Graduates in Wonderland

by Jessica Pan

  Then the guy said something in Mandarin that I didn’t understand, so I asked the girl what he meant. She leaned forward toward the front seat, where I was sitting by the driver. In English, she said, “He said that he feels sorry for you.”

  I nodded and then stared out the window at the lush green fields thinking about Sam onboard a bus, driving away in the opposite direction.

  After boarding my plane in Kuala Lumpur, I stared at the back of the seat in front of me for a few hours. My mind was drifting off into random thoughts—­the abyss of sadness that awaits me, my itchy sunburn, the new magazine issue to plan, the sand in my armpits, and Sam’s soft kisses in the mornings—­when I realized, suddenly, fully, absolutely:

  Sam is everything on my Master List! He is sexy and kind and adventurous and smart and a good listener and he makes me laugh. He is it! He makes me feel safe. He makes me feel wanted. He has great hands. He even has dark hair. And he didn’t sunburn once! He even appreciates girly folk music. My heart raced.

  I almost looked around for someone on the plane to shake and tell the news! I found him! There was no one to tell, but no matter. I knew.

  And I know that Sam isn’t perfect. Sometimes he seems overly cautious or far too polite to everyone, even waiters who completely ignore us. Sometimes he thinks my never-­ending questions to strangers border on intrusive and he tries to step in and apologize on my behalf, which I find really irritating. And the biggest thing is that he seems to lack direction in his life right now, as he moves to Australia without a job or a plan.

  But when I think about how he always holds me tightly or the way his voice sounds when he says my name or his acute observations about everyone, I don’t care about any of the above. And didn’t I move to Beijing without a job or a plan? Even if there is someone better for me out there, I cannot imagine him. I do not even want him. I want Sam. I choose him.

  And then, with that settled, I felt the exhaustion that follows five days of steady sun, sea, and sex. I fell asleep and woke up in China.

  When I got home, I dropped my bags and looked at my empty apartment.

  Rachel, I know what I’m going to do.

  I’m going to move to Australia. I’m going to be with Sam.

  Love,

  Jess

  JUNE 7

  Rachel to Jess

  Australia! Malaysia? Australia? WHERE ARE THESE COUNTRIES?

  Are you really going to move to Australia? Wait, I just had a flashback to senior year when you announced you were moving to China, and I kept saying, “You’re not really moving to China...right?” I actually cannot believe that you are going to do this! What are you going to do there?

  Also: AUSTRALIA? You’re already so far away and you’re choosing the one place that’s even farther! Is part of this the fear of missing out on something really big? It’s a huge decision, but you sound so sure. You better not stay there forever, though. I don’t want your kids talking like that.

  I still have actual letters you wrote me from when you were studying abroad in Melbourne your junior year and I was in Paris! (Is this progress or regression?)

  But more important, I can’t believe you actually found someone who ticks everything on the Master List. Do you think we should tell Oprah? The most ridiculous thing is that Sam applied for that position! You posted an internship vacancy, and Sam sent in his résumé for the job. I’m still trying to wrap my head around this. I’m thinking of posting my Master List to Craigslist.

  I really can’t figure out if Olivier is right for me. He doesn’t seem to love my writing, because it would take him forever to read it; he’s shorter than I requested; he doesn’t want to live outside of France. But I do feel connected to him. Even now, when he’s been visiting his parents and I haven’t seen him in two weeks.

  We do have really good banter, finally. He loves to tease and I have to respond quickly in French to keep up with him, although it’s taken me a while to get to this point. And yet—­all talk, no action.

  I don’t think I’ve ever humiliated myself as much working on anything as I have humiliated myself in the aims of improving my French these past few months. Today, I went into a bookstore and bought a Marguerite Duras book in French, which I started to read on the Metro, for pleasure—­and it was pleasurable. The process of polishing this language is becoming less painful and starting to be fun. However, last week I made a fool of myself at the supermarket by labeling my oranges wrong even though it’s the same word in French and English (orange). I had just made a mistake. Some things just don’t change.

  Okay, well, I’m off to study more French. If you learn a language, and you have no French lover to share it with, did you really learn it at all?

  Australia?!?! Jess. Really?!?!?

  Love,

  A Dingo Ate My Baby

  (Sorry, that’s the only thing I know about Australia.)

  JUNE 9

  Jess to Rachel

  Why won’t Olivier just make a move already? Do you want me to call him? Let him know that there is no time to mosey about?

  I know this because I’ve been covertly researching journalism schools in Australia (yes, I’m really doing this!) and the next school year begins in six weeks (weird backward Australia system). Jesus Christ! When I found this out, I had a heart attack and then frantically called up the admissions officers, who assured me, in very strong Aussie accents, that I can still apply, but that I must get everything in before the end of the week. I’ve spent my nights writing essays for my application and cramming for the requisite news quiz everyone takes for admission. Really hoping China hasn’t blocked a major news event from the Internet, or else I may fail. What if something huge happened in Japan or Taiwan and I just don’t know because the nature of the event doesn’t agree with China’s official propaganda?!

  On the other hand, if I fail the news quiz, I can just blame China’s Internet censorship. Solution.

  And so, I’ve told my landlord I’m leaving and I finally had to tell Isla everything because she will be replacing me at work. Also, she’s from Australia and I knew she’d be full of wisdom about what journalism programs to apply to and where to live. We went to dinner and sat outside in a tranquil Chinese courtyard where she completely lost it when I confessed everything about (intern) Sam and me.

  She sat in shock before loudly protesting, “This is all a big joke, isn’t it? You’re totally fucking with me, right?” People in the restaurant stared at us. Isla didn’t believe me until I handed her my phone with a photo of tanned Sam and me sitting on a boat with the blue sea behind us. I tried to show her more, but she swatted me away as she studied the photo carefully, and then handed the phone back to me, proclaiming, “Well, then. You little minx.”

  She told me about the best places to go in Melbourne and she told me that she always thought Sam was a really good guy. I listened to her carefully, as if she were my own personal fortune-­teller.

  She also gets my job when I leave, so everyone wins.

  In the meantime, I talk to Sam on the phone—­there’s a two-­hour time difference between Sydney and Beijing, so after work every night, he calls me. I assume that most people in long-­distance relationships already know each other really well before undertaking this kind of thing, but we’re learning the basics about each other over the phone. I’m learning so much about him so quickly and yet I’m beginning to forget exactly what he looks like.

  It makes me sad that we’ve spent so many of our intimate conversations on the phone instead of lying in bed together. Other new couples can spend time together watching movies or talking nonsense while comparing hands in bed—­Sam and I don’t have this luxury, although I feel like I know him so well.

  I’ve decided that even though Sam lives in Sydney, I’m applying to the journalism program in Melbourne, which is an hour-­long flight away. I loved living in Melbourne during my year abroad and
have no desire to live in Sydney, and he understands this. Moving to Australia is such a big change that if I’m going to do it, I really want to choose the journalism program and the city that are best for me. Sam’s found temp work in Sydney but is planning to find a way to move to Melbourne sometime after I start my master’s program (if I get in). If I don’t get in, then I have no idea what I’ll do. Maybe move to the Chinese countryside to sell eggs, as I’ve always feared, because I’ll have no other options.

  I’m almost grateful for being forced to move this quickly with my life. If I had time to stand still, I might talk myself out of this, but it’s hard to change your plans when you’ve burned your bridges and are sprinting full speed toward your next destination.

  Yesterday, I was in a park and I saw a Chinese man out walking his birds. In each hand he held a birdcage as he strolled, showing the birds the park scenery before hanging the cages from a tree while he went to go socialize with his fellow bird-­walkers.

  I’m really going to miss this place.

  Love,

  Jess

  JUNE 10

  Rachel to Jess

  God, I can’t believe how fast everything’s moving. To be honest, I never knew when or if you would ever leave Beijing because you seemed so happy there. It’s almost surreal how quickly everything is changing and that you’ll be living on an entirely different continent soon if all goes as planned.

  And so much unknown is waiting for you there—­just this time last year, I was getting ready to go to France, and I had no idea that Sasha even existed, that French men are not all romantics who will immediately sweep you off your feet but also include a distinct subset of creepy men hitting on you in parks, that no matter how many times I proofread my French essays, I still make ten grammatical mistakes per page.

  But it’s over—­my first year—­and I have passed!

  I just saw my exam results and I passed all of my classes, with an A-­minus average! I am assuming some heavy pity-­grading was involved but am nonetheless relieved.

  To celebrate, a bunch of us went up north to Brittany the other day, to an old resort town on the coast where Jacques has a family house. That sounds grander than it was, but Sasha, Marc, Jacques, and I all stayed for the weekend. I was a little disappointed that Olivier had to work, but it was peaceful and calm without him—­I didn’t have to think about how I looked or if he was looking at me, or if he would try to get me alone.

  We were one block from the ocean, but it’s fall here and the temperature was already ridiculously cold. We couldn’t go into the water. Sasha and I would take long walks up and down the beach while the guys kicked around a soccer ball. I don’t know how guys, like toddlers or puppies, can be completely entertained just by giving them a ball to play with, but it seems like they always can.

  Take one guy from every country in the world, throw them together, and inevitably, you’ll find them playing soccer. Well, except for the token American guy, who will have to sit on the sidelines, cradling his football.

  Sasha and I were wearing sweaters and freezing, so we sat on a terrace at a café overlooking the beach. The waitress gave us a blanket and we huddled together.

  The little village was so quiet and all we could hear was the ocean (and the boys swearing) and I felt so far away from the life I had in New York almost a year ago.

  Sasha asked me if I ever miss New York. I hadn’t really opened up to anyone before about my life there. I started telling her about all the events from my time there that led to me being in France now. I hadn’t told anyone here about the car accident because it feels like it happened to someone else, but it was nice being able to share that with someone.

  I showed her the scar on my forehead and laughed uncomfortably, and Sasha understood that I didn’t want to get into it any further. You’d like her. She’s our kind.

  We talked about this for a while until the waiter came by and we ordered two more coffees.

  Then, to lighten the mood, Sasha brought up Olivier.

  “Too bad he couldn’t come this weekend,” she said slyly.

  “Yeah...” I said.

  “Everyone always loves Olivier,” she continued. “He’s so charming, girls just can’t help it.”

  “Oh,” I said. I had thought it was just me.

  “But he never talks about women. He never has crushes or anything,” she explained. “He’s dated a little, but never for that long—­I think his longest relationship was for like a summer back in high school.”

  “Are you sure he’s straight?” I asked.

  She laughed.

  “He’s definitely straight. At parties, I’ve seen him leave with women.” She didn’t directly say anything about my crush on Olivier, but I knew then that it was understood.

  She added, “Jacques and Marc keep asking, ‘What is his problem? Why doesn’t he make a move on Rachel? When are they going to get together?’”

  I ask myself this same question every day.

  Basically, the rest of the weekend was windy walks along the beach under gray skies. I slept in the room that used to belong to a little girl, so it was full of unicorns and flowered wallpaper and felt very 1950s French to me. In the mornings, I woke up before anybody else and went to get us coffee, croissants, and Nutella.

  Jacques would wake up and say, “You would be the best girlfriend ever.”

  I know, Jacques! TELL OLIVIER.

  Love,

  Rach

  JUNE 20

  Jess to Rachel

  How is this Tall Sasha so sure Olivier is straight if she has no real proof and he doesn’t date women? The evidence belies her statement. Maybe she has confused the words in English?

  Anyway, it’s official—­I got into my program in Melbourne! Did you know that Melbourne is the Paris of the Southern Hemisphere? Some people say it’s Buenos Aires, but they don’t know what they’re talking about. Maybe we’ll lead parallel lives in our respective Cities of Light. I’ll be a day ahead of you in Australia, so I’ll know everything that happens first. If you’re nice, I’ll tell you. You can pay me in bonbons.

  Oh God, this is really going to happen now.

  I know I’m going to miss Beijing’s unpredictability and weird charm (where else can I see a group of older Chinese people practicing Tai Chi in the park next to a sprawling construction site?), but I’m glad I’m leaving before I become a hardened expat. I’m always going to have a soft spot for this city in my life. This is where I sort of grew up. So many romantic mistakes.

  But I’m ready to go. Isla will take my job, and I trust her with the magazine. I trust that she will love it as I have and as Victoria did before me. I can’t believe I grew to care so much about it, but I really loved that job. Best summer camp ever. I told one of the mothers who I often work with that I was quitting, and she said, “You’re quitting your job? You’re twenty-­four, you run your own magazine, and you’re going to quit?” And then she looked at me like I was insane.

  I’m still going to do it, although another acquaintance told me offhandedly that she couldn’t believe I was the kind of girl who was going to follow a man all the way to Australia. When she said this, I didn’t even recognize myself in the comment. Then I felt stung. Despite the evidence that I am going to do this, am I the kind of girl who does this? This is an entirely different question. Here’s what I think, after some deep pondering: I do ALL KINDS OF STUPID SHIT (jumping into countless unexplored bodies of water, imitating Santa for thousands of Chinese children, dating an old man), and following the best guy I’ve ever met is actually one of the saner things I’ve ever done.

  I hope. If Sam had given me any hesitations about his affection for me or his integrity, then I wouldn’t know what to do, but right now, I believe in him.

  Besides, I don’t have time or room for doubts, because this is really happening now. When I get to Australia, am I goi
ng to forget all of my Mandarin and suddenly start talking like Isla? Not good. I’m going to call my sunglasses my sunnies and my chewing gum my chewy.

  I’ve started saying good-­bye to all of my closest friends in Beijing. I’m not throwing an elaborate going-­away party, because I wanted to say good-­bye to my friends privately and then sort of disappear from the rest of the Beijing scene without a fuss. Like if I slip away, no one will notice I’m gone.

  See you on the other side.

  Love,

  Jess

  JULY 18

  Rachel to Jess

  OMG CAN YOU COME HERE?

  SERIOUSLY, COME HERE.

  Olivier kissed me.

  He kissed me.

  Like most Saturdays, I met Olivier and Sasha at the café at the Swedish Institute for lunch and we sprawled outside on the terrace, where we drank super strong coffee, the best I’ve found in Paris so far (and the cheapest). Europeans don’t seem to be affected by caffeine; I get jittery after only two cups, whereas Sasha and Olivier had three cups and were still laid-­back and calm.

  We were talking about IKEA, which is what we always seem to talk about at the Swedish Institute, when Olivier abruptly changed the subject.

  “Whatever happened to the super tall Swedish guy from that party last week?” Olivier asked, still looking up, not meeting my gaze.

  “What Swede?” I asked.

  “That guy you were talking with on the stairs all night,” he said.

  “Anders?” I said. “He’s a filmmaker who has been shooting on location in Lyon or something like that for the past month. His girlfriend has the lead role and is very famous in Sweden.”

  He grinned. “Oh well,” he said.

  Then Sasha went up to get another coffee. Olivier and I talked about my family and how my sister is pregnant. His eyes focused on me, and I felt it again: his total attention on whatever I am saying, and his thoughtful replies. His bright blue eyes on mine. With him, it’s like conversing with your biggest fan, who also happens to be brilliant and handsome. So handsome.