My Summer of Love and Misfortune

by Lindsay Wong

  Looking deeply uncomfortable, Frank pulls out a thermos from his bag, unscrews the lid, pours himself a cup of tea, and offers it to me. How is this helping? Angrily, I knock it away and brown liquid splashes all over the framed ink painting of two swallows diving headfirst into a lake. Tea slides down the glass like mud. The lid clatters noisily to the ground.

  Oh shit.

  I’m not even surprised when the NAMOC security guard asks us to leave immediately. Frank escorts me out with his arm draped around my back, looking thoughtful but relieved.

  For the rest of the day, we actually make it through three whole chapters and I learn how to successfully apologize in Mandarin. “Dùi bu qǐ, dōu guài wǒ,” I can say slowly. I’m sorry, this is all my fault.

  22

  Hard Feelings

  I don’t have enough time to scream.

  I have been spending all evening thinking about what happened at the museum, and my brain feels mushy like leftover red bean pudding. I am strangely quiet all through dinner at Shi Zhi Liu Qui Noodles, and everyone comments on my lack of appetite. Normally, I remember exactly what dish everyone ordered, but I don’t remember taking even a fruit-fly-size bite. My mind keeps showing me repeat images of Frank looking incredibly stricken and horrified by my attitude. I’m so preoccupied by the fact that Frank thinks I’m a selfish disaster that I almost miss what’s going on around me.

  But it’s real and scary, like a commercial truck driving straight into a tree.

  As we wait for the Mercedes-Benz SUV after dinner, someone hurls a glass bottle through the air, striking Uncle Dai’s head. The bottle passes me, but it sounds like a toy airplane, whooshing past my ears and landing on the ground. Grabbing his head, Uncle Dai shoots a panicked look at Ruby, Auntie Yingfei, and me.

  “Get in car!” he yells at us.

  Uncle Dai sounds absolutely terrified. His head is bleeding, as if oozing ketchup.

  I gasp at his forehead, but he points at me to get into the car.

  This might be exciting if it were happening on the big screen, but in reality, it’s slow-motion and scary.

  Auntie Yingfei and Ruby push me facedown into the backseat, and I think this is just a bad party drug trip.

  How could this be happening?

  “Move!” Ruby screams, waking me up. She folds my legs like I’m a store mannequin and plops down beside me.

  Suddenly, Mr. Chen is trying to speed through the chaotic traffic of the city, but the mob of protestors outside at Shi Zhi Liu Qui Noodles is blocking us. He tries to back up, but there are more shouting crowds. Uncle Dai is dialing frantically into his cell phone.

  “What’s going on?” I finally manage to say.

  No one answers me.

  Someone throws another glass bottle at the car. It shatters.

  Ruby looks terrified. Her face has gone eggshell white, at least three shades lighter than her usual skin-whitening foundation. I examine my reflection in the window mirror. My own face resembles the color of milky iceberg lettuce. Together, we look like we’re starring in our own horror movie.

  Auntie Yingfei motions for us to get on the floor of the backseat. More furious protestors are surrounding the car and then they are suddenly banging on the windows. What did we do wrong?! They’re all shoving the car, as if they want to football-flip us over!

  “What’s happening?!” I manage to yell, terrified.

  “They’re—” Ruby says. Auntie Yingfei glances at her and speaks sharply to her. She looks at me. “It is okay, Iris. No worry.”

  Incredulous, I stare at my aunt. Is she serious? There are at least a hundred people outside who want to force us out of the car?!!! Have they gotten Uncle Dai’s car confused with someone else’s? Like a political figure? A war criminal?

  As the protestors gather, we crouch on the floor for what seems like an eternity. My heartbeat fills my ears like July 4 fireworks, while Uncle Dai shouts instructions to Mr. Chen. He wraps his tie around his bloody forehead as a bandage. More extreme yelling in Chinese, and for once, I’m almost glad that I don’t understand anything. The rocking of our car gets worse. I hear screaming sirens and then we are finally lurching forward. I breathe a heavy sigh of relief.

  Ruby, Auntie Yingfei, and I stay huddled together on the floor until we get back to the Shangri-La.

  No one says anything when hotel security escorts us to the suite.

  I want to ask so many questions. I want to know why a screaming mob of people would prevent my uncle’s family from getting home safely after dinner. How could we have gone from being photographed to being punished? Why are people so angry at us?

  Dr. Xiāo is called, and he instantly attends to Uncle Dai’s bleeding head. Three stitches, special black-market Chinese Advil, and two drinks of strong liquid later, Uncle Dai seems to be absolutely fine. No one says anything when I pour myself a strong drink from the bar too. Auntie Yingfei is still shaking like a newly rescued frostbite victim. Ruby is strangely silent. No epic eye-rolling, sneers, or snide remarks.

  Why isn’t anyone saying anything? Is this normal in Beijing? To not talk about us almost being injured/killed? Why do the scariest things happen to me in motor vehicles? Is this a new summer Tiger curse?

  Uncle Dai is suddenly on the phone, yelling maniacally in Chinese at someone.

  He catches my worried expression and then shuts the door to his office.

  I look at Ruby, who looks at her phone again.

  Auntie Yingfei tries to smile at me, but it doesn’t quite work. “No worry, Weijun, okay?” she says. “Not happen again.”

  “What should I do?” I wail.

  “Go study,” she says firmly. “No waste time.”

  Is she joking?

  We could have been seriously maimed and she still wants me to learn a new language?

  Ruby pulls out a textbook on eighteenth-century poetry and begins furiously taking notes. It makes sense that my cousin is a gorgeous robot with a 64GB brain and legs that are longer than a Great Dane’s.

  Hours later, after a tense silence in the suite, I receive an email from Frank, inviting me to a party tomorrow night at someone’s apartment near Tsinghua University. It’s a long, explanatory message about his angry lecture at the museum and an apology for his behavior, asking me if I want to meet his friends. Let me make it up to you, he wrote. I didn’t mean to be so patronizing.

  I type back: What you said today made me really upset. It made me think a lot about myself. I know I haven’t been the best student, but I honestly mean it when I say that learning is scary AF. You are right that I need to try harder, so consider your apology accepted. I’m also sorry for having a shitty attitude too.

  Maybe it’s the word “party” in his invitation that causes me to almost instantly forgive him.

  But I don’t know what the interpretation of “party” is to Frank.

  What if he actually means “study group”?

  Astonishingly, Frank immediately responds and his message catches me by surprise. I REALLY hope I see you tomorrow night.

  My heart leaps.

  Does Frank mean it or is he just being polite?

  I expect Uncle Dai to say NO to a fun gathering of college students, so I tell him that I need to “cancel my study group with my tutor because of the incident.” I wonder if he will order us to never leave the hotel until the end of summer, but seeing my extremely worried expression, he insists that I attend “study time” with Ruby, who looks uncomfortable and surprised by his announcement. He will hire additional bodyguards to stand outside the study group building.

  “You are going to a study group?” Ruby finally says, glancing skeptically at me.

  “Yes,” I quickly say. “What’s wrong with studying languages in a group?”

  “I don’t need a study group!” she says.

  We stare and try to out-eye-roll each other. Her eyeballs seem to reach the back of her brain. She wins.

  Uncle Dai ignores us and touches his bandaged forehead. Like he
has a serious migraine, which is probably true. “Auntie Yingfei and I have lots of work to do. Mr. Chen will drive you to party. Weijun tutor Frank is good serious student. Please go.”

  * * *

  Despite the scary mob incident yesterday, I’m excited to be surrounded by my peer group. In the car, I keep checking my reflection in the phone’s camera, wondering if I have any bits of food stuck in my teeth. Then I wonder why I care so much. It’s just Frank. My tutor. He’s seen me cry and spill tea in public before. Ruby is ignoring me as usual, reading and highlighting a passage on her phone.

  Oh god. Is she still studying?

  Whatever for?

  The party is off-campus, at a tiny, cramped apartment where there are at least fifty students dancing and drinking. Strobe lights flicker on the ceiling, and everyone is practically elbow to elbow and shouting like they are separated by a whole continent. You literally can’t move without smacking someone in the face. I hear super-loud Korean pop music and I suddenly relax. I’m finally in my element! How I miss parties and no-purpose socializing.

  “Oh my god, I’m going to be okay!” I shout at Ruby, who stares at me.

  “This isn’t a study group,” she says.

  “I’ll tell your dad about your Miss Piggy mastiff if you say anything,” I reply.

  In response, Ruby turns pink and purple, reminding me of saltwater taffy.

  On the counter, I grab a couple of bottles of Tsingtao beer (my dad’s favorite) for a nervous-looking Ruby and me, and then that’s when I see Frank with his friends, who are all good-looking and interestingly dressed. They’re wearing gold platform sneakers and stage makeup. Frank, of course, is the exception, but at least he’s not wearing his boring plaid shirt and cardigan, thank goodness. He looks normal today: a black T-shirt and ripped skinny jeans.

  Frank actually smiles charmingly when he comes over to greet me, and despite myself, my heart thumps extra fast. Not the scared fast that happened in the car with the mob, but an exciting roller-coaster rhythm. Giddy heart palpitations for my usually ultra-serious, no-nonsense tutor? Tonight Frank looks and acts handsome and not like a CPA (Chinese Parent Approved) boy. I swig down my beer, hoping it will calm my quivering insides when I interact with Frank. The beer tastes extremely watered down, so I’ll need something else ASAP.

  The insides of my stomach are literally shaking.

  God, I hope it’s just a case of mismatched physical attraction, not PMS hormones or food poisoning again.

  I stand very close to Frank. He doesn’t say anything for the longest time but keeps full-on staring. Is this what flirting is like in China? Just sexy, lingering eye contact, no talking? In Bradley Gardens, the boys hand you an unrefrigerated beer and herd you upstairs. In America, hooking up at parties is usually to-the-point, superefficient, and requires minimal eye contact.

  “Iris! You made it,” Frank finally exclaims when I’m beginning to wonder if I should apologize or even bring up the museum. “You look so, so lovely.”

  “Thanks,” I say, pleased that he noticed that I’m wearing a new polka-dotted dress from Auntie Yingfei, which is red and white and I’m not entirely sure she didn’t order it off Minnie Mouse from the Disney Store.

  More smiling from Frank.

  And more serious eye contact that feels like serious, unsubtle flirting.

  “I’m really sorry again about yesterday,” he continues. “I was out of place for scolding you.”

  “You’re right,” I say. “I just haven’t been focusing.”

  “Beijing really hasn’t been easy for you, has it?” he says, looking sympathetic.

  I nod, for once wholeheartedly agreeing with him.

  To my amazement, Frank absentmindedly runs his hand firmly from my bare shoulder and rests it on my forearm. Carefully, he touches and examines my wrist where I once started a small tattoo of a flower inside a heart and quit three minutes in because I was in such excruciating pain. I hadn’t even realized that the ink wasn’t temporary that time Samira and I went to some dude’s sketchy basement in New Jersey. Luckily, the accidental tattoo is like a tiny outline that resembles a funny-shaped, zigzag mole, not even noticeable unless you look super carefully.

  Frank takes my barely tattooed wrist in his, but he doesn’t ask me about it. I’m practically hypnotized. I should move my hand, but this feels way too nice. I haven’t been touched by a boy since Peter dumped me. Frank flushes. And I notice that he’s rabbit-chewing his lip. Is he nervous?

  “You said something that really shocked me,” I eventually admit, ignoring the fact that my heart is thumping and he is still holding my arm. “Honestly, I didn’t realize I was coming across as a two-headed monster.”

  “I keep forgetting that you aren’t Chinese at all,” Frank says, frowning at my unfinished tattoo of a flower-heart.

  “What are you talking about?” I say, confused. “My family lives in Beijing. You reminded me of my family tree at the museum.”

  Face burning, I pull away from his touch. I don’t want to hear another lecture, especially at a party that he invited me to.

  “You look Chinese, but you act different and think different from everyone in Beijing. Being Chinese is … always thinking about your past, present, and future. You’re connected to your people. Americans tend to only think about what they want. It’s very individual.”

  He sees my stricken face and quickly says, “It’s not a bad thing. It’s just contrary to what Chinese people believe. What I’m trying to say is, I’m sorry for being so hard on you.”

  “I think about people!” I protest. “That’s literally all I think about when I’m not thinking about what to eat.”

  “I’m not saying you don’t,” he says. “You just view learning in the opposite way as someone who was born in Beijing. They feel that they have a duty to study to help their family. You view learning as a punishment, when it should be a privilege to be part of your culture. It’s a gift to speak your ancestors’ language.”

  My face quivers.

  I don’t know how to explain that I have never thought of studying as altruistic charity work to one’s family and self. Frank might be right. I never thought that school and test-taking would be part of a gigantic quest to understand my own sense of purpose and reason for existing. From now on, I vow to work on becoming a less shitty and less lazy person.

  “You’re right, though,” I admit grudgingly. “I really need to try harder. Tomorrow is a new day, right?”

  Frank bows.

  I attempt to half bow, half curtsy back. I end up spilling beer on myself.

  Being told to my face that I need an internal makeover, I’m determined to show Uncle Dai and prove to my parents that I’m super worthy of my culture and a penthouse apartment at the Shangri-La. Frank reminding me that I have still-living people who care about me, but I can’t communicate with them because of my own selfishness and lack of effort, is a serious wake-up call. I’m more than just a series of real-life catastrophes, broken dresses, and traveler’s diarrhea.

  Whooping loudly at my surprising realization, I help myself to another beer.

  Frank then drags Ruby and me over to meet his university friends. They’re all enthusiastic and already drunk. He introduces them by their English names, Emerald, Kitty, Alex, and Jason. Only Kitty speaks English fluently, and she winks at me. She’s wearing a multicolored wig, fake neon-orange lashes, and some fabulous black lipstick. She introduces herself as a theater major and aspiring visual arts critic at Tsinghua.

  “Feng Corporation, hey?” she says, smirking knowingly at both me and Ruby. We cheers beers and I laugh. She pours out some clear liquid into plastic cups for us. “Baijiu,” she says. “Careful, it’s strong.”

  Eager to get more alcohol than the watered-down beer, I swig it down, accidentally burp, and ask for a second round.

  Everyone laughs and whoops and claps me on the back.

  I ask for my third. This Chinese liquor is nothing at all! It’s like drinking water m
ixed in with a few drops of rubbing alcohol.

  But Ruby flushes and looks extremely uncomfortable. When Alex or Jason, I forgot who, puts his arm around her, she jumps and looks shocked. Like it’s the first time that a cute older boy is flirting in person with her. She stares at her feet and takes a tiny sip of her baiju and then she spits it back out. She doesn’t even look up. Oh my god. I grin. Does Ruby not know how to talk to boys?!! Has she never been to a party before?

  The baijiu is making me warm, excited, and giddy.

  On WeChat, I quickly text my cousin.

  Iris: You ok?

  SuperPrincessQueenRuby8421: Of course. Can we go?

  Iris: But we just got here!

  SuperPrincessQueenRuby8421: What are we supposed to do?

  Iris: Are you joking?

  SuperPrincessQueenRuby8421: Do i just stand here?

  SuperPrincessQueenRuby8421: What do people usually do at these things?

  Iris: Just drink and talk and laugh

  Iris: It’s just for fun

  Iris: It’s really easy

  SuperPrincessQueenRuby8421: That’s it? I don’t know what to do

  SuperPrincessQueenRuby8421: What if someone talks to me? What do i say? People are different than talking to dogs

  Iris: Say anything that comes into your head … What did you do today?

  SuperPrincessQueenRuby8421: I wrote an essay on Freud

  Iris: What is that?

  SuperPrincessQueenRuby8421: ??!!!

  Iris: What else did you do?

  SuperPrincessQueenRuby8421: Practiced grooming

  Iris: . . . .

  SuperPrincessQueenRuby8421: So talk about Freud?

  Iris: Omg follow my lead.

  Iris: You’ll do great!

  Determined to have fun, I decide that we all need to relax ASAP and I ask Kitty if there is “anything besides alcohol.” She keeps winking at a greasy dude wearing a hoodie with a large fanny pack. He finally comes up to us and asks if we want “anything extra” in a growly German accent.

  “You want to study? Relax?” he suggests.