quickly replacing it. They couldn't send me away. They couldn't.

            As you might guess, sleep was hard to come by that night. After what felt like a couple of decades, my dad knocked on my door. "Mai. Get up. Come on." He walked into my room and shook my leg gently. "You need to wake up sometime."

            "I'm awake," I muttered, staring at the ceiling. "Dad?"

            He looked at me curiously. "Yes?"

            It was tough to get the words out. "I am sorry for the fighting. It's hard to control it sometimes." He nodded.

            "I know, hon, I know." He rubbed my head. "Come on. You have to get up."

            My stomach growled loudly, sending a pang of gnawing hunger through me. "Okay." We walked into the kitchen and I grabbed some cold cereal. After a few bites, I was feeling better, more comfortable and confident enough to bring up what I'd heard. "Dad? I know of heard what you and Mom said last night."

            "What did you hear exactly?" Dad asked. He sat in his seat, across from me.         

            "You want me to send me away," I muttered. Dad shook his head. "I heard Mom say it."

            "She was upset when she heard the news. But she doesn't really want to send you away." He stared down at the table nervously for a minute. "You're sure you can't control it?"

            "Not really. If I get upset enough, it just comes out. I can't help it." As if to confirm my words, I felt it shift inside me. I put a hand to my mouth, swallowing hard. For years, my life had been something of a mess, controlled by the fact that there was a Chinese dragon living inside me.