My Summer of Love and Misfortune

by Lindsay Wong

  Despite my watering nose and eyes, I force myself to survey the view, but everything looks so surreal from the sixty-sixth floor: the whizzing cars, the ant-size people. It’s like I’m watching tiny people inside a snow globe. Giddy, I’m already wondering how many people I could fit on this roof for a housewarming party.

  I prance back inside. But I don’t know which room is mine, so I decide to leave my bag in the middle of the living room. I need to go relax by the pool ASAP, followed by a hot steam in the sauna and a full-body massage. If my new residence is in a hotel, does that mean room service is free?

  But first, I really have to snoop.

  I may never have this amazing opportunity again.

  The first bedroom isn’t locked and it looks like it belongs to royalty. I find myself running, as if magnetized, to a walk-in closet that is practically the same size as my bedroom at home. I need to see what’s inside. Suddenly, I’ve been transported to Nordstrom department store. My own miniature boutique. Are these racks of expensive clothes and boxed-up shoes and handbags for me?

  I just knew that all my good deeds would pay off.

  Before I can begin fully checking my (hopefully) new closet, I notice a whole pyramid of humongous trophies and gold medals in a display case and framed certificates on the walls. At first I think it is just part of the home decor, but the whole room is covered with shiny awards. All the trophies have titles and names on them. Number 2 in Creative Dog Grooming Contest, Shenzhen and Number 1 in Colorful Animal Cutting Champion, Shanghai and Number 10 in Jungle Animal Competition, Netherlands. What is all this???!

  Mostly, I’m fascinated by the shiny poster-photos of a thin, giraffelike girl posing in one couture dress after another, standing proudly beside various matching pooches in costumes. But what’s stranger and cooler and more exciting is that all the chow chows, golden retrievers, and poodles have these wild, fabulous haircuts. Some of the pooches look like stuffed animals of pandas, gorillas, or lions. A border collie even looks identical to Lady Gaga.

  I have never seen anything like this. In another glossy photo, the same girl is dressed as the yellow-hoop-skirted Belle, and a Newfoundland is the shaggy Beast from the cartoon Disney movie. Then in another, the girl is strutting on the stage as Ariel from The Little Mermaid, and a terrier is dyed and styled as Sebastian the red crab. It’s like a beauty pageant starring dogs with their humans as giant accessories. What event is this? And how do I participate?

  Why didn’t my parents ever enroll me in matching animal and beauty queen pageants?

  I simply must find out who this bedroom belongs to.

  At first, I think that I’m just going to take a peek in the closet. I tell myself that a little oohing and aahing isn’t going to hurt anyone. In fact, looking and making loud appreciative sounds could be considered multiple compliments at once. My dad and I make these sounds all the time, resembling background singers, especially when my mom buys a $4.99 roast chicken from Costco and pretends that she baked it.

  I gasp. Then I ooooooh and aahhhhhh for the longest time.

  Amidst a rack of boutique dresses, there’s a gorgeous sequined ball gown with what look like gold ostrich feathers and a pink beaded tulle skirt, perfect for when I meet my real parents. The dress honestly looks like something out of a runway in Teen Vogue magazine. My mouth drops open, and it takes a while for me to be able to close it again. If no one is home and not a single person actually ever finds out, it’s okay to swathe it on my body for two minutes, right? All I have to do is unzip and jump in like I’m diving into a pool of tulle and silk. It’s just like having a quick romantic rendezvous with Peter whenever my parents left the room.

  I hesitate for the brief moment that it takes to send a tweet to my 300+ followers. Self-control has never been my strong point. Like a horrible itch inside the brain that I need to desperately scratch, I have never been able to refuse my impulses. I have never been able to say no to several helpings of dessert, an overpriced handbag, or even an annoying favor asked by an acquaintance. Ignoring my nagging inner voice, I find the strappiest, most sparkly pair of matching open-toed heels and a diamond-studded clutch.

  Before the owner (hopefully me) is back, I must try on all these clothes ASAP. I push the worry of being discovered away. If I’m quick about it, no one will ever know about my terrible self-control. People try on clothes all the time, right?

  As I attempt to zip the dress, I notice that it’s very small and usually when I shop, most clothes are way too big. Whoever designed this dress has all the proportions wrong! There’s no room for my rib cage, shoulders, or lower back. But I just know, in the center of my gut, that this dress has been waiting for me its whole life, so I literally suck in my stomach. I will myself to squeeze into this dress, which has not been designed for a human being. I wonder if I’m actually wearing the costume that belongs to an extra-thin greyhound. But isn’t the train too long for one of the grinning canines in the photographs?

  Clenching my teeth, I use all my determined willpower to make the zipper go up three-quarters of the way, and for a magical mystical moment, it does.

  In the closet mirror, I stare at myself in shock. The dress is absolutely stunning and Best Actress Oscar–worthy. I feel exactly like the girl in the pageant dog photos. My eyes have become larger, my legs have gotten longer, and I suddenly have developed an hourglass figure.

  I’m 60 percent more attractive in this dress.

  If I could wear this gown to an event, I’d be known as the long-lost Chinese American princess in the nameless couture dress. It’s perfect for my future role as a serious and devoted heiress!

  I pose in the mirror, and just as I begin to admire myself from various angles, I imagine Samira and Peter seeing me in this dress, once I’m crowned princess of a small to medium-size country. “Resist me now!” I imagine yelling at Peter. The poor boy wouldn’t be able to run away.

  Grinning like a crazed corgi with a bone, I swivel to examine myself from the side. But panicked shouting in Chinese suddenly bursts through my eardrums. At first, I think it’s my mom yelling and I can’t breathe. I spin around, embarrassed that someone has seen me posing and waving and making irresistible royal-canine faces at the mirror.

  I don’t know what to say.

  The only Chinese I know is my name.

  More nonstop yelling from a girl who looks like she could be my age.

  I don’t understand why she’s shouting.

  Plus, I don’t understand what she’s saying at all. Sometimes I can understand a few words like “hello,” “school,” “dinner,” or “bathroom” when my parents speak, but the girl is speaking way too quickly. Like the cell-phone clerk with Mr. Chen. They’re speaking Chinese way faster than my parents. Chinese fast-forwarded X 2000.

  “This isn’t what it looks like,” I say awkwardly, waving my hands at her. The girl stares at me for a long time before yelling in Chinese again.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Chinese,” I say, but the girl looks even more unimpressed. Finally, she purses her glossy ketchup-colored lips and looks like how I look when I pluck a very spiky hair from my mustache.

  She waits for me to respond, tapping her rose-gold Apple Watch impatiently.

  “I don’t speak Chinese,” I say again.

  Her surprise interrogation makes my cheeks flame. Like I’ve just ingested six vodka tonics in a span of thirty minutes and blurted out a very dirty secret.

  Upon closer inspection, I realize it’s the same girl from the shiny photographs minus a very dressed-up dog. The girl facing me is definitely America’s Next Top Model material in real life. Her refrigerator-white skin looks practically photoshopped, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d assume she was a robot. Her bleached white-blond hair is long and rope-straight. She’s also wearing a nightdress that is both fluffy and magazine-editorial-looking and science-fiction all at once. It’s one of those amazing garments that reminds me of a very expensive but fabulous futuristic chicken.


  Because I can’t help it and I have limited self-control, I reach out to pet the material. It’s like grabbing a handful of multicolored cotton balls. It’s absolutely fantastic, and I want to own it immediately.

  “Your pajamas are amazing!” I say, hoping that she will somehow hear in my tone that I’m friendly and worth befriending.

  But the girl yelps like she’s been electrocuted.

  Then she picks up her phone and begins dialing frantically. Is she calling hotel security? The Beijing police?

  I have to convince her that I’m not actually a thief.

  Also, how do I tell her in pantomiming and English that I have a seriously real and emotional connection with this dress? How do I explain that the dress was practically begging me to try it on?

  “I am so sorry,” I say, hoping that she will stop shouting and accept my apology.

  The girl stares at me, flabbergasted. Then she continues shouting and I begin nervous-talking. She doesn’t seem to speak English, so it doesn’t matter what I say. I just want her to hear my calming tones. Aren’t you supposed to make loud, reassuring noises and dramatic hand gestures when you encounter wild animals and scarily angry people?

  I start waving frantically while making what I think are soothing noises. “Oooh! Ahhhhhhhhh,” I say, feeling ridiculous.

  Why did I even try on that dress? Couldn’t I have found the exact same one somewhere online and gone to the store to try it on?

  My gesturing and noise-making works, because she suddenly stops yelling in Chinese and begins speaking in heavily accented English.

  “Who are you? Why are you in my room?” she asks.

  “I’m supposed to be here,” I say quickly. “I didn’t know this was your room.”

  She points to the photographs on the wall.

  “Are you involved in some sort of beauty contest?” I ask.

  “This is the Creative Dog Grooming Contest,” she snaps, looking offended that I don’t know who she is.

  “Huh?”

  “I’m the second-best creative dog groomer in China!” she says.

  “What?” I say, astonished.

  The girl looks quite paralyzed by my response.

  “Don’t you recognize me? I’m a top-ranking national champion of the dog and human show!”

  She does not look impressed when I stare at her blankly.

  “Turning dogs into other animals is a competition,” she insists, frowning at my lack of understanding.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I groom dogs into pandas or gorillas for pageants,” she says.

  “That’s amazing!” I say, and I mean it. But I don’t exactly know what she is talking about. Are dog-grooming pageants a recognized sport in China? I smile encouragingly at her to continue, but she stares at me without blinking. She’s still in shock, so her eyes bulge a bit like a bug and I am honestly not sure where to look.

  But after a few moments, Mr. Chen arrives. I’m so relieved. I want to hug him again, but I doubt that he will let me.

  For a moment, he speaks with the girl and they argue frantically. He pulls out his iPad with the beautiful assortment of photos and points at me.

  “Yes!” I say enthusiastically. “I’m Iris Weijun Wang! That’s me!”

  Then it hits me. This Girl in the Cotton-Ball Pajamas must be my cousin Ruby. My dad said that we’re practically the same age. It did not occur to me because we look nothing alike. For one, she’s taller than my dad. And her face is stiletto-thin and angular and cheekboney like she’s on a cover of a magazine. But once she realizes that I’m her long-lost American cousin, she’ll know that this has been a gigantic misunderstanding and we’ll automatically be BFFs.

  Family can always forgive and find each other.

  At least that’s what I have always strongly believed.

  And my instincts, so far, have been 85 percent correct.

  But for some reason, instead of immediately embracing me, the girl looks stunned. She blinks for a long time. Then she says in a snooty voice, “The dress you are wearing is for my upcoming dog show.”

  “I’m really sorry,” I say again, thinking that an excuse would be totally unacceptable at this point. “You must be my cousin Ruby. I’m Iris. Hi!”

  She ignores me. “It’s for MY competition.”

  My expression indicates that there is something wrong with me. In fact, I have no idea what she’s talking about. She points to another closet, which I had completely missed. “These clothes are for wearing. These ones are just for showing.”

  I stare at her. Is she kidding? What’s the point of owning fabulous dresses if you only wear them for dog shows?

  For a moment, we just look at each other, taking each other in. Her glossy upper lip curls upward. “That dress you are wearing is from Paris Fashion Week. There’s a reason I’m number two in dog competitions in China,” she says, as if it explains my transgression.

  “Oh,” I say, unsure of how to respond to her statement.

  She stares at my dehydrated airplane hair, my unmade-up face, my sweatpants and sneakers, and her mouth starts to twist in almost comical revulsion. I hear a small hissing sound, and at first I think she’s passing gas. It takes me a while before I realize that it’s actually a noise of disapproval.

  “I don’t understand you at all,” she says, frowning. “Why don’t you know any of this?”

  I don’t understand YOU, I want to retort. And I don’t know anything about your life in China.

  Instead, I stare at her, my mouth opening and closing like a socially awkward golden retriever.

  No one my age has ever not liked me before. If I were a product or a business on Yelp, no one in my generation would ever give me less than four stars. My average rating, if you factor in parents, teachers, and tutors, might actually be 3.5.

  “Listen, I’m so sorry,” I apologize again, wincing.

  She points at my gorgeous dog-show dress. Her dress.

  Smiling nervously, I struggle with the zipper. To my horror, it won’t budge.

  “Can you—can you please help me?” I stammer. Mortification, in the form of an aggressive allergic sneezing fit, hits me. Ruby’s face turns murderous pink. The same shade as the dress and the chandelier.

  13

  New Family

  Hotel services are called, and several maids all try to unzip me. It’s like an international fashion emergency.

  “Move right,” someone says.

  “Raise arm,” another person says.

  “Suck in tummy.”

  We try everything.

  But I’ve accidentally stuffed myself into this doggy-pageant gown like a Thanksgiving turkey. I’m like bulging pork filling in a delicious deep-fried dumpling.

  My willpower is so strong that it cannot be undone.

  This dress has claimed me, and it won’t let me go.

  Finally, the manager of guest services at the Shangri-La decides to call in the hotel seamstress. She’s an older lady with a bad perm who constantly humphs and growls with annoyance and then finally grabs a pair of sewing scissors from her kit. I can’t believe that my spontaneity has resorted to the destruction of a brand-new dress.

  “No!” I shout, at the same time Ruby yells something accusatory in Chinese.

  The older lady looks at both of us and speaks urgently to Ruby. They sound like they’re arguing. I don’t understand what they are saying, but I agree with my cousin that under no circumstances can my coronation dress be destroyed.

  All I can hear from the conversation is “Valentino!” which makes me more determined that I will just have to keep this dress on. I will wear this dress for the next decade until it magically falls off. Maybe this is my karmic punishment for buying a prom dress that I could not afford, and then wrecking it with spilled beer. Iris Wang, at 102 years old, finally dies in a tattered Valentino ball gown. She could never be free of her designer garment, as it refused to come off her.

  But despite my protests, the ol
d lady starts to cut me out of the dress. A hotel maid gathers the extra-long folds of the skirt, while someone, a clerk, helps hold the dress in place. Honestly, I’ve never had so many strangers’ faces pressed so close to my backside. I wonder if we’ll all be close friends and sisters after this mess.

  As the magic dress finally slides off me, Ruby and I both gasp.

  “NO!!!” we both wail in a duet.

  It hurts so much that I can feel the dress’s disappointment in me. Is it possible to betray a gown after feeling so wholly connected and invested in it? I’m finally free, but I feel so horrified at ruining such an expensive piece.

  After all, I was supposed to wear this dress to my crowned princess of a small to medium-size country ceremony.

  It’s practically dark out by the time all the staff leave us alone with the wrecked gown, which Ruby says is “unfixable.” I don’t know how the hotel seamstress will stitch it together again. I could offer to pay, but I don’t know how much it will cost. I also doubt that I could even afford to pay for it.

  “Listen, um,” I begin to stammer, “I’m really sorry—”

  Suddenly, the alarm on her watch beeps, interrupting me.

  “Dinner,” Ruby says abruptly. “Time to go.”

  “Where are we going?” I say.

  “I just told you,” she says again. “Time to go.”

  “Are you getting changed?” I ask as I rummage through my luggage to find something appropriate to wear. I pick a cute floral romper and a gray cardigan. I want to appear conservative and modern when I meet my uncle and aunt for the first time. Quickly, I slather on mascara and gloss to match Ruby’s made-up face.

  “Why?” she asks.

  Is she serious?

  “You’re … wearing pajamas,” I say, trying to sound polite. Maybe dinner is at home, and I’m overthinking it as usual. Maybe people in China wear silk blanket pajamas to dinner? From the side, it looks like she could be wearing a poncho? Maybe it’s something that everyone in our family does, for the sake of having a weird practice.

  It could be true that excessively rich people adopt eccentricities like multiple charities. I make a mental note to find myself a strange habit and an important social cause. I don’t have any quirks, but how hard can it be to learn one?