My Summer of Love and Misfortune

by Lindsay Wong

  “You can’t say anything to my dad,” Ruby insists, frowning. “He doesn’t know how much I practice.”

  Grateful not to be in school, I nod, as if Ruby’s paranoia makes total sense.

  I’m excellent at keeping secrets, except when they’re too juicy for just one person. Secrets lead to gossip, and in order for human evolution and biology and future societies to continue, someone needs to be willing to share newly acquired knowledge.

  For instance, if my dad had simply told us that he had family in China and would send me away if I misbehaved, I would have known never to piss him off. As a result, he would probably have had better parenting results if he had told me that exile would happen if I did poorly at school.

  Knowing your extended family should be search-engine knowledge. You just need to know that you were born with a half uncle. There are consequences for not sharing information. I swear, that’s how Atlantis was lost. It’s the only real explanation for how we could lose an entire city in the whole ten-thousand-year history of our solar system. And since I don’t seem to know anything about my world, am I more at risk of vanishing?

  How many more days on Earth do I have left?

  Confused, I reluctantly follow Ruby to the top floor of the building and into a fancy pink-and-white-curtained room. I pass sour-looking pugs receiving nail clippings and snooty poodles getting complicated French braids. There are even a few yapping Pomeranians getting acupuncture and massages by professional staff in hospital-looking uniforms. It all looks amazing and wonderful. Just seeing the soft doggy beds makes me want to be an exotic canine breed owned by very wealthy people. I want to be anyone or anything but impulsive, out-of-control Iris Wang.

  I want to lie down and take a long, peaceful nap.

  In a private spa room, there are seven sheep-size stuffed animal mannequins with spiky yarnlike hair spread over different workstations. Ruby’s coach, the mustached owner of the fancy salon, Master Hui, has set up cutting stations around the room. Ruby needs to be able to groom and train a Tibetan mastiff into the perfect Miss Piggy within a six-month time frame in order to become a finalist in the international competition.

  “You mean …” I trail off.

  “These are my practice until my real practice dogs arrive at the airport,” she says enthusiastically.

  I gawk.

  Ruby is skipping summer school to cut hair on fake dogs. No wonder Uncle Dai is always upset with her. It’s like me never showing up for AP Economics whenever there’s a sale at Saks.

  “While I practice grooming, why don’t you try making one of these mannequins into Winnie the Pooh or something?” she says, handing me a large pair of shearing scissors and a thick booklet of instructions. “Eeyore is very easy too.”

  After fifteen minutes, it’s clear that I have no talent for dog grooming. My stuffed animal is patchy and looks nothing like a cartoon bear. In many places, it even looks bald. From a distance, my mannequin could best be described as a plucked turkey.

  Ruby has already finished two of these practice models. All of them look stunning and distinct, each Miss Piggy better and more thought-provoking than the last. Ruby’s even working on color theory; her creation will be dyed thirteen different shades of ombre pink using all-natural organic beet juice imported from the UK. She’s already ordered her dog’s wardrobe from Japan.

  I tell her that I need a break.

  “Keep an eye on the time,” she warns me as she shaves off the right side of her doggy mannequin. “We need to leave at fourteen hundred hours, before Mr. Chen gets to the school.”

  “Sure,” I say, but I’m barely listening. Fourteen hundred hours? What is Ruby going on about?

  Stomach rumbling, I still feel nauseous. I tell myself that I’m just having a normal reaction from having been inside a school. In the privacy of the bathroom, I finally check my Instagram feed. It seems like a waste of time not to do so. For some reason, I see Samira’s post pop up first. She and Peter. Someone’s throwing a really fun party with keggers. First date at the Cheesecake Factory. Little hearts. Kissing pics?!!!! Samira’s Facebook status says In a relationship with Peter Hayes. <3

  My heart and stomach cramp simultaneously. Both from displacement, betrayal, and slow, internal poisoning.

  Instagram is making my condition worse.

  Samira and Peter are officially a social media couple? It hasn’t even been a full two weeks.

  I check my DMs. Twelve messages from Samira. As I read through them, I start to feel giddy and light-headed. Am I going to pass out?

  Samira Chadha-Fu: Iris my darling, are you around for a shopping day? Stop avoiding me. I know you’re dying to visit Nordstrom.

  Samira Chadha-Fu: Okay, how about a quick toke, girl? Coffee? Drink?

  Samira Chadha-Fu: Listen, you can’t stay away from me forever. What will you do if you don’t have your BFF around? You need me. We’re a dream team.

  Samira Chadha-Fu: What are we going to do about prom? I hired a limousine. Parents are throwing me a big party for getting into Princeton. Where are you going to be at next year?

  Samira Chadha-Fu: Iris, come on. Msg me. I miss you. <3 <3 <3

  Samira Chadha-Fu: Okay, Iris … everyone is talking about why you’re not in school. There are rumors that you are getting plastic surgery in Korea or you’re doing rehab in a spa in Switzerland or that your parents exiled you to Canada. Tell me it’s not true!!!! If you’re at a spa, can I come visit?

  Samira Chadha-Fu: Giving me the cold shoulder isn’t your style, babe.

  Lavalike anger rises in me and I stop reading her messages. How can she still not be apologizing for stealing my boyfriend and then shit-talking me in my own home? How can she expect me to respond to her casual indifference? Since she came over with her parents, she has never bothered to beg to meet me face-to-face for an apology and a chance to explain. She could have had the decency to at least FaceTime me if she was busy.

  But Samira is half-right.

  I’m so lonely in Beijing that I am tempted to send her a text. Just to say a quick hello. Despite being badly hurt, hating her, and missing her, I just want to feel accepted again. Honestly, if Peter texted me and wanted me back ASAP, I might even be tempted to make up with him, too.

  Does that make me extremely forgiving or someone who is a sad, desperate pushover when it comes to besties and shitty boys? Even though I know the answer, I can’t help but want to talk to my former best friend. I want to imagine that just messaging Samira will temporarily soothe my heartbreak. Like putting a Band-Aid over an expanding wart. No one tells you that your best friend, whom you swore to love through college and take on the role of spunky, joyful maid of honor at her wedding, can also tear up your already fragile flower-heart.

  Through the walls, I hear Ruby happily singing the Muppets’ theme song to herself. She’s completely off-tune, but she’s obviously excited and super focused. The snip-snip sound of her shearing is almost as loud as her singing. The spa’s owner comes in occasionally to check on her cutting technique and evaluates it on a 10 scale. So far, Ruby’s average is 8.5.

  I wish I could be as content and focused as she is. Ruby seems genuinely passionate about her professional hobby.

  I distract myself with a perfectly timed WeChat message from my dad.

  Hopefully, he’ll have some exciting news from home to share, or he’ll send some goofy selfies and videos of himself and Mom trying to sexy-Hawaiian-dance in the kitchen. They used to go to a weekly community center class together, with mostly old retired people, before Mom got too busy. My dad even took Peter and me with him one time so we could practice the easy swaying choreography with him.

  There’s a YouTube video of me hiding in the back of the class, in the very last row, oddly out of sync with the rest of the students, feeling absolutely humiliated and thinking that being recognized was the worst possible thing that could happen to me. Peter, shockingly, is in the front row with my dad, thoroughly enjoying the steps. He and my dad are
laughing like baboons, moving their hips as if they’re at a real-life luau, and they are actually getting along. We’re all wearing matching green grass skirts, and even then, I remember that I cared so much about what everyone thought of me. I just couldn’t have any fun. And no one except ten retired people in the class ever saw the posted YouTube video.

  I just want Ruby’s joyful confidence to pursue whatever she wants. But most of all, I want to know exactly what I’m good at, and like Ruby, what I want to devote my life to. If I had an aptitude for it, creative dog grooming wouldn’t be so bad.

  But instead of a casual text checkup, my dad is all-business, no-bullshit.

  WECHAT GROUP (#1WangFamily!!!)

  IrisDaddy: How is Beijing?

  Iris: Fine.

  IrisDaddy: Everyone nice to you?

  Iris: It’s fine.

  IrisDaddy: Are you learning Chinese?

  Iris: No.

  IrisDaddy: You know you can’t come home until you know basic conversation.

  Iris: Why are you being so hard on me? Are you still mad?

  IrisDaddy: We are not mad anymore. Just very disappointed and sad.

  Iris: Don’t you want me to come home?

  Iris: And what do you mean by basic conversation?

  IrisDaddy: . . . . . .

  Iris: How many phrases?

  IrisDaddy: When your uncle tells me you are learning enough.

  Iris: What does that mean????!

  IrisDaddy: He will decide.

  Iris: What if I don’t ever learn Chinese?

  IrisDaddy: Then I guess you have to stay in Beijing forever.

  Iris: Gtg. Bye.

  Why is my dad making the most ridiculous demands? Doesn’t he care about my feelings, which are as soft and messy as Jell-O Pudding Snacks? Most of all, I just want validation from someone my age. Ruby is too busy practicing for her competition. And even then, she wouldn’t understand how school is so terrifying and impossible for me.

  Hesitantly I type a message to my ex-BFF.

  Iris: Hey, what’s up. I’m in China. Long story.

  Samira Chadha-Fu: WHAT???!!

  Iris: Yeah … it’s been interesting.

  Even though I’m not supposed to tell anyone that I’m in China, I can’t help it. Samira is like a really bad habit. She’s like picking your nose on public transit or smoking a jumbo-size joint between classes. Samira and I always share very awkward details, from radioactive acne in embarrassing places to gross, unsatisfying encounters with boys. She used to be my only confidante and powerful female ally. How can I suddenly stop talking to her? How can I not tell her that I’m stuck in the black hole of China?

  Soon we’re engaged in our usual lighthearted banter and an hour practically flies by. I almost miss Ruby telling me that we’ve forgotten to phone our private driver to pick us up. Mr. Chen will almost be at Hanyuan Language School by now.

  “We have to go!” Ruby says, sounding breathless. “Weren’t you paying attention to the time?”

  Running to the hired Didi, we barely make it because the rush-hour traffic is terrible. The driver honks at least five times. We nearly collide head-on with a bicycle, but thankfully, no one is hurt. No damage is done to the car, just our throats from screaming so much. On the way back to summer school, Ruby looks incredibly anxious, fidgeting with the thousands of yellow cotton balls on her jumpsuit. She accidentally plucks one off.

  “Iris, just don’t tell my dad, okay?”

  I promise that I won’t.

  Ruby looks at me with incredible relief.

  “My jumpsuit looks good on you,” she admits.

  “Thanks,” I say, smiling.

  Nervously Ruby tries to smile back, but only the corners of her lips twitch, like they’re superglued shut.

  18

  Listen to Iris

  I wake up at three a.m., thirsty, nauseous, vomit-y and achy all over. I barely have time to stumble to the bathroom before I pass out. Auntie Yingfei finds me unconscious and calls for Uncle Dai. Instead of calling an ambulance, they carry me back to bed and tell me, “Help is driving.”

  Dr. Xiāo is the family doctor who pays house calls. In this case, he caters to families in the most elite hotels in the city. He works 24/7, and all I have to do is phone him and he’ll come running. That’s what Uncle Dai says, anyway. Ruby once had the Hong Kong avian flu at five a.m. on a Sunday before the China National Youth Debate Championship, so Auntie Yingfei called Dr. Xiāo to give her experimental meds and hook up a personal IV into her arm to combat dehydration.

  He looks like a businessman in a baby-blue Prada suit rather than a doctor. Glancing at me quickly, Dr. Xiāo explains that I have “traveler’s diarrhea.”

  “What does that mean?” I say.

  Traveler’s diarrhea sounds like a made-up, bullshit name for food poisoning.

  “Foreigner cannot eat street food like local,” he says.

  He then hands me some marshmallow-colored powder to mix with water for dehydration and says the sickness will pass within seventy-two hours. I hope he is right because I cannot seem to leave the toilet. Luckily, the penthouse has three bathrooms, not including the toilet in the maid’s quarters.

  “You want IV, too?” Dr. Xiāo asks. “How is sleeping?”

  I reassure him that I’m absolutely fine and he looks a bit disappointed. I wonder how much he’s paid to be a private hotel physician.

  “Here is pill for nausea, and I will give you more when you finish,” he says, before exiting the penthouse.

  Uncle Dai and Auntie Yingfei are extremely worried about me. They keep glancing at me and asking me if they need to call Dr. Xiāo again, even though he just left an hour ago. Uncle Dai excuses himself because there is “emergency at work,” and he’s needed at a new hotel construction site. He stares pointedly at Auntie Yingfei, who exchanges rapid words with him in Chinese. She looks upset.

  I wonder what could be the problem. It’s six a.m. Don’t my aunt and uncle ever sleep?

  Auntie Yingfei kindly says that she has already “order new clothes” for me. I nod, embarrassed and grateful. I fell asleep wearing Ruby’s pink cotton-candy jumpsuit with the cotton balls and admittedly, when I got sick, I puked all over it. The jumpsuit is wrecked.

  Of course, Ruby does not take the news well. The second garment that I have destroyed. Then it doesn’t help when Auntie Yingfei leaves for work, not before ordering Ruby to help me study.

  “Why don’t you just go home?” Ruby asks me, openmouthed. She crosses her arms and looks seriously aggravated.

  “I can’t!” I say.

  “I’ll pay for your ticket back,” she offers. “No one asked you to be here.”

  “No one asked me if I wanted to come here,” I say. “I didn’t even know you existed until a few weeks ago.”

  “How do you think I feel? No one told me about you coming here until your flight landed. My dad wanted to surprise me with a cousin my age. I used to beg him for a sibling to play with when I was a kid, and he thought I would be happy when you came along. I just can’t believe we’re related.”

  Incredulous, I stare at her.

  Her eyes twitch.

  I sigh. We’re definitely related.

  No wonder Ruby is so angry and disappointed with me. She’s still reeling from the news. I didn’t take it well either when I found out that she was a long-lost family member. It somehow made being Chinese more like a Wikipedia fact, having this instant weirdo connection to Beijing, whereas my cultural identity had previously been Sephora and Nordstrom department store. Chinese was just a type of late-night take-out food: greasy, gassy, but always delicious. Suddenly, my dad’s stories and superstitions about zodiac animals and people with flower-hearts seemed REAL. My parents never once mentioned their past lives in China. They never talked about going back “home.”

  Poor Ruby.

  Poor me!

  “Well, when are you going home?” Ruby finally asks in a resigned voice.

  “My dad
says I have to learn how to be Chinese,” I say miserably. “It might take a long time.”

  Like a ravenous water buffalo, Ruby lets out a huff of unceasing frustration.

  I want to join her too, but I don’t. Howling out loud would make my stomach hurt more. My insides already feel as if they have been trampled by a herd of overzealous elephants.

  Seeming to recover from her anguish, Ruby finally speed-dials housekeeping to help her dispose of the suit. She won’t even touch it. I don’t blame her. The Shangri-La sends two chambermaids and a well-dressed manager with rubber gloves and tongs to dispose of the garment. When the staff all see me again, they sigh deeply.

  Afterward, Ruby disappears into the maid’s quarters and shuts the door.

  * * *

  When Uncle Dai and Auntie Yingfei come home at lunch to check on me, they insist that I drink more tongue-scalding herbal tea and ingest more chicken broth. I honestly have no appetite. Every fifteen minutes, I run to the toilet. The powder doesn’t seem to be helping. Neither do the pills.

  “Doctor say you are okay!” Uncle Dai says. “So now you can help Ruby with English. Time for language exchange.”

  I stare at him. Is he kidding?

  He’s not.

  I should know by now that people in Beijing do not have a sense of humor. At least the people that I have encountered so far.

  “I’m not feeling well!” I say in a meek voice.

  “Nothing wrong with your mind!” my uncle says cheerfully. “Just stomach problem, right?”

  I keep staring at him, horrified. Who makes someone work when they have fainted from some mysterious illness called “traveler’s diarrhea”?

  I know that I’m definitely not related to these obsessively studious people at all when he forces Ruby to come out of the maid’s quarters and makes her hand me a twenty-page typed paper on Proust. The font is practically unreadable. It’s so tiny. Like little polka dots. I squint.