My Summer of Love and Misfortune

by Lindsay Wong

  21

  Wasting Time

  “Are you paying attention?” Frank asks me. He doesn’t say anything about me bailing on him yesterday. I want to make up creative excuses, but I’m too tired. Secret-keeping is exhausting. I don’t have enough storage space left in my brain. Plus, he should be proud of me. I practiced three Mandarin phrases for almost half the night. But I can sense his disapproval with the crossed arms and nonstop frowning.

  Honestly, I also don’t know how my dad or Uncle Dai keep such complicated secrets. It’s like I’m doing intense, invisible work with my imploding thoughts and getting zero credit. I must be an outdated iPhone with 8GB, but my dad and Uncle Dai are the latest model with unlimited storage capacity.

  After only one day, I just want to blurt out everything to anyone who will listen. My dad kept the secret of his brother and undead parents for seventeen-plus years. Did he keep upgrading his memory? Installing new software?

  I’m still furious at my dad for lying not once but twice. Is he trying to deprive me of all the family that I could know? What would happen if I asked him to produce a family tree? Would all the ancestors that are supposed to be dead be actually part of the living too? What the hell is wrong with our family? Do people not die when they’re supposed to?

  “Iris, are you even listening?” Frank is asking me a question. He waves his hand in front of me.

  I blink.

  We’re at the penthouse and housekeeping has placed on the table an assortment of baked goods and multicolored macarons, fresh cream puffs, and trays of assorted Belgian chocolates. Distracted, I munch on a lilac-colored macaron. The taste of soft, nutty pastry melts in my mouth. It’s honestly the best macaron I’ve ever eaten.

  “Are you still here?” Frank says. “Can you please repeat what I said about the proper way to greet a stranger?”

  “Hmmm,” I say, my mouth full.

  All I can think about is my grandmother. Was she a ghost? Was I sick and hallucinating? But I still have the hotel key. And her pleading expression is stuck to my eyeballs, like a frozen screen saver. Uncle Dai slapping the kitchen counter. Ruby’s mean-girl parting shot about my dad being a shitty person.

  I pinch myself to stay focused.

  “So what am I supposed to be learning?” I ask Frank.

  I give him what I think is my most prize-winning smile, and to my relief, he actually smiles back hesitantly. His annoyance disappears, and I decide that I actually really, really like it when Frank smiles. He has the nicest, most genuine one that I’ve ever seen. The corners of his mouth move very slowly, and his eyes light up like those extra-giant Christmas trees at Macy’s Herald Square. And this all makes him seem incredibly playful. Self-consciously, I twirl my hair, which is super dry from having been bleached more times than I have remembered to do my laundry.

  “Your hair is nice,” he says, “but let’s focus on Chinese introductions, okay? The ones we’ve been talking about for the past hour. Have you been practicing our lessons?”

  “Of course!” I say, even though I haven’t.

  I flash him another huge mega-smile, and then I realize that I have bits of macaron stuck between my teeth. Oops. Hopefully, Frank doesn’t notice.

  Suddenly, I have an amazing idea. If I focus extra hard, after all the studying I did last night, I might be able to understand Chinese within a faster time frame. I wonder if by my fully immersing myself in class, my 8G brain will magically start to understand the language of my genetic and cultural birthright. How long does learning a foreign language take with a tutor? It’s not like I have to become fluent. I just want to understand what my grandmother was trying to say to me.

  “Test me! I’m ready!” I say enthusiastically, leaning closer to Frank and propping my elbows on the table.

  But after twenty more minutes of Nǐ hǎo, nǐ hǎo ma, it appears that, even with extra studying, I’m not going to pick up this language. How will I learn basic phrases by the end of the summer? I am not Jabba the Hutt or Yoda or Luke Skywalker—my dad’s favorite Star Wars characters. I cannot make these complicated science-fiction sounds! My neurological center seems to have very slow Wi-Fi. I wonder about hiring a translator. But would my grandmother even speak to a stranger?

  I ask Frank to take a break.

  Shockingly, this time he agrees.

  At the kitchen table, I dunk more lilac macarons into an Earl Grey latte. I chew thoughtfully. I have never been this stuck on a personal problem. I don’t understand why old people and Chinese families are so complicated.

  “I’m sorry to say this, but I don’t understand you,” Frank says suddenly. “I have never tutored someone who doesn’t even seem to try.”

  I stare at him. “Excuse me?”

  He stands up and begins gesturing at me with confusion. He’s no longer smiling. Not even a little. He looks actually bewildered and worried.

  Seemingly agitated, Frank runs his hands through his neatly trimmed hair and his plaid polo shirt and cardigan hike up, revealing a slice of the nicest, flattest belly that I’ve seen in the longest time. His posture and profile are super confident and poised. It’s like the captain of the school rugby team borrowed a nerdy librarian’s costume for Halloween. Where does he even find his clothes?

  Then Frank begins to pace up and down in the kitchen, and that’s when I notice his steady walk and backside. I gasp loudly. To be honest, everything about them are absolutely perfect, 250 percent pageant-worthy. Frank has the well-shaped buttocks of a prize-winning golden retriever and the legginess of a standard-size schnauzer. At least that’s what Ruby would say.

  And why am I even checking out my Chinese Parent Approved tutor in the first place and comparing him to different dog breeds? Oh shit. I’ve been hanging out too much with my doggy-pageant cousin. Beijing is actually turning me into a true weirdo, and I’m worried that Frank might start to think I’m creepy.

  Of course, when he catches me full-on staring, I try to distract him by gesturing excitedly at the snack table. “Macaron?” I ask extra sweetly.

  I blush slightly when he doesn’t respond.

  “They’re really tasty,” I try again.

  No answer.

  “Don’t you care that your uncle is paying me to tutor you?” Frank says instead. He sounds super determined now, like he has an actual toothache or he’s allergic to macarons. “He’s giving me an extra thousand US dollars if you finish the beginner textbook in two months. He wants you to be able to hold a basic conversation.”

  “Well … ,” I say, staring at him.

  Doesn’t he know Uncle Dai is a bajillionaire? A thousand US dollars is nothing.

  “You and the other rich kids don’t care about anything, do you? It’s your horrible, spoiled attitude,” Frank accuses me. He crosses his arms. Like he’s genuinely offended by my creative approach to learning and spending money.

  And what is Frank talking about? Of course I care! I always want to know what’s going on in everyone’s lives 24/7. I always want to know what everyone’s thinking and what they are doing and what they are buying and why they choose to date your best friend instead of you. If anything, I care too much.

  Can’t Frank see that I check social media a million times a day?

  More importantly, can’t he also understand that I’m going through a difficult emotional dilemma? My eyes look Popsicle-pink and puffy from lack of sleep and crying. They are practically the same size as the cotton balls on Ruby’s everyday jumpsuits.

  I want to wail at a demanding Frank: I have been betrayed by everyone I thought I loved, and I’m super distracted because I am carrying a horrible family secret.

  Frank is looking intently at me, and I resist the urge to blurt out what happened to me last night.

  “What do you know about Beijing?” he insists. Frank flips open a page in his textbook and jabs at a paragraph with a tiny, unreadable font.

  My mouth drops open.

  What does Beijing have to do with me not trying? And why do
es everything have to be connected to a boring history lesson? There are more things, like my family and social life, at stake! I want to exclaim.

  “I want to show you something,” Frank says, shaking his head in what seems to be an extreme mix of frustration and disbelief. He seems horror-stricken. Like my dad when I explain to him how I still don’t understand what’s going on in the Star Wars or Jurassic Park movies. “What is not to get?” my dad always asked me, to which I said, “Everything.”

  The plot, language, and characters all seem incomprehensible.

  Grudgingly, I follow Frank outside the Shangri-La and we take a crowded subway. Normally, I love crowds, but it’s rush hour in Beijing and I feel myself become increasingly lost. Someone tall elbows me in the head, and then a harassed-looking woman accidentally stomps on my foot as she exits the train in a hurry. “Ow!” I shout, but she doesn’t hear me or apologize.

  How could I have thought that Beijing was better than my suburban teenage life in New Jersey? I am trying my best, but I don’t know how to do better.

  If I did, I wouldn’t have been sent to China in the first place.

  The subway takes forever, but we get off at Dongsi, and Frank and I are suddenly in front of the National Art Museum of China (NAMOC). I have no idea what we’re doing here. I have always liked art, but I have never been to a museum before. Outside of school, of course.

  Frank and I stand in the ridiculously long line, get our bags checked by security like we’re entering an incredibly expensive store, and then arrive in a showroom full of dull red terra-cotta statues and white-and-blue antique vases. I tell myself that I love home decor. This will just be like shopping at Homesense with my mom. I glance at an English-translated plaque:

  Magnificent Ming Dynasty vase with ornate blue-and-white dragon and lotus roots, Xuande period (1426–1435) …

  Oh god. Is Frank trying to punish me for ditching him last class? Is he trying to give me a coma from boredom? These English words make absolutely no sense. Also, how will I know how valuable an item is if there is no price tag?

  Does this mean that these items are not for sale?

  Or does it mean that customers can bargain?

  Frank scurries through a wing on Ming Dynasty art, and I reluctantly follow him.

  After a while, I finally realize that no one is haggling and there are absolutely no price tags on any of the display cases or ink paintings, which means not even the richest person in the world can hand over their platinum card and purchase any of this collection. I’ve entered the most expensive, most boring shopping experience of my life!

  He stops in front of a sculptural exhibit on twentieth-century Chinese nationalism.

  “What do you know about Beijing?” Frank asks me again in a quiet, intense voice. “What do you know about our people, the language, the culture?”

  “The smog is terrible,” I say, checking my phone for messages.

  Samira has tagged me again in a photo of her and Peter at Starbucks. She sends me a message. Thinking of you. Hope you’re well. Shopping date when you get back from the end of the world? xoxo. A second later, she sends another one: BFF, I seriously miss you. Hugs. <3 <3 <3

  Anger fills me. What the hell is wrong with Samira?

  What does she gain by making me feel even more shitty about being dumped and not getting into a single college?

  Somewhere, the answers to some of the most pressing questions of my life are floating out there on a weak museum Wi-Fi signal.

  Frank taps me urgently on the shoulder. Like it’s Morse code for “Pay attention.” He honestly looks incensed and concerned by my inability to learn. His eyebrows furrow, and I feel like a moth trapped in a glass jar under his stare. For some reason, his gaze feels seriously outer-space-magnetic today.

  I’m not liking or hating the feeling. But my mouth feels dry and raw and tingly.

  Frank’s still wearing the same navy-blue interview cardigan like a uniform, and he begins to nervously shove his hands in his pockets. His face is solemn, like he’s seriously sorry for what he has to say. He paces back and forth like a German shepherd following orders. He squares his broad, basketball-player-shaped shoulders. What’s the rush? Doesn’t anyone in Beijing ever slow down?

  “Iris, when you wake up, what do you even think about? Do you think that people like your uncle work hard so you can enjoy living in a hotel? Do you think that your grandparents and great-grandparents and great-great-grandparents suffered so you could enjoy yourself? Don’t you get that you come from a culture and tradition and people that are several thousands of years old? And the wealth was not handed to them, but earned with hard work and sacrifice?”

  Frank sounds scary-disappointed and also scary-sad at the same time. Like Uncle Dai confronting my grandmother, minus his Dragon Zodiac rage. And exactly like how my dad sounded when he first learned that I hadn’t gotten into colleges. I force myself not to think about it, even though I feel seriously hurt by his tone.

  Staring intensely at me, he continues, “If you don’t care about anything, then what’s the point of anything? What’s the point of being tutored? Don’t you care that you’re wasting money and time?”

  I say nothing.

  “What do you actually care about, Iris Wang?” he continues. “Why do you even get out of bed in the morning?”

  I don’t know how to respond. “Breakfast” doesn’t seem like the right answer.

  Sometimes, denial is the best way to go.

  Other times, I wish I was a possum and had an excuse to drop dead any moment that I faced something overwhelmingly difficult: the SATs, disappointed parents, and maybe a seriously hot college student interrogating me in a public space. The museum lights emphasize Frank’s stark emotions, highlighting his confusion and sincerity. Is that why I need to have everything I see in shops?

  Focus, Iris, I think. Focus. You are a Tiger, not a possum.

  Frank continues staring at me, and I avert my eyes like a guilty terrier. Under his hyperfocused gaze, I start to feel like I’m suffocating. Suddenly, I’m so ashamed. His question confirms why no one (minus my aunt and uncle) seems to like me in Beijing. His question pushes me to think about why I was banished from America in the first place.

  I don’t know where China is in relation to America on the world map, but it feels like I’m falling off the edge of the world.

  Frank is absolutely right.

  I have never really tried in my life, unless it was related to fitting in and being liked.

  I just don’t know how to begin.

  In the east wing of NAMOC, I sit on a bench beside the sculptures of the Heavenly Moon and Earth Goddess. Feeling horrible because I know Frank is telling the truth, I pull my knees to my head, and I start to cry. Not just a few sniffles, but a whole lot of messy tears. In less than six minutes, I am sobbing uncontrollably. My tears could fill the entire China Sea (the one that I just learned about from reading a plaque).

  “Oh no, Iris,” Frank exclaims, sitting beside me. He looks and sounds horrified as he tries to pat me clumsily on the back. “I’m really sorry. Please don’t cry.”

  He’s surprisingly awkward for someone who looks like he should know how to comfort a crying girl. It’s like he’s trying to soothe a heavily drooling chow chow but doesn’t really like dogs. This makes me cry harder because I think that he doesn’t like me as a human being but sees me as his lucrative summer job.

  “Why is China all going so wrong?” I sniffle.

  “What?” he says, looking startled.

  “My cousin hates me no matter what I do,” I say, sobbing as softly as I can. “Even you’re disappointed in me.” Words are dropping out of my mouth like Fruity Pebbles. With Frank, for some reason, I’m more conscious of my inability to control what I say.

  Unlike with Peter, Frank’s presence seems solid and no-bullshit. He takes up space with lionlike confidence, as if he believes whatever he says 150 percent. Also, I usually don’t even understand at least 40 percent
of what Frank is saying. I could probably understand a squirrel or pigeon better. But Frank is real and beside me. And he’s gazing at me like how Ruby looks at one of her top-rated mannequin practice animals, like I’m at least an 8.5 Miss Piggy. I just wish he would hold me or take my hand.

  “Why don’t you like me?” I ask, averting my eyes.

  “Iris, of course I like you,” he says, sounding stunned. He tries to shush me, and his face reddens as he apologizes to a curious museum guard in Chinese. Frank looks guilt-stricken and confused for whatever reason. His expression makes me almost believe what he said.

  “Shhhhhhh!” Frank says again when I open my mouth to speak.

  “Then why do you keep telling me to study like you’re my parent?” I ask, trying to use a softer tone.

  “It’s my job,” Frank whispers, and finally stops trying to pat me on the back. “Tutors in Beijing are strict with their students so they can get better.”

  “I really don’t understand how to get better,” I admit. “I just don’t know how to learn another language or study.”

  Overcome with emotion and unable to control myself, I eventually let out a huge wail of immense frustration, rage, and sadness. I swear, you could hear me all the way in Bradley Gardens, all around the world. Not just in China.

  Everyone at NAMOC stares at me, looking shocked.

  College students, parents, staff, security guards, families with young children, and international tourists. They all look at the sniveling, bewildered girl with gray snot pouring from her nose like soft-serve ice cream.

  For once, I care deeply that I’m a hot, awful mess. Usually, I can always forget after a few blunts and beers. But Frank’s accusations burn like too much Nair Wax on my upper lip. It really hurts that Frank thinks so poorly of me and identifies me as an outsider. Even though he is not related to me and was just hired by my uncle, he already knows that I don’t belong.