My Summer of Love and Misfortune

by Lindsay Wong

  “I’m American Chinese!” I holler at the retreating back of the man. He begins to jog-run, as if he is actually scared of me.

  Eyes watering and sneezing nonstop from the smog, I get even more hopelessly lost at the station. I’m also not feeling better when my stomach cramps relentlessly and I realize that I still have my unruly traveler’s diarrhea. This made-up bug has obviously not exited my system.

  Someone taps me on the shoulder.

  Shit.

  Involuntarily I jump.

  SHIT.

  “I saw you leave the hotel.” It’s Frank in his blue grandpa-cardigan. He looks serious but also slightly amused. His lips twitch at the corners, as if he’s afraid to fully smile. But then he winks at me, like he knows why I am running away, and for some reason, my breathing and my heart stop completely. It seems that my flower-heart is officially malfunctioning or working too well in China.

  Physical attraction isn’t supposed to be dangerous to your overall health. How can finding a boy attractive cause disruptions to one’s major organs?

  As if on cue, my stomach rumbles. The sound of undigested thunder. And every shitty soundtrack to a slasher horror movie.

  “I promise I’m not stalking you,” he continues.

  I’m barely listening.

  “Do you have small change, I mean, six yuan, for the bathroom?” I blurt out, embarrassed that I lied but needing to use the bathroom more. To my surprise, I’m thrilled that I might at least have some company, if not some serious boy-candy to soothe my aching eyeballs. But first, bathroom business. I continue, almost not caring that I look slightly panicked, “It’s an emergency. I’ll pay you back.”

  Fumbling for his wallet, Frank hands over some spare change, and then I remember just in time that I need a bit extra to buy toilet paper. He obligingly hands over a few more crumpled yuan.

  “Everything is okay?” he asks when I return.

  He smiles politely and hands me a bottle of mineral water.

  I nod.

  My heart is literally thumping hard, and I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve been getting a leg workout from crouching with my traveler’s diarrhea or if I’m dehydrated and just delirious. I gratefully glug the water down, not caring that I spill most of it on my sweatshirt and the ground.

  “So famous Wang Weijun, favorite niece of Feng Construction Corp, all the way from the United States, how do you like Beijing so far?” he says, grinning. He gestures proudly at the steel structures around him, like he’s responsible for their particular creation.

  “China is … interesting,” I say, not sure how to explain my last seventy-two hours of misadventures. Would he care that I’m a cultural misfit? Does Frank know anything about being homesick, which is like having mono and a weekend hangover at the same time? Has he ever been banished to another country with strangers who all look like you but everything you say and do is strange and unrelatable and leads to confusion?

  “It’s really, really lovely to finally meet you,” Frank says. Genuine warmth seeps into his words, and he sounds like he actually means it.

  For a second, my body temperature suddenly feels hotter than Las Vegas. I gulp more water, unable to look away.

  We shake hands. And I can’t stop staring at Frank’s incredibly symmetrical features. I’m actually jealous. He makes me feel a bit intimidated, to be honest. My mom’s advice keeps looping in my head like an annoying pop song: Never date dudes who are better-looking than you, I find myself repeating. Otherwise they will football-smash your heart. She also said not to be BFFs with better-looking people, but look at what happened with Samira and Peter, who were really average-looking. “Boyfriends and best friends are not like shopping for fruit,” she once explained. “In this case, a rotten apple is not rotten. Find your ugliest fruit.”

  I never really understood what she meant.

  I just really miss her confusing advice. I hope she is thinking about me right now and feeling guilty and worrying about her only child. (I’m pretty sure that I don’t have a sibling that I don’t know about. I’d be so bummed if I was suddenly replaced.)

  Besides, it’s not like I have to be romantically involved with Frank. I just want someone to talk to in Beijing. Bonus points if he’s an extra-beautiful specimen who looks like he takes care of himself.

  “Sorry I lied earlier,” I say. “I just don’t like being tutored, you know?”

  He looks baffled. “Why?”

  “Because it’s work,” I protest.

  “It’s more work for me,” Frank says. “Sometimes I have to tutor people who don’t put in any effort.”

  I laugh nervously.

  Back in New Jersey, tutoring seemed like a waste of time when I could be with Peter. But in Beijing, there’s honestly nothing better to do.

  Taking my elbow, Frank walks me to a nearby coffee shop in what he calls the “tourist district,” and he orders our drinks. “Do you take cream in your coffee?” he asks.

  “No thank you!” I blurt, thinking about the bathroom situation.

  Frank says that after the group interview, Uncle Dai’s secretary immediately hired him, congratulating him on passing the rigorous hiring process. Uncle Dai thought that Frank could probably teach Mandarin to an opinionated American and help me pass my GED with moderate effort.

  As he talks, I notice that Frank’s English has a soft, flat British-Mandarin accent. Sipping his coffee, Frank explains that he has been studying English since he was five years old, and that he’s an English literature and classical Chinese literature major at Tsinghua University.

  He proudly says the name “Tsinghua” like it’s Harvard University, but I honestly haven’t heard of it before.

  Confused about why someone would want to spend their whole life learning a language and giving up their summer holiday to work, I want to ask Frank about his life in Beijing. But he finishes his coffee, and I’m disappointed when he immediately opens an SAT book and begins discussing the verbal component.

  I nod and pretend to be interested.

  He keeps talking energetically about multiple choice, like he’s narrating a red carpet event at the Oscars. How can anyone find fill-in-the-blank vocabulary as glamorous as designer evening wear?

  “So let’s try some verbal reasoning … ,” he says, at the same time that I ask him about his hobbies.

  I just want to know more about Frank. I don’t care about unpronounceable words with more than four syllables.

  But he ignores my question and continues discussing strategies and word choices. I don’t know any of the vocabulary that he’s referencing, even though English is my first language and English is his second. I thought I would be some prodigy at English when I arrived in Beijing. But people who are second-language learners seem to know more thesaurus-sounding words than I do. How is this possible? Isn’t English vernacular something you absorb through the osmosis of peers and social media celebrities who slowly replace your parents?

  Inevitably I yawn several times and pretend that I’m stretching my lower jaw. I hope my yawning will signal to him that he should change the conversation and tell me more about himself. What does he like to do for fun in Beijing? Who are his friends?

  Frank nods and looks unfazed.

  I raise my hand. I cough, like I have something very urgent to announce. As if I’m captain of an airplane about to announce a crash landing over a major metropolis. The thought of meeting Uncle Dai’s ultimatum of finishing the entire Mandarin Language Beginner Guide is absolutely terrifying. How can Frank be so calm about learning?

  “Can we take a break?” I ask politely.

  Frank stares at me, looking astonished and confused. I can’t tell if he’s laughing at me like he did in the conference room or if he’s having a seizure. “But we’re only ten minutes into our lesson,” he says.

  “Is that a yes?” I ask.

  With a meaningful expression, I glance at the coffee shop’s display case of cheesecakes and flaky pastries. I spot a crea
m puff with matcha-green filling. Slices of puffy, yellow sponge cake are arranged on a tray. “How about a snack?”

  “No break,” Frank says firmly. “We need to finish the chapter.”

  He resumes his long explanation about strategizing. How can test-taking be this complicated? There are only four possible answers (A, B, C, D). Does he not know that SAT multiple choice only requires a 25 percent chance of intuition, genius, and good fortune? You have more of a chance getting an answer correct than winning one of my dad’s scratch-and-win tickets.

  Frank’s mouth is moving, but I can’t help thinking about the too-symmetrical shape of his lips, which is like a geometry lesson in itself. The way that he overpronounces his words and nibbles beautifully on his lower lip when he’s concentrating. It’s adorable and fascinating. Almost like watching a quirky but intelligent chipmunk.

  Most importantly, I am also thinking about Ruby and how I’ll be able to get out of this “learn to be Chinese” situation. If I learn enough conversational Chinese to fake it, maybe I can convince Uncle Dai that I am authentically Chinese on the inside, so that my parents will let me return home to my former life of Chipotle and malls? Maybe they’ll let me come home early and finish my GED and I won’t have to stay in Beijing anymore. But how do I stop being a full-on banana who has to magically transform into one of those impossibly delicious yellow sponge cakes at the counter?

  “I am going to fix this!” I accidentally blurt out, and Frank gives me that strange, quizzical look again.

  “It’s a name of an American TV show,” I cover up quickly. “Speaking of movies, have you seen anything life-changing lately?”

  Frank ignores my generous social cue to change the subject.

  Instead, he keeps talking about planning and strategy (so many steps to answering one question). How will I ever finish the verbal component of the SAT when he claims there are multi-steps and multi-ways of thinking about a problem?

  If Frank were discussing something exciting about pop culture or Beijing hair trends, or had some semi-interesting anecdotes about his life as a college student, I might enjoy listening to him. I want to know the fun, dirty secrets on campus. What happens at university parties? What’s Beijing’s drug scene like?

  But having a lesson with Frank is like watching an hour-long show on PBS when it should be the CW. I just want the fun, winking dude from my interview back. It’s my duty to distract Frank from his tutoring lesson.

  There’s a shift in tone, and then I really don’t understand what Frank is saying. Then I realize that he’s speaking Chinese to me!

  “Sorry, I don’t understand Chinese,” I interrupt, confused.

  “I’ve been waiting to see when you’d notice,” Frank says. “The correct term is Mandarin, and I’ve been speaking it to you for at least three minutes.”

  “I noticed,” I lie quickly.

  Honestly, there’s absolutely no difference between speaking the Chinese language and listening to the SATs.

  “Have you ever thought about what your ancestors would say about you not speaking their language? What if they showed up at this coffee shop right now and you couldn’t talk to them?” Frank asks.

  “Not really,” I say, fidgeting. “I would just assume that a ghost would have access to Google Translate.”

  “What?” Frank laughs loudly.

  He thinks I’m making a joke, but I’m dead serious.

  I flush.

  “You wouldn’t want to talk to your ancestors?” he says, sounding incredulous. He looks incredibly excited by the prospect of communicating with dead people. “You wouldn’t want to ask them questions about your history or find out what they are like as individuals?”

  “Probably not,” I say, shrugging.

  Frank looks astonished. Then he finally relents at my lack of curiosity. Truthfully, I wouldn’t want to speak to a ghost, even if they were related to me. What if they were just like my cousin Ruby? What if they were a million times worse?

  “Okay, but can you just please pay attention during our lesson?” Frank asks.

  His emphasis on the word “please” somehow strikes me as boyish and charming. There’s also something weirdly appealing about his hyperfocused personality. Combine that with photoshopped good looks and extra-polite manners. His whole presence seems to make me feel slightly strange and woozy. I fan myself with a paper napkin. I’ve never had this sort of physical reaction when I was with Peter or any of my ex-boyfriends whose names I don’t actually remember.

  Smiling brightly at Frank, I nod with overly fake enthusiasm. Should I clap? Or would that only encourage him to talk more about the SATs?

  But so far, Frank doesn’t need more encouragement. He launches into verbal reasoning. He’s being the perfect mannequin tutor who seems immune to my exciting EQ, which means that my parents would love him. My dad would definitely date him. Frank is a perfect CPA (Chinese Parent Approved) boy to woo and marry and reproduce two to three offspring.

  Because I spend so much time trying not to listen to the SATs, I almost miss a glimpse of that bold, radioactive personality that emerges when he reaches the analogy section. A sneaky grin, a barely heard chuckle that instantly makes me wish we were somewhere more stimulating than a coffee shop. When he looks at me, my face tingles like I have been bitten by a mutant spider with magical boy-attracting powers.

  Why am I staring so much at my CPA tutor?

  Oh god.

  Am I turning into my parents, who have the weirdest taste in boys?

  I tell myself that it’s because I’ve been recently dumped and have not met any hot male twentysomethings since landing in Beijing. This is just a symptom of my wild, beating flower-heart.

  It’s my unpredictable Tiger curse.

  Finally SAT class is over and I want to leap up to the counter for a coffee (I deserve a mocha with extra whip and multicolored sprinkles for learning), but charming robot tutor Frank pulls out another humongous textbook from his backpack and he insists on teaching me how to greet someone in Mandarin. He also hands me a study schedule that has math, chemistry, physics, economics, and American history printed on it.

  Rubbing my face, I yawn pointedly and stare at the schedule.

  He wasn’t kidding, was he?

  “Nǐ hǎo, nǐ hǎo ma,” he says. “Hello, how are you? Let’s look at page three.”

  It’s honestly both terrifying and boring learning a brand-new language. I have no idea how my parents both did it. Most of all, I’m so scared that Frank will think I’m a hopeless, unteachable mess if I don’t pick up a few of the easier phrases within the next hour.

  I try my best to stifle it, but I end up panic-yawning so much that I think I’m giving myself a self-induced TMJ disorder.

  Frank doesn’t even blink.

  Dude is like a learning machine!

  What he does try to do is make me practice the Chinese etiquette line two thousand times, like we’re rehearsing for an audition for a television show. I absolutely refuse to practice.

  What is it with all Beijing people and constant learning? When do they ever take a vacation? Learning about Frank’s educational history, multiple choice, followed by a Chinese saying, was enough for a week.

  I excuse myself to go to the bathroom, and when he isn’t looking, I decide to hail a taxi to the hotel. This time, I carefully negotiate a fee of 67 yuan with the driver before I get inside the car. I even take a photo of the taxi’s license plate in case he tries to scam me.

  I’m learning, but very slowly.

  20

  Secrets

  There’s serious scream-arguing when I get back to the penthouse. The kind of extreme soap-opera shouting that reminds me of the fight that I had with Dad in the parking lot. It feels like a lifetime ago, almost in another reality, with a completely different Iris Wang. Has traveling already changed me?

  My body tenses up, either from a shitty association or from the fact that I’ve never liked confrontation. I don’t know whether I should
creep backward down the hall or make a nonthreatening noise to let them know I’m here.

  Are you supposed to politely cough or sneeze? Which one is less obvious and more convincing?

  I start to half cough, half sneeze.

  It sounds like I’m choking on a Life Savers candy, but it causes the two people to suddenly stop screaming.

  At first, I think Auntie Yingfei and Uncle Dai were arguing, but it’s an older, tiny Chinese lady. She’s wrinkled like a Star Wars character and sobbing uncontrollably. She gasps in shock when she sees me. At first, I think she’s horrified by my outfit, but she’s looking at me like she’s seen a real-life ghost.

  She’s actually so startled that she knocks over a vase of pink chrysanthemums and yellow night-blooming jasmine. CRASH! Glass shatters everywhere. I rush to help clean it up. This woman seems to be as clumsy as I am.

  Uncle Dai turns the color of an unripe banana as soon as he sees me. “Weijun! I did not know you were home. Mr. Chen is driving around looking for you!”

  The old woman starts crying even louder as soon as she hears my name. She grasps my arm and pulls me toward her into an awkward, one-armed hug. I am so shocked that I can’t react. I still have the soggy wet flowers in one hand.

  Normally, I’d polite-hug her back. It’s not very nice to ignore an attempted embrace, especially from a senior citizen. The poor lady could be confused and mistaking me for someone else.

  While the old lady keeps crying and trying to hug me, I stare at Uncle Dai for instructions or a clue. He looks as shocked as me.