My Summer of Love and Misfortune

by Lindsay Wong

  “You need your glasses, Weijun?” Uncle Dai asks.

  Glasses? What is my uncle talking about?

  “Oh! I have 22/22 vision,” I say proudly, and bring the paper close to my nose. This is ridiculous. Is the font somehow smaller in China? Do people have super eyesight in Beijing?

  “Proust? What country is that?” I say, not understanding what I’m reading. I flip through the pages anxiously. “Is that a new name for Persia?”

  Geography is always changing. I can’t keep track.

  Ruby stares at me.

  I try again.

  “So, what country do they speak Proust in?” I ask. “Is that a region in the Middle East?”

  Uncle Dai looks at Ruby. Like he’s asking her a question.

  “Joking!” I quickly say, and Uncle Dai starts laughing.

  “Weijun is very funny,” he says, patting me on the back.

  He suddenly gets an important phone call and exits the living room. I stare at the paper, and I can feel my mind turn to mush. Surely this isn’t English literature?

  Marcel Proust was one of the most profound and influential writers to come from France. He is the father of modern letters …

  Immediately, I start yawning nonstop. It’s like my mouth won’t stop making noises of angry protest. I know I’m being rude, but I honestly can’t help it. I get through the first sentence and realize that I’ve fallen asleep when Ruby taps me on the shoulder, like she’s furiously texting me another rant-message. She has to literally whack my shoulder a few times for me to even wake up from this boring hallucination of reading about someone I don’t know.

  If a paragraph is longer than 142 characters, it’s hard for me to pay attention. It’s like my brain disconnects from my body and I have an out-of-body experience. I have no idea how I will ever master Chinese, a brand-new language, when I failed AP English Composition and AP English Literature.

  “You were sleeping!” Ruby accuses me.

  “I was not!” I say.

  “Yes, you were!” she says.

  “Sometimes when I’m concentrating, I just zone out!” I say.

  “Well, what do you think of my paper?” she says.

  “It’s excellent!” I say brightly.

  “Do you think the thesis statement needs to be refined more?”

  I have no idea what Ruby is talking about.

  “Is it too general?” she persists, frowning.

  “How can an essay be too general?” I ask, feeling smart for knowing the answer to her trick question. “Essays should be about one subject.”

  Uncle Dai and Auntie Yingfei overhear us and walk over to the couch, carrying more cups of strong-smelling tea for us. I take a sip; it tastes like jasmine, nectarines, and walnuts. I take another. It’s wonderfully soothing and delicious.

  “Ruby is good at English?” Uncle Dai asks, looking pleased.

  He doesn’t see his daughter’s exasperated but hopeful expression. The way that she wants her dad to approve of her, just like how I want my peer group to appreciate me.

  “Yes,” I say, even though I haven’t read the paper, but grudgingly, I have to admit that it seems that my cousin is above-average smart based on the opening sentence. Ruby is definitely more advanced in English writing than me.

  “Auntie Yingfei and I are studying English word too,” he says.

  “What ‘acute’ mean?” Auntie Yingfei asks me. She pulls out a fat book labeled “Engglish Vocabularley.”

  “Oh, it means adorable!” I say, proud to be able to be useful. “Like, that’s ‘a cute’ purse or ‘a cute’ dog.”

  Uncle Dai and Auntie Yingfei nod enthusiastically. “Weijun, we are so glad we have native English speaker here!” Uncle Dai exclaims, clapping me on the back. “We hope Ruby will be smart like you. So much to learn from American cousin. Ruby, you must ask Iris lots of question.”

  Ruby looks up, horrified. “It doesn’t mean that!” She pulls her face into an indignant expression.

  But Uncle Dai doesn’t seem to hear her. She actually looks genuinely hurt. Like she wants to say more about how she feels. I also want to say something about me not being smart and failing senior year, but I’m not sure if it will even help in this situation. It’s like her dad is completely underestimating her mental abilities, while my dad constantly overestimates mine.

  Why does my dad think I’m smarter, better, and more capable than I am? Why couldn’t he just think I was a humongous loser and none of us would even be having this shitty conversation?

  The truth feels slimy, a lot like eating potato salad that has melted in the sun.

  My heart collapses.

  Our dads’ perceptions of us as real people, to be honest, kind of suck.

  Don’t they know that expectations can lead to multiple and long-lasting disasters for future generations? How selfish can they be?

  “Weijun, your daddy tell us to be careful because you are Tiger,” Uncle Dai says, interrupting my downward spiral of gloomy thoughts.

  “Oh,” I say, frowning.

  “But I told him not to worry because Auntie Yingfei and I are powerful Dragon. We can control wild Tiger.”

  I laugh nervously. Chinese superstitions make me nervous. Do they have more power to come true in China?

  “What is Ruby?” I force myself to ask.

  “She is Monkey,” he says, frowning.

  He looks at Auntie Yingfei and they seem to exchange worried looks. Then they speak together in long strands of rapid-fire Chinese.

  I don’t know what it all means. Are they all absurdly superstitious like my dad? I’m seriously worried that means Ruby and I are about to set off a double curse. If I’m flower-hearted, what is she? Her heart must be made out of stainless steel or concrete. Maybe my cousin is a clockwork monkey or just a heartless glass figurine. What type of monkey-heart is she? I just can’t seem to figure it out.

  Ruby says something complain-y to her parents, but Uncle Dai shushes her.

  “Listen to Iris! English is her first language!”

  “Iris doesn’t know what she’s talking about!” Ruby says, sounding frustrated.

  Uncle Dai frowns, staring at me. I wonder what he sees when he looks through me. Does he see me as a potential Ruby?

  Then I remember that I need his approval so that he can decide when I’ll go home. I’ve never wanted to go back to Bradley Gardens so badly. I want to wake up in my own bedroom; my dad goofily singing Broadway musicals, making cheddar cheese, bacon, and chive waffles on Sunday; my mom reciting, like a personal mantra, which top-tier colleges all her friends’ children were applying to for early admission. All of that I would have found supremely annoying once upon a time, but it would make me feel less lonely and homesick now.

  “English is my only language,” I finally say, nodding wisely. I inhale my nutty tea like water and feel more worldly and wise. Like some newly named prophet. At least I know my English vocabulary words. Proust was too foreign.

  “Okay, Ruby teach Weijun Chinese now,” Uncle Dai says, clapping excitedly. “I tell your daddy that you will learn Chinese by end of summer, okay? Starting today.”

  Isn’t it enough that I’m apparently a genius at English?

  The deadline to learn a brand-new language is incredibly fast.

  “I promise your daddy that your uncle Dai is always right.”

  Ruby snorts and turns to me. “Of course, since you are great at English, learning Chinese shouldn’t be hard, right?”

  “Absolutely!” I say, taking another swig of tea, then reaching for Ruby’s, since she hasn’t touched hers. She quickly slaps my hand away, like I’m a fly-size annoyance. I wince.

  “Okay, I go to work now. Ruby teach Weijun and Weijun teach Ruby. Everyone learn new language or no more allowance.”

  He laughs at his own unfunny joke. Then he stares at us seriously. “No more shopping, no credit card if you both do not show improvement. Ruby need A-plus in English paper. Iris need finish reading all textbook and p
ass beginner Mandarin test. If I can talk English, Weijun can talk Chinese. Okay?”

  Quickly, in response, I make a face and clutch my stomach, saying that I need to go to the bathroom. I don’t do well with deadlines or ultimatums. Being told what to do causes sharp, fearful spasms inside me. For Iris Wang, expectations are like sweaty long-jump meets or hurdles. They usually mean falling on my face and chipping a tooth because I can’t meet or surpass them. Since kindergarten, I don’t remember ever excelling at anything. Even my macaroni necklaces were subpar. If I fail Uncle Dai’s demands to finish an entire Chinese beginner book, will he no longer like me? Will he exile me and Ruby to a Proust-speaking country?

  Pretending to flush every fifteen minutes, I fake moan: “Owwwwwww! Oh my god, I think I’m dying! Ughhhhhhhhhh!”

  I sound like one of those bad special-effects machines in a haunted house at a carnival, but it seems to work.

  No one bothers me afterward.

  Anxious and afraid, I stay in the bathroom until I hear everyone go to bed.

  WECHAT GROUP (#1WangFamily!!!)

  Iris: Hey, what does it mean if someone is born in the Year of the Monkey?

  IrisDaddy: Normally, a Monkey is a smart animal, but it is a Tiger’s worst enemy. Do you know a Monkey? Why do you ask?

  Iris: No reason.

  IrisDaddy: Okay, but be careful of the Monkey. Not a Tiger friend.

  Iris: Ok.

  Mom: Don’t listen to your dad. It’s all nonsense. How’s your stomach?

  IrisDaddy: Are you learning Chinese? Hope you are studying.

  19

  Chinese Parent Approved

  Since I am too sick, I am allowed to stay home. I hope this is an indefinite leave of absence from studying and summer school. Auntie Yingfei, who apparently works at a very important international bank, cannot take a day off and asks Mr. Chen to babysit me. Mr. Chen watches a football game on his iPad, so I end up scrolling through my social media feeds.

  At least six people have commented on Samira’s relationship status. Are Peter and Iris really over? What happened?!!!!

  My heart lurches. I still can’t believe that Peter broke up with me.

  Social media suddenly makes it too real.

  It’s not official until it’s been posted on at least three different social media sites and retweeted and shared six times. To make matters worse, despite us recently reconnecting as DM “friends,” Samira has tagged me in ten new photos of her and Peter. They’re touching each other’s arms and legs in every single shot. Samira has even taken photographs of all the presents that Peter has given her: flowers, concert tickets, and Blu-rays of movies that he and I used to watch together.

  Peter Hayes always said that he was “way too broke” to buy me nice things.

  Come to think of it, he never bought me anything, not even on my birthday.

  Suddenly, I want to throw up.

  Samira has hurt me again, and I let her. Why did I even respond to her messages? Why didn’t I just block her?

  I’m seized by intense homesickness again, the shitty kind I had when I was in eighth grade at summer camp in Connecticut. Of course, I was sharing a cabin with Samira and six other girls, but when I wasn’t making friendship bracelets, I was thinking about getting pedicures with my dad. Despite his lying and all his secrets, I really miss him. I even miss my mom, and all her unrealistic expectations.

  That’s probably why their abandonment hurts the most.

  In the twenty-first century, it’s like getting rid of a beloved pet by giving her to another home. No one ever asks a guinea pig or a gerbil whether they want to relocate. Anyway, I thought that being an only child meant that I was automatically the favorite, and exempt from parental punishment. I just never thought of my parents as actual people who could make earthquake-size decisions for me.

  I’ve been too preoccupied with my own shock, anger, and sadness to realize how much I took their love for granted. Even though they sent me away, they would never hurt me so casually like Samira and Peter.

  Until now, I never understood why my mom expected so much of me, but maybe I should have tried harder to listen to her, like how I try Olympic-athletic-hard to be well-liked in any social situation. I always assumed that my mom was being overly picky, but maybe she just saw who my ex–best friend and ex-boyfriend were from the beginning: soggy, leftover Doritos that no one else wanted.

  “Iris, I don’t understand why you never listen to me,” she once said, frustrated, when I waltzed out of the house to meet Peter, surprising him with a brand-new T-shirt from an indie band that he liked. Or even when I rushed over to see Samira after midnight because my best friend had an emergency favor to ask me. Never mind if I had an exam the next day and overdue homework.

  “You want me to have no life like you,” I shouted back. “You don’t want me to have any fun!”

  “You keep inviting termites into your house and there will be nothing left,” she said, sighing. “Why do you want these insects to like you? How is having bugs in your house fun?”

  I never understood what she was talking about. I just assumed that she was referring to our ongoing home renovations. I was just grateful that there were two additional people, besides my parents, who said they liked and needed me. At least that was what I had honestly thought.

  My parents would never betray me in real life and on social media, would they?

  WECHAT GROUP (#1WangFamily!!!)

  IrisDaddy: We have very bad news :(:(:(

  Mom: We saw Samira and Peter today at the mall.

  IrisDaddy: You know they are holding hands? Acting like boyfriend and girlfriend!!!

  Iris: …

  Mom: Good riddance to such bad people.

  Iris: …

  IrisDaddy: You can do better, Iris. Remember you are a Tiger. King of the jungle! Better than them.

  Iris: Thanks, Dad.

  Iris: I’m sorry for everything …

  Iris: I’m really sorry for how I behaved.

  After chatting with my parents, I feel even more teary-eyed and heartbroken. I want to go back to my old life with the boring suburbs and parents who criticize my shitty life choices. I just want to hop on the next return flight. If I had known I would be banished to Beijing, I would never have not studied for the SATs. I would have even proofread all my college applications twice.

  A knock on the apartment door interrupts my soft-crying reverie. Mr. Chen is absorbed in his football game. So I wipe my wet, monster-red eyes and answer the door, wondering if it’s housekeeping. There’s a random dude in the hallway in a blue cardigan, and for a second, I don’t even know why he’s here. Normally, I might send him away like I do with door-to-door salespeople, but then I remember the unbelievably good-looking tutor at the interview who laughed at me in my housecoat and face mask. He puts his hands together and bows briefly.

  Should I bow back?

  Up close, Blue Cardigan is tall, polite, and handsome, the complete opposite of all the usual dudes who come looking for me. He’s better-looking than all the boys in Bradley Gardens, and in comparison, way hotter than all the tutors that my parents have ever hired.

  He starts talking to me in Chinese.

  When he sees my confused expression, he quickly switches to English. “Weijun, I’m Frank Liao? Your uncle said that I was supposed to tutor you to help you catch up in school.”

  “Wrong person,” I say, quickly closing the door.

  Then I regret that I didn’t just ask him for his number before pretending that I didn’t know who he was. For a millisecond, I almost wish that I wasn’t so severely allergic to learning.

  I hope Frank doesn’t actually recognize me without the horsehair face mask. What a lucky coincidence I decided to prioritize self-care after being scammed by a cabdriver! A facial scrub is better than any superhero costume. I have always wondered why bank robbers on TV don’t just get classy spa masks as substitutes for goofy cartoon ones.

  I wait for my new tutor to leav
e, and half an hour later, I decide to take the subway. The penthouse seems too congested. I need to hop on a train or a bus—to get anywhere from here. Mr. Chen is too busy shouting at his live-streaming game to even notice.

  All those years of sneaking out to see Peter have paid off. I’m an expert at stealth. Ask any teenage girl of strict Chinese parents what her superpower is, and she’d say it’s sneaking away or telling believable white lies. I don’t have a skill in inventing plausible alternative scenarios to my parents because I usually feel so guilty that I have to suddenly confess. My dad says it’s a Tiger trait: it’s noble not to lie.

  I guess Goats are great liars.

  But a Tiger is excellent at stealthily running away.

  Of course, I can’t find the same Oriental Plaza from the first day.

  As soon as I leave the lobby of the Shangri-La and bow enthusiastically to the doormen, I don’t know which direction to wander in. I pretend to be supremely confident, like I’m strutting down a runway at a Victoria’s Secret fashion show, as I follow what I hope is a sign to the subway. It doesn’t resemble transit at all, and the logo looks like Gucci and Chanel merged as one multinational Chinese company. Is this a sign to a clothing factory? But I’m proud of myself for at least getting somewhere.

  When I see the subway station, I whoop and congratulate myself. I always knew that I was destined for foreign travel. But I get hopelessly lost after I buy a subway ticket. There are so many rushing people, and I don’t really understand which train to get on. All I know is that I’m at the National Library metro stop. I ask a girl my age for directions, but she ignores me. I ask a woman who could be my mother, but then our exchange turns into a nonstop lecture about why I don’t speak Chinese.

  “You look Chinese,” she says, staring suspiciously at me. “Why you not understanding?”

  Why don’t Beijingers get it when I say I’m from the suburbs of Bradley Gardens, New Jersey?

  “What wrong with you?” another man asks.

  At his question, I glare at the stranger, and I feel a bit shitty for doing it. He doesn’t understand how language can be lost when your parents leave the homeland and work hard to adapt to a foreign culture. He doesn’t understand that I am the most important product of their decades-long struggle. My dad, who is not as smart as my mom, told me he took ten years to be able to speak English fluently, and another five more before he could compose a decent-sounding email. Both of them forced English down their throats like a hangover-cure smoothie of raw eggs, licorice root, and tomato juice. Teaching me Chinese was not their priority. Making me happy was what they cared about most.