by Lindsay Wong
More quicksand feelings of shame engulf me. My parents will seriously scream at me over video chat. Will Uncle Dai be upset with the amount?! Will he and my dad gang up on me? He didn’t explicitly give me a number, but what if he was just being polite? It also doesn’t help that all the shopkeepers are so enthusiastic and friendly, offering me piles and piles of clothes. They’re like cute designer dogs offering me their favorite toys. How can I possibly say no to anyone who looks so happy to see me?
When I’m tired from thinking, I buy a strawberry bubble tea at the food court, and the lady at the stand pours a delicious cream cheese froth on top of it, which tastes like I’m actually drinking an entire cheesecake that has been put into a blender. To stop spending more money, I decide to wander outside the mall, and then I see a street vendor who also looks so thrilled to see me. Of course I just have to buy a plate of steamed dumplings, xiāo long bao, which are fat and juicy and squirt hot broth when I bite into them. They’re like little doughy firecrackers! The food is so Food Network–good that I order another bamboo tray and sit on the sidewalk, slurping and eating. I don’t care if anyone sees me, since I don’t know anyone here. I also don’t know where Mr. Chen is, but it doesn’t matter because today has been one of the better days of my life. In fact, it’s been such a wonderful day, I buy another six xiāo long bao from the vendor, who grins at me. I can’t help but grin back.
I’m so stuffed from steamed dumplings that I seriously need a nap.
That’s when I see it: a billboard over the Oriental Plaza. It’s a giant photo of my uncle, who is looking down over the entire boulevard. He’s grinning like he’s won the lottery. Like he’s a ginormous Rich Uncle Pennybags in a game of real-life Monopoly. Underneath the Chinese lettering of the board, I see the English title: FENG CONSTRUCTION CORP. Does my uncle own this mall?!
I have so many questions. Like how many luxury malls and properties he owns. And if he is actually my biological father.
I decide to hail a taxi, but the driver, a middle-aged man in a baseball cap, doesn’t speak a lot of English.
“What wrong with you?” he demands. “Why you not speak?”
“I’m American,” I say, irritated. Normally, I would be polite and explain that I’m from Bradley Gardens, New Jersey, but I’m honestly a bit cranky from always having to justify why I don’t fit in. Since I arrived in Beijing, I’m tired of explaining why my outsides don’t match my insides. It’s like asking a doughnut why it doesn’t have jelly filling.
“But you look Chinese,” he argues. “Why you not speak?”
“American Chinese,” I say, hoping that he’ll stop interrogating me about who I am. How is the concept of being born Chinese in a different country so foreign to Beijingers? Just because a Skittle is a teensy bit misshapen doesn’t mean that it isn’t still a Skittle. If I can’t be an exciting fusion dish, a bubbly and bold blend of two countries, where do I belong? I mean, why do I have to be only Chinese or American? Can’t I just be delicious, MSG-infused chop suey?
Sighing with annoyance, I show him the photo of the Shangri-La on my phone, and he nods, like he knows where the hotel is. But we drive in a full circle for forty-five minutes, and he seems to be hopelessly lost. We seem like we’re heading in the wrong direction. Office towers, concrete buildings, highways, and steel factories pass by.
Finally, he stops the car at an abandoned street full of old, deserted traditional Chinese houses. There’s no one here. I panic momentarily. I’ve seen CSI and Law & Order before, and I know when something horrible is about to happen. You never want to be the girl alone with a stalled cab. The character always ends up on the nightly news, whether or not they find her body.
“You pay me six thousand yuan or you get out,” he says, turning to me.
Is he kidding?
The cab driver scowls.
Would this even happen if I spoke a minimal amount of Chinese?
I’m scandalized but relieved that he’s not going to kill me (at least, not yet, anyway).
I won’t pay a scammer 6,000 yuan, so quickly, I hop out of the taxi and start running back to the main road. Pant-jogging, I have no sense of where I’m going, but I continue in one direction. To my relief, he doesn’t chase me with the car. I hide behind a dumpster in an alleyway to make sure that no one is following me. For an hour, miserable and blurry-eyed, I wander around until I somehow find myself at Xidan Commercial Street market. Around me, there are crowds and stalls of colorful clothing, socks, and cheap electronics in plastic bins.
Stress-panting like a Doberman on the way to the vet, I’m eventually able to speak to a small shop owner of funky-smelling herbal medicine, and she helps me flag down another cab and negotiate a fee of 87 yuan to the hotel. Never mind that the shopkeeper charges me an additional 35 yuan for her help.
Then I realize that I’ve forgotten all my purchases in the taxi’s backseat. I’ve never lost a whole day’s purchases before, and I’ve used up nearly half of my dad’s envelope of cash on travel and customer service.
I want to cry from such a horrible ordeal. What would my dad say if I told him that Beijing is ridiculously expensive and I had to spend all his money on emergency assistance? Would he blame me if I told him that I got scammed by a taxi driver?
When I finally get to the penthouse, sweaty and panting, I discover that my suitcase is missing. All my clothing, makeup, underwear, and my toothbrush are gone! This can’t be happening. I look everywhere for my belongings. I check the entire penthouse suite.
Maybe housekeeping accidentally took my bag away and stored it in a closet.
Maybe I’m in the wrong suite.
But when I go into my en suite bathroom (not a squat toilet, thank god!), I see a note on a piece of paper: GO BACK TO AMERICA. NO ONE WANTS YOU HERE!
Ruby. I sigh with anger. So passive-aggressive, right?
After my shitty day, her note makes me feel almost as horrible as a monthlong stomach ulcer. Furious tears begin splashing down my face, and I do my best to wipe them, but they keep monsoon-raining from my eyeballs. I don’t know how to stop crying from the hurt and frustration. Nothing I do in Beijing is working.
I know I did a supremely shitty thing—trying on Ruby’s clothes was rude, and then I also made her doggy-pageant gown unwearable. I ruined an expensive dress by not thinking and being completely disrespectful.
But how do I show her that I’m genuinely sorry?
Nothing in my social skill set from America is working.
I can’t possibly replace her dress, and even if I could, I am not sure how we could start over. How do you show someone that you are generally well-meaning and harmless? I’m practically a cute mosquito, not a termite.
And that’s when I see it: all my clothes strewn in the bathtub full of water. And the presents that I haven’t yet given to my uncle, aunt, and cousin thrown inside too. My cheeks become wasabi-hot. My throat constricts, like I’m choking on a sticky candy wrapper. When I bend closer and grab a few items, I realize that the scarf that I got for her had been cut into threads.
Even my favorite Victoria’s Secret bras have been snipped in half right through the center strap! What am I supposed to do? Walk around covering just half my chest?
Then I find one of my Converse sneakers, half-drowned, in the toilet.
Ruby did a very thorough job.
My eyes water for real this time. I hyperventilate. Anger bursts through me. How dare she wreck my things? Ditching me, ignoring me, and then shredding my clothes?
With hot, horrible shame, I realize that she’s not just blaming me for wrecking her beautiful gown. She wants me to go home. It’s her form of petty revenge, yes, but it’s more than that. These were my belongings. All the things that I brought with me from home. Anything to make me leave her penthouse apartment.
Suddenly, New Jersey feels very far away.
I unplug the bathtub. It gurgles, but then it gets stuck. I try again. It gets stuck. I can’t even unplug a bathtub in China.
I start sobbing again and sound strangely like the gurgling drain.
Why don’t I fit in yet?
Why does being born in a different country, in a strange culture, make me such a weirdo?
And why does it make the simplest things across the world so difficult?
Being American Chinese in China is like accidentally showing up in old gym clothes to a black-tie wedding. It’s realizing that you have no clue about where you belong or who you belong to.
I’m interrupted from my erupting frustration when the phone from Uncle Dai rings. Even my iPhone, my old self, has been erased. I don’t even recognize the tone, but I pick it up anyway. Who would be calling me in Beijing?
“Weijun!!!” my uncle says, sounding relieved. “Mr. Chen say you and Ruby are not at store. Where you?”
I pause.
“I’m totally fine,” I say, hoping that he doesn’t hear how upset I am. “I just got back to the hotel.”
“You are home?” he says, sounding a bit incredulous but also relieved. “Ruby with you?”
“I’m here, but Ruby isn’t.”
“Okay, please stay in hotel until Mr. Chen back.”
He hangs up the phone. I wonder what to do with this humongous mess. None of my clothes are salvageable unless I want to sew together a giant soggy past-life Iris quilt.
I start raiding Ruby’s closet.
Normally, I would never dare aggravate someone who is already so upset with me. As an only child, I’ve never fought a family member my age before. Even Samira and I, while growing up, have never had a horrible fight, only minor petty disagreements about crushes and clothing styles. I once spilled soy sauce on her white cotton knit sweater, and she once lost my favorite polka-dotted Kate Spade bag when I asked her to hold it for me while I went to the bathroom at Pinkberry. For twenty minutes, I was angry, and then I instantly forgave her. My mom was fifty times more angry than me. “I bought you that bag for Christmas!” she shouted. “Iris, how can you be so irresponsible? It cost two hundred fifty dollars on sale.”
But I don’t care anymore.
I am so furious that I almost don’t care anymore if Ruby will ever like me.
Angrily, I respond to my parents’ texts as I haphazardly throw piles of beautiful designer clothes on the bed, sorting them into outfits that I could possibly wear. Then I feel super, super guilty and put all the clothing items back on their hangers and in plastic bags and fold them neatly in the drawers and pray that Ruby will think that the maids moved her stuff. It takes me at least two hours to tidy up.
I don’t belong in Beijing.
I just want to go to my boring, familiar home in New Jersey.
WECHAT GROUP (#1WangFamily!!!)
Mom: How is Beijing?
IrisDaddy: How is everyone? Are you getting along with your cousin?
Iris: Fine …
IrisDaddy: Uncle D is taking care of you? You give him back the money, okay?
Iris: Uncle D is a fricking billionaire.
Mom: What are you talking about?
Iris: He’s super rich. Like movie star rich.
Mom: Huh?
Iris: Like crazy, crazy Asian rich. They’re CRAs (CRAZY RICH ASIANS)!!!
IrisDaddy: How do you know???
Iris: He lives at the Shangri-La. The hotel …
Mom: That’s probably why he just sent a message about not wanting any money for Iris’s expenses.
IrisDaddy: Tell him that we cannot accept. Give the money back.
Iris: I spent most of it already …
IrisDaddy: Okay, I’ll call him and pay him back. How much did you spend?
Iris: Don’t know.
Mom: ?
Iris: A cab driver scammed me and I lost all my things.
Mom: WHAT?!! Did no one teach you about strangers?
IrisDaddy: Are you okay??
Iris: Fine …
15
Job Interview
Deciding that I need to relax ASAP, I find a fluffy neon-pink Hello Kitty house robe and matching bedroom slippers in the bathroom. There’s a mouse-colored clay horsehair face mask in the cabinet, so I smear it on my skin and wait for it to settle.
The air is suffocating in Beijing, and I need all the help I can get for my clogged-up pores.
I find a notepad that belongs to the hotel. Despite being furious earlier, I don’t want to make a permanent enemy of someone who lives with me. It’s not in my easygoing, fun-loving nature. Because what if I never make a friend again?
Does everyone hate me?
I don’t know how to backtrack to Day 1 in Beijing and not touch Ruby’s dress. If I had sat there in the living room and pretended to be furniture, I wouldn’t be in the mess that I’m in now. It’s my nonsensical lack of control that has led to all of my current apocalyptic life disasters. How can I stop stuffing down the fifth scoop of double-fudge gelato when I’m ridiculously full? How do I stop myself from becoming a popping champagne bottle of nervous energy and making really shitty, regrettable decisions?
I tell myself—if I can befriend Ruby, I can befriend anyone, and I’m not, after all, a social pariah.
I’m sooo sorry about your dress. Can we please talk?
xoxo.
Iris
Sighing, I slip the note under Ruby’s door in the guest bedroom. I don’t know if she’ll respond, but it’s worth a try. I don’t know how to remedy this situation of a botched-up, unwearable dress. How can I make this better?
With Samira or Peter, it would be one ounce of sorry-weed, a gallon of Rocky Road ice cream with marshmallows, or even a sixteen-inch vegetarian pizza with extra cheese—but how do teenagers in China show remorse? Is this a cultural faux pas dropping a note under someone’s door? Apparently, I’m just not Chinese enough. How can I be both eccentric and trophy-winning to gain Ruby’s approval? In Beijing, being below average is not in vogue.
Flopping on the couch in the living room, feeling miserable, I try to watch TV, but all the channels are in Chinese. I finally settle on the Shopping Channel because at least I can look at the models wearing tons of purple jade jewelry and holding leather handbags like survival kits.
Thank god Shopping is a universal language, something I at least understand.
Normally, watching a clothing catalog would soothe me, but there’s a funny, deeply unsettling feeling inside me, which I attribute first to homesickness and second to culture shock. I just don’t understand how Ruby could hate me, especially when we are related. I have never had a sister before, let alone a cousin. Why won’t Ruby accept my sincere apology? How long do people in China hold grudges for? What’s the proper etiquette?
Even though my aunt and uncle are kind and everyone looks exactly like me, I don’t fit in. Beijing is just like watching the Shopping Channel; you can touch the beautiful sale items on the television screen, but you are separated by four inches of glass and colored pixels.
I stare at the flashing images on the big-screen TV: sandals, a silver crystal-studded watch, an orange infinity scarf, dangling beaded hippie bracelets. I know that this could be an opportunity for self-betterment, but I honestly don’t know how to start. I have no idea what to do with myself when left alone. I try a search engine: how to make friends in China, but there’s nothing helpful.
But that’s when I see it: a model holding a bright new red handbag to make me feel better about myself. It’s only 20,000 yuan, and it could replace all the ones that I lost in the taxi. I could buy one for my mom, my aunt, and even Ruby.
With a sharp spasm of relief, I’m just incredibly glad that I put her belongings back in her Doggy-Pageant Closet ASAP. On the screen, I can feel the shiny bags calling to me. Gifts are tokens of friendship, and isn’t fire-hazard red supposed to be a lucky color?
What if I offer to help Ruby with her professional hobby? Maybe she needs an assistant? I know nothing about dog grooming, but how hard can it be to wash and cut hair?
The telephone number keeps flashing across the screen like a
benevolent call-alert reminder.
The narrator is reading out the numbers in Chinese.
What is the purpose of having a Visa card and not using it? Then I remember that the card is not actually mine. But the voice nagging me is saying that at least I’m being an asset to China’s expanding economy. How can I not want to participate when the TV seems to be calling specifically to me?
Just as I begin to dial the shopping phone number, the telephone in the penthouse rings a few times. Then Uncle Dai’s phone buzzes. I ignore it. The phone rings again. It seems incredibly urgent. Luckily, my no-self-control itch is interrupted when I finally decide to pick up.
“This is the front desk,” a woman says in lightly accented English. “Miss Wang, you are needed in the conference room on the third floor immediately. Everyone is waiting.”
“I don’t understand,” I say. “Who’s waiting?”
“Please hurry,” she says.
Sighing, I rush outside the apartment and head to the elevator.
In the open-window conference room, there are exactly ten young people dressed in boring black suits and clutching briefcases and what look to be fat résumés. Panting and pacing like nervous hamsters in a cage, they appear to be college students who are applying for a first-time internship at a bank. One of them freezes when he sees me. Another one stares with zero embarrassment. A girl with thick glasses frowns at me. Then the entire group pauses; someone, pop-eyed, quickly looks down at the floor. What’s wrong now? Do I have food stains like chicken pox on my face? Is there lunchtime dumpling meat stuck between my teeth?
I smile awkwardly. Then I hear someone laughing; there’s a dude, relaxing on one of the fancy conference room sofas. Everyone else is standing except for him. I would have missed him, since unlike the others, he’s wearing a navy-blue grandpa-cardigan, the same color as the couch upholstery. While everyone else appears nervous, he looks comfortable and supremely confident in a quiet way. He has one arm draped casually around the back of the couch, a folder on his lap.
