by Lindsay Wong
She scowls at me.
I pause, but only for a second. I can’t let Ruby know that I have discovered her eccentricity, which is obviously like her superpower.
“This is a very expensive jumpsuit,” she says with what looks like an evil eye. I can’t be sure because it looks like one eye is closing, and the other one is ogling me with distaste.
“I totally knew that,” I say, winking. I almost sound like I mean it.
If my tone is enthusiastic and well intentioned, does it cancel out a white lie?
The answer, in this case, must be yes.
It’s always yes if it involves someone potentially liking you.
“This suit cost 67,448 yuan,” she says, shooting me another look of disdain.
“It’s … very nice,” I say, but I still have no idea how to convert yuan into American dollars. “Do you use it for dog shows?”
Ruby doesn’t smile. She humphs and folds her arms across her chest.
I ask her more about her dog grooming, and slowly, she looks as if she is about to warm up to me, despite her misgivings.
“I practice ten hours a week during school at a grooming salon,” she brags. “For the summer, I do eight hours a day. Then I meet with a costume designer in Paris for outfits. What do you do in America?”
“Shopping mostly,” I say.
“I mean, your professional interests. Do you play any sports? Have you played at Carnegie Hall yet?”
“No,” I say, taken aback. “Do you?”
“Yes, of course. I play first violin, tennis, and I’m on Beijing’s youth fencing team. I’m also in debate and Model UN. I’m actually scheduled for a solo concert at Carnegie Hall next fall. You mean you don’t do ANYTHING?”
I stare at her in disbelief. Shopping is a hobby and a serious interest. It takes up at least ten-plus hours of my busy school week.
Ruby blinks. “Do you paint or draw or sculpt?” she finally asks.
“Um … no.”
“Robotics and programming?”
I shake my head. How would I know how to program anything?
Incredulous, Ruby asks me, “You have a full-time job, then? Last summer I worked part-time at my dad’s friend’s cafe in Taipei as a waitress for work experience.
“You must have won awards in something,” she insists when I don’t say anything.
“No,” I say, feeling foolish. To be honest, I have never won a single trophy or plastic medal. In elementary school, I couldn’t even finish Sports Day without needing multiple hot dog and blueberry Gatorade breaks. I spent so much time resting that I didn’t even earn a participation certificate.
At my response, Ruby sniffs like one of my mom’s disapproving country club friends. Dismissing me with a rapid roll of her eyeballs, she resumes texting on her phone.
I gape.
Is this what it feels like to have disapproval from your peer group? Like you have bad odor plus horrible middle-aged man breath? By not having any noticeable talent, am I suddenly not worthy in Beijing? The shock is more uncomfortable and uglier than discovering that you contracted head lice from trying on headbands at a high-end department store.
* * *
Half an hour later, Mr. Chen drops us off at the back of Jing Yaa Tang, a four-star Chinese restaurant, and a waiter ushers us into a private banquet room. We wait thirty minutes. Then forty. My stomach rumbles with hot, gassy hunger. I haven’t eaten in nearly twelve hours. That’s practically half a day.
“Is your dad coming?” I ask, listening to the angry tiger growl in my stomach.
No reply.
Ruby is texting furiously on her phone. I wonder if she is dating anyone. Maybe this question will finally get her to warm up to me and tell me her deepest and most meaningful secrets. I’m an excellent listener and relationship-advice provider.
“Who are you texting?” I finally ask when my curiosity gets the better of me.
She doesn’t seem to hear me.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” I ask. “Girlfriend? A new crush?”
She glances up, then furrows her brow.
“You’re still talking,” she comments, then returns to her texting.
“So … um … when is dinner?” I ask.
I know I’m being annoying with the interrogation-type questions, but I just hate this awkward silence.
I’m not used to being ignored. It’s like I’m boring background music—the kind in a hotel elevator that people under the age of twenty-five never care about or listen to. It’s a bit rude, really.
I tap her on the shoulder. “Is your dad even coming?”
Ruby looks seriously annoyed. Is this what it’s like to be unpopular?
“Is it normal to ask so many questions in America?” she asks, staring at me.
“It’s always encouraged,” I say. “No question is a waste of time, right?”
I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. It’s like talking to a busted, unresponsive Siri on my iPhone. Like voice activation hasn’t been programmed yet. The dress incident was horrible, and the fact that she disapproves of my professional hobby of mall-hopping is completely disheartening. I am just hoping that first cousins are genetically programmed to forgive and forget. It’s in our blood.
“Listen, I’m really sorry about your dress,” I say again, trying to apologize. “How can I make it right?”
Awkward, uncomfortable silence.
“My dad is coming,” Ruby finally says, sounding a bit defensive. “He’s just working.”
“What does your dad do?” I ask. I almost say “our,” but I catch myself. I wonder if she suspects that we could be sisters. But she shrugs, as if not caring.
I sip the syrupy-tasting jasmine tea and examine my own broken iPhone, which is sadly beyond repair. I open the menu, but I can’t read it. It’s all in Chinese, but the photographs look amazing. The filleted black cod on a bed of green shallots and black beans. Shredded potato wedges with crispy pork slices in a steaming, sizzling wok. My stomach rumbles. I’m absolutely starving. I could literally eat the cloth napkins for dinner, so why hasn’t a waiter come by to take our order? There must be appetizers in Beijing. What do Chinese breadsticks look like?
Just as I think I’m about to faint from hunger, a pudgy man rushes in, followed by a kind-looking, friendly-faced woman. They look frantic and worried. Behind them, there are three boxy security guards who are amazing at blending into the restaurant’s lush floral wallpaper. At first, I don’t even notice them. Who exactly is this family? They have more security guards than a Top 40 pop star.
“Weijun!” the man says, looking relieved when he sees me. “Your dad call me many time. We just fly back from late business meeting in Hong Kong. Your dad say you don’t call him. We are so worry!”
“Uncle?” I ask. “Auntie?”
The man looks very familiar, even though he looks nothing like my dad. They’re supposed to be half brothers, but this man is short and round, exactly like the wealthy dude from the game Monopoly. Despite being bald, he has a fantastic toothbrush mustache that seems very familiar. I stare at his features without fully understanding. As if suddenly waking from a shitty, twenty-four-hour hangover, I realize that I have seen him before. I have literally memorized his face.
I stare closer and gasp.
Number 16.
Number 16 in Forbes Asia!
That means I am related to an Asian tycoon!!!
I’m practically extended royalty.
I stare at my relative, both shocked and delighted. My uncle smiles broadly. I smile back. Enthusiastically, I embrace both my uncle and auntie, and they timidly hug me back. Actually, they both stiffen and my uncle and aunt pat me on the shoulder, twice. Yikes. Do people not hug in China? Does this side of my family not like physical affection? Was I supposed to offer them a handshake instead? A curtsy? A bow?
What do very rich people do when greeting relatives?
“I am Uncle Dai,” my uncle says to break the awkward silence. “This is Au
ntie Yingfei.”
My aunt, who literally looks like Mrs. Claus’s kid sister, smiles sweetly at me. “Sorry. I not speak English well.”
My instincts have been correct all along. This is the universe’s way of rewarding me for all my horrible luck in the past week. Great things usually result from immense suffering.
“Why you don’t call Daddy?” my uncle says.
“Oh,” I say in a tiny voice. “I broke my phone.”
I pull it out and show him the dead screen.
“No problem!” he exclaims. He plucks my broken iPhone from my hand and then tosses it into the tray of a passing waiter who is carrying a pile of dirty dishes. He just chucks my one-year-old iPhone away like it’s a used napkin.
I pause, a little shocked.
An iPhone costs a lot of money.
I know I’m generally wasteful, but I’d at least try to exchange it at the Apple Store for a new one. What would my mom and dad say about this waste? Do I tell them that I carelessly dropped it into the toilet, so my uncle threw it away?
Before I can say anything, Uncle Dai hands me an iPhone from his suit pocket. “Keep,” he says.
For a moment, I stare at the latest model. It looks practically new.
“Are you sure?” I say, shocked by his wastefulness and his generosity. A brand-new iPhone is at least a thousand dollars.
“Of course! You are my niece and we have many extra international phone.”
“Oh,” I say. “In that case, then …”
Quickly, I set up my new iPhone and log into WeChat. My dad said that iMessage might be spotty in China.
Thirty-five unread texts. Yikes.
WECHAT GROUP (Wang#1Family!!!)
Mom: Iris! We have been so worried! Call us back!
Mom: We are SORRY
Mom: Dad is also SORRY for everything
Mom: IRIS!!!!! Did you land in Beijing? Please respond.
IrisDaddy: Why aren’t you picking up!
IrisDaddy: We know we were harsh at the airport, but ignoring us is not the answer.
Mom: Dad checked and the airplane didn’t crash. So why aren’t you picking up! Please call/text us back!
IrisDaddy: We can talk more about this.
Mom: IRIS THIS IS NOT FUNNY. Be responsible for once in your life!
IrisDaddy: Are you okay?
IrisDaddy: Is everything all right?
IrisDaddy: CALL US BACK.
Mom: IRIS!!!!!!!!!
IrisDaddy: I am calling your uncle if I don’t hear back from you in 30 minutes. IRIS!!!!!
“Text your daddy,” Uncle Dai says.
I’m okay, I send my dad a quick message. I just broke my phone. I’m with uncle and aunt and cousin now.
He responds immediately. Glad you are okay. Your mom and I are very worried. We thought you got lost!
I’m fine. We’re eating now. Talk later.
To my stomach’s gurgling relief, dinner is served quickly. Uncle Dai chats rapidly with the waitstaff, who all seem to know him, and then, within a few minutes, a platter of hot, crispy Peking duck is brought out. I love Peking duck, but we have it only when we’re in Queens with my mom’s family for fancy Chinese banquets. This dish is literally the best duck I’ve ever eaten.
“This food is AMAZING,” I exclaim, and dump tons of sweet-spicy sauce and green onions into a thin white tortilla, then roll it up. Like I’m eating miniature tacos, I swallow ten of those delicious Chinese tortillas within minutes. I lick my fingers excitedly.
I’ve honestly never tasted such fresh, crispy, and delicious cuisine in my life.
I have no idea how I’ve grown up never eating real Chinese food. My mom and dad are excellent cooks, but we eat a fusion of ready-cooked supermarket Chinese, American, Thai, Indian, Italian, and Mexican food. We also eat a lot of takeout and frozen Costco meals.
My uncle and aunt beam at me.
They’re looking at me like I’m their long-lost daughter! Their eyes are watering nonstop, but I don’t know if it’s because the Peking duck is really spicy. It could also be the smog situation outside. What allergy meds is everyone taking?
“You don’t know how to use chopsticks?” Ruby asks, staring at me with mild shock. It’s almost as if she finds this fact to be more scandalous than me not winning a single award.
“Yeah, of course I do,” I say smoothly, and grab a pair of ivory chopsticks, but the Peking duck is small and slippery, especially when slathered in goopy red sauce. I drop my food onto my plate multiple times. More trouble comes when the waiter brings slivers of spicy Sichuan chicken with crunchy snow peas and cashews, pan-fried cod covered in a light crispy batter, scallops the size of gigantic campfire marshmallows, and sautéed pork wrapped in a thin, flaky pastry. All followed by heaping plates of zesty green bean noodles.
And forget about picking up the noodles in a dainty bowl.
The strings keep sliding off my chopsticks.
I’ve always just eaten Chinese takeout noodles and spaghetti with a fork and Western spoon. I don’t know how to properly eat with chopsticks, but I can’t exactly ask for a fork now, can I? I glance around, trying to copy my uncle and aunt, who seem to be coordinating food from their bowls to their mouths so well. They can talk, eat, and smile effortlessly! Why did I tell everyone that I know how to use the utensils of my cultural birthright?
In Bradley Gardens, I never needed or wanted to learn how to eat with chopsticks. I laughed whenever my mom and dad tried to teach me. Nervously I wonder if I can google how to use chopsticks under the table when no one is looking.
Suddenly, it feels like I’ve signed up for a dance recital and I don’t know the steps. Sweat slides down my back like a waterfall. Even my hands feel like I’ve slathered them with Vaseline. I just don’t know which finger wraps around which stick or how to balance two chopsticks with one hand. But I’m determined to prove that I can learn the choreography or at least improvise. Is eating with chopsticks like tweezing facial hair?
What would my new family say when I explained to them that I needed a fork and spoon?
“Do you want order different food?” Uncle Dai says, looking at me with concern.
“It is fantastic!” I say, and even Auntie Yingfei looks anxious, but begins scooping more scallops and green bean noodles into my bowl.
Quickly, I attempt to use my chopsticks by gripping them like a tube of lip gloss. As a clump of crispy, sauce-laden noodles plops onto the white tablecloth, Ruby snickers. “Good job,” she says softly.
No one seems to hear her.
My cheeks burn, and the muscles in my neck seize up.
Fed up, I pick up my bowl and cram as many noodles as I can into my mouth. I’m too hungry to care about bad manners. The best I can do is to anxiously shovel and slide the noodles into my alligator-wide mouth by tipping my bowl. But I’m too enthusiastic and half the noodles fall from my mouth into my lap.
Shit.
I try to smile to cover up my awkward embarrassment. This has never in all my seventeen years happened to me before. How are my table manners suddenly equivalent to a five-month-old Labrador? What’s wrong with me?!!
By now, Ruby is gaping at me like I’m a human-size cockroach.
I try my best to grab the fallen noodles with a cloth napkin. But embarrassment continues to tunnel through me like a $5.99 McDonald’s Big Mac Meal with large fries and a Coke. My newfound uncle, aunt, and cousin are watching me like I’m some sort of trashy reality television show. Uncle Dai has an amused expression on his face.
“Are you even Chinese?” Ruby asks, looking genuinely baffled. Uncle Dai shushes her.
But she’s right. What kind of Chinese person am I? In New Jersey, I never even made an effort to learn. It never seemed to matter. In Beijing, I can’t even eat my dinner properly and prove that I belong to this family. Ruby’s question about who I am is even more humiliating than growing thick Tiger whiskers on my very first date with Peter. It’s more embarrassing than when we slow-danced at an outdo
or concert, and when he squeezed me like a tube of half-empty toothpaste, I accidentally farted. Luckily, Peter laughed at my jalapeño-faced embarrassment and still made out with me, but no one is smiling now.
Why is everything so incredibly hard in Beijing?
Why are group dinners painfully difficult?
And why aren’t utensils universal?
If we all ate with our fingers like back in Neanderthal days, I swear we’d eliminate at least 60 percent of all our cultural problems. The United Nations would have a much easier time dealing with misunderstandings, and history might have fewer world wars. AP World History would even have far fewer dates to remember.
Is this why my parents have always tried to encourage me to be more Chinese? To avoid future embarrassments when meeting other Chinese people who didn’t live in North America?
Luckily, before I can spill even more food, a waiter brings out a bottle of Dom Pérignon. I’ve only had champagne once, when it was Samira’s sixteenth birthday and her parents let us have a tiny sip. Instantly, I cheer up.
Uncle Dai instructs the waiter to pour us all a full glass. I’m shocked.
“Drink, Weijun, drink!” he says, smiling proudly.
“Great!” I say, forgetting about the noodles.
I take a sip and it’s sweet and bubbly and as delicious as I remember it. It’s like inhaling helium. It’s like getting high with your friends before a super-fun party … no, I can’t think about Samira and Peter now.
I down my glass in a gulp, and Auntie Yingfei pours me another one. I swallow that one quickly too.
“Happy family,” Uncle Dai says, raising his glass. He beams cheerfully and so does my aunt. We clink glasses, and I’m truly speechless and a little intoxicated but also moved by this warm welcome.
“Happy family!” I enthuse.
The only person who isn’t paying attention is Ruby, who is furiously checking her phone and ignoring everyone.
I peek over her shoulder, but the texts are in Chinese. I’m so curious! I wonder if I took a photo and ran it through Google Translate, would I be able to understand the gist of it?
