My Summer of Love and Misfortune

by Lindsay Wong

  “How old is my cousin?” I ask.

  He ignores my question.

  “Too much partying, too American,” he finally says, staring at me with such heavy-hearted disappointment. “You will go to Beijing next week. You will think about your mistakes. End of discussion.”

  “I’ve never been to Beijing! I don’t even speak Chinese!” I protest, even though my dad knows all this about me. My voice seems shrill and tinny-sounding.

  “You’ll learn to be Chinese,” my dad says matter-of-factly.

  My dad has never spoken so forcefully before. I don’t recognize his tone. What the hell does “learn to be Chinese” even mean?

  “How long do I have to stay there?” I whimper.

  No response.

  “When can I come home?” I say again.

  Zero response.

  “I can come home, right?” I’m practically yelping now. I sound just like my mother when she freaks, exactly like an oversize Chihuahua.

  True, desperate panic eclipses me, like I’m about to fall off a roaster coaster ready to derail. How can this even be possible? How can my dad be kicking me out of my home and sending me to live in a strange country with strange people???!!

  I have so many questions, but my dad has picked up a random magazine and he’s flipping through last month’s Teen Cosmopolitan, as if he’s fascinated by the articles and glossy photos. I don’t think he’s even reading about eyeliner or summer beach bronzer, but he won’t look up.

  Zodiac Goats are not supposed to have secretive personalities. They can be stubborn, but they are usually gentle, docile farm creatures. So how can my dad have kept his entire Beijing family a secret? Who exactly is my dad? And who is this uncle I’ve never heard of?

  Most importantly, what will happen to me?

  8

  Who Am I?

  “Don’t you love me anymore?” I ask my dad in the nearly empty parking lot of the strip mall.

  He looks a little bit taken aback. It should only take a few seconds for him to respond in the affirmative. After all, I’m his only child. That I know of.

  “Answer my question!” I shout like a malfunctioning surround-sound speaker. Due to the tragic absurdity of the past seventy-two hours, it could actually be that I’m a contraption made out of metal, lip gloss, and wires. I don’t know who or what I am anymore.

  “Don’t you love me??!” my dad bleats back in the strip-mall parking lot, his eyes twitching agitatedly.

  At least I know where my involuntary eyelid spasm comes from. I must have learned this truly shitty habit from my dad.

  “You answer my question first!” I yell. How hard is it for him to say YES??!!

  In automatic response, my right eye suddenly winks excitedly back at him. Like I’ve told a very funny, parent-inappropriate joke. I’m horrified and devastated that my dad can’t answer this simple question.

  A car driving out of the parking lot honks its horn angrily. Someone sticks their head out the window and shouts at us. Apparently, we are blocking the entrance of the parking lot. We quickly move to the side, and a Ford Buick nearly backs into us. If one of us were to get hit by a car, would Beijing still be a possibility?

  “Why are you winking at me?” my dad asks as we stand safely beside our Volkswagen. “Is it because you don’t love your mommy and daddy?”

  “Why are you winking at me?” I shoot back. “You started it!”

  “I did no such thing!” my dad exclaims.

  He looks as if I’ve just insulted his favorite baseball team, the New York Yankees. He pauses. Both of his eyes blink enthusiastically this time, like they’re having a nonstop dance marathon. Is that what I look like? No wonder Samira ran away. No wonder Peter looked so scared of me.

  No wonder no one loves me, including my own father.

  Finally, my dad says, “Iris, just get in the car! We are going home NOW.”

  “Fine,” I say, “but to be clear, are you sending me to Beijing because you don’t love me anymore?”

  Silence.

  “Get in the car, Iris.”

  I need to figure out how to change my dad’s mind about Beijing. Is blackmail an authentic possibility? Tears and guilt-tripping don’t seem to be working. Jumping into the passenger side, I slam the door. I start sniffling again and passive-aggressively blow my nose into my father’s extra jacket, which is lying on the floor at my feet.

  As we drive through the suburbs, I sneak a quick sideways peek at my dad. He looks both shocked and red-faced at the same time. He’s gripping the steering wheel and driving a little bit too recklessly. Normally, he’d be anxious about running a four-way stop, but I don’t think this is the time to mention it.

  In reflex, I check my reflection in the passenger mirror and gasp. I don’t even recognize myself. I look blotchy and Shrek green. My dad and I both seem to be exceptionally ugly criers. We’re never cried in tandem before! But at least our hands and feet look amazing for a discount combo mani-pedi of $24.99 each. I can’t help admiring my new lilac-colored nails. Maybe I should have gone with Fresh Minty Green to match my new permanent complexion.

  My dad’s left eye twitches, and I’m suddenly furious at him again.

  If he loved me, how could he have not told me about my China relations?

  If he loved me, I wonder how many other times he would have lied to me in the past seventeen years?

  Eyes, nose, and mouth watering, as if I’ve ingested an entire jar of chili peppers, I side-stare angry-intently at my dad. His knuckles grab the wheel tighter and tighter, and his face is pale and scrunched up like a Shar-Pei’s neck. And that’s when I realize that it all makes sense now. I must not even be his biological daughter!

  Both my parents are tall and freakishly hairless, while I am somewhat petite and excessively hairy, particularly under times of duress.

  All my life, I knew that I was supposed to be born to rich, famous, jet-setter parents. I’ve always known that my real mom must be a socialite or a renowned beauty queen. And my dad must be a famous actor or an aristocrat of a small to medium-size country.

  Then a shocking thought occurs to me: What if I’m not even Chinese? I could be Korean, Malaysian, or even Thai royalty!

  What if I was kidnapped at birth and my actual parents are still scouring the globe for me? The thought of my real mom and dad missing me brings actual tears to my eyes. I begin sniffing from the fact that I could be bringing deep, authentic pain to the people who birthed me.

  Hearing my messy, snot-waterfalling sniffles, my dad makes some kind of barn animal grunt in return, but he still doesn’t speak or look at me. I wipe my nose and stare closely at his features to see if there is any resemblance.

  Rain starts splashing nonstop across the windshield. The suburbs look small and depressing as usual, but with another pang, this time across my chest, I realize that I suddenly don’t want to leave New Jersey. I’ve always said that I wanted to leave my gray neighborhood of matching McMansions, but I’ve never traveled out of the country by myself. I was supposed to spend the summer gallivanting around Europe with my boyfriend. We were supposed to live off true love, perfectly rolled blunts, and music festivals. I was not supposed to be exiled to a strange country that I know nothing about.

  Self-pity hurts more than lactose intolerance, pink-eye, and tooth decay combined.

  Don’t be pathetic, Iris, I tell myself. You caused this mess. Now you have to fix it. You just need to find your real parents.

  When we finally reach our house with the missing garage door, my fake dad suddenly slams on the brakes. I lurch forward in surprise and nearly bash my head on the dashboard. Luckily, I pull backward before any real damage is done.

  “Who are you, Iris Wang?” he asks. “Who are you and where is my daughter?”

  “Are you even my real dad?” I shout back, and he looks so shocked by my outburst. I’ve never used such a harsh tone with him so many times in one night. I’m honestly surprised by it myself.

  I pause,
as if choking on my own tongue.

  “What if I’m not actually made for Yale? What if I’m not made for college?” I continue.

  My words are like stomping on his American dream with my imaginary five-inch $3,000 Jimmy Choo stilettos. The most expensive, glittery pair that I dream of owning one day. For seventeen years, I’ve been his only life purpose. But how do you tell your dad that his sole reason for living is a friendless, hopeless mess with massive credit card debt?!

  Suddenly, my dad’s face crumples like a red-and-purple balloon. Both of his eyelids start winking at triple speed. Mine start imitating him on automatic. Soon it’s like an Olympic ping-pong competition between my right and left eye.

  Which eyelid is winning?

  And in an epic staring contest against my father, would I win?

  Frustrated, I leap out of the passenger seat. I’m so upset that I barely notice the shiny white BMW parked beside us. There’s a sharp ferocious scraping sound of metal digging into metal as my door screeches across the other car. It sounds irreparable. It sounds expensive. Two wrecked luxury cars in less than seventy-two hours. Shit. Why am I never careful around motor vehicles?

  “Iris Weijun Wang!” my dad exclaims. He also runs out of the car to examine the damage. “Whose car is it?”

  “Does it matter?” I yell. “Are you going to send it to China too?”

  I’m way too afraid to look at the damage, so I run inside to the kitchen and nearly collide with my mom, who is making a fresh pot of coffee.

  “I don’t know how to fix it,” I wail at my mom, almost too distressed to notice the coffee and that she’s wearing her third-best cashmere cardigan and matching pearls on a Sunday night.

  All I can focus on are my head and heart aching with the horrible, churning news that she wants to send me away. I thought that being unwillingly sent abroad for cultural immersion only happened to adolescents in old-fashioned, pre-internet days. In medieval times, disappointing young people were sacrificed to find new lands and win world wars. But in the twenty-first century, isn’t it just cheaper and safer to learn about one’s ancestry through a home DNA testing kit?

  “I’m sorry for everything,” I blurt out. “I’m so sorry!”

  Instead of commiserating or apologizing in return, my mom shushes me. But her face softens, like cream cheese at room temperature. She looks genuinely taken aback by my tears and reaction. She looks like she’s struggling with what to say: confusion, heartbreak, regret, sadness, and terror flash across her features like a three-episode miniseries. Can she forgive me and just let me stay in New Jersey?

  “What are you doing home so early?” she whisper-yells instead. “Samira and her parents are here. They have very big college news to share.”

  9

  Selfie!

  For a moment, I can’t think. I can’t breathe. Is it possible for my head to combust from stress, shock, and fatigue? I can see the headlines on social media: 17-Year-Old Girl’s Brain Explodes from Bad News. Too Much Stress Caused a Nuclear Reaction. Government Passes Law in New Jersey that Bans College Season.

  I heard that small children can die of fright, so why can’t teenagers drop dead from an overload of shitty, tragic news?

  After all, our brains and bodies are still developing too.

  “Why is Samira here?” I manage to whisper. “Couldn’t they have called instead?”

  “Bragging is always better in person,” my mother replies, rolling her eyes. “Chinese people invented the sport.”

  “Fantastic,” I grumble.

  My voice catches in the back of my throat, like a bug in a chemical trap. I don’t remember how to talk or properly breathe. Then I hear my dad’s voice calling loudly. “Amy! Amy! Iris thinks we don’t love her anymore! Also, you need to see this! Our daughter dented someone’s BMW parked in our driveway.”

  Quickly, my mom shushes him. “Jeff! Samira’s parents are here to share the wonderful news about Samira’s college acceptances.”

  My dad shoots me a look of raw, actual panic. College season is bragging season with my mom’s friends at the country club. Everyone has to compare and contrast college acceptances, like they’re showing off end-of-season purchases from the big designer outlet Woodbury Premium Outlets. It’s what Samira and I used to mockingly call Asian Brag-and-Tell. It’s more holy and prestigious than Lunar New Year.

  Not only do parents post thousands of photos of their children’s college acceptances online, but they like to take family selfies, of everyone holding the acceptance letter.

  The letter is then framed and hung in the living room for the purpose of showing guests.

  Rejection letters are shredded and never shared with anyone, even if no one outside the extended family and friend group actually cares.

  “This can’t be good,” my father moans. “What do we do?!”

  “Iris, hide!” my mom finally hisses. “We don’t want anyone to know about your situation!”

  I spiral into panic mode.

  It’s way too late to run upstairs to my bedroom or charge into the basement or lock myself in the hallway bathroom. Our living room is in a prime entertainment location. That’s why my parents bought our house and renovated it: for the sole purpose of showing off to their friends.

  I hear Samira’s familiar high-pitched laugh. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but I hear my name being mentioned once or twice.

  Iris this, Iris that.

  It must be a normal Pavlovian response, where hearing my name makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. Despite my best efforts to hate her, I suddenly miss my best friend. It makes absolutely no sense. If we could rewind to the party, if she could sincerely apologize for Peter, we might be able to save our friendship.

  “Jeff! What do we tell everyone about Iris’s problem?” my mom says in a low, low voice that makes me feel so ashamed. I have never felt so insignificant. I have never felt so useless.

  “Iris, hide in the closet and stay there,” my dad suddenly says.

  “What?” I say.

  My dad is not joking.

  He points at the kitchen pantry.

  I shouldn’t be surprised. First he’s exiling his only daughter to China, and then he’s forcing her to hide inside a tiny closet for dry goods? Treating his offspring like a can of tuna should be illegal. But admittedly, I understand his point—there’s nowhere else to hide unless it’s under the kitchen sink.

  Quickly, I shut myself in and crouch-sit on a 20-pound bag of jasmine rice. I’m surrounded by cans of baked beans, SPAM, and digestive cookies. My parents’ favorite snack when they first immigrated to America. They can eat rolls and rolls of these cookies slathered with globs of unmelted butter. I have no idea why, when sliced bread is so readily available at any supermarket. My elbow bangs into a jar of tasty Nutella.

  I stop myself from yelping.

  I want to laugh and cry from the absurdity of the situation.

  Suddenly starving, I open the jar and start scooping the spread with my fingers. Nutella has never tasted so creamy, nutty, and delicious.

  What else am I supposed to do when I’m stuck in a kitchen closet?

  What else am I supposed to eat? Certainly not cold, greasy SPAM!

  The sound of braying laughter and Mr. Chadha-Fu’s overly cheerful newscaster voice blares in our living room. This closet has some shockingly amazing acoustics. It’s like being in my own VIP theater. If I had known about it growing up, I would probably have spent 75 percent of my childhood eavesdropping in the pantry. Think about how much blackmail currency I could have collected on my parents and their friends.

  “Where is Iris?” a voice booms enthusiastically.

  I hear the crystal clink of my parents setting down cups of coffee. Mr. Chadha-Fu is also known as Mr. NPR (National Public Radio) in Bradley Gardens, New Jersey. His nickname is because he broadcasts all the official and unofficial gossip in our neighborhood. He knows everything from boring lawn maintenance to the most mundane fundraising event at o
ur school to little-known international celebrity news in over three continents.

  For a parent, he’s not boring. He’s a tabloid magazine disguised as a middle-aged dad.

  My mom says that if you want everyone to know about a new mole or your latest failure, you just have to accidentally tell Mr. Chadha-Fu. Samira’s dad is a successful stockbroker with two toy poodles, yet he still manages to out-tweet and out-text all of us every day.

  The Chadha-Fus can’t find out that I’m a two-time failure.

  “Iris is—” my dad says. The unmistakable sound of a clanking spoon.

  “Volunteering!” my mom finishes.

  “Volunteering?” Mrs. Chadha-Fu says. “Yes, Samira has been volunteering at the Salvation Army and the local newspaper. She wrote at least two dozen articles on global warming and the refugee crisis recently.”

  I didn’t know Samira volunteered.

  I didn’t even know Samira was capable of writing news articles. If I were asked to write on such serious, unimaginative topics, I wouldn’t even know where to start. If I’m being completely honest, I don’t even really understand what global warming is, even though everyone is always talking about it, like it’s an extremely important brand of face cream.

  Shamefully, I realize it’s because I haven’t been paying attention to anything current-events related. I’ve just been focused on me and Peter, but mostly, my own personal development.

  My own personal enjoyment.

  Was Peter right?

  Self-doubt crawls uneasily across my skin, like a tragic case of ringworm.

  Why don’t I know anything real about Samira?

  “Anyway, we came here to share the great news!” Mr. Chadha-Fu announces as if he’s a celebrity host of a game show.

  There’s a dramatic pause.

  I lean my neck forward, wondering what the news could possibly be. Then he shouts, “You won’t believe it! But we got into PRINCETON! Samira is going to Princeton!!!”