The only number I’ve memorized is Samira’s, but I’m not going to call her.
“You want phone?” the cashier says, watching me. He looks slightly uncomfortable. Distress seems to be radiating all over my features like I’m a giant Wi-Fi signal, and he’s picking up on it.
I don’t know which phone I want. I don’t know which long-distance plan. I don’t even know which number to call.
What would happen if I dialed 911 long-distance from the airport?
Just as I’m about to wail in frustration, someone taps me on the shoulder. I whirl around, expecting to have to argue with another impatient customer telling me to hurry up. But it’s an extremely tall man in an elaborate black-and-gold-striped driver’s uniform. He’s wearing a matching chauffeur cap like he’s from an old-fashioned movie. He’s also holding up a phone with what appears to be my photo.
Is this a prank on a reality television show?
Otherwise, why would a man dressed in what looks like a Disney World costume from Main Street, USA, of all places, want to talk to me? Why would he even have my photo?
Of course I recognize myself instantly. I’m hugging my mom outside Six Flags Great Adventure and we’re laughing hysterically because my dad was too scared to go on the seven-story-high Cyborg thrill ride. He turned leprechaun-green and forced my mom to ride with me. In the photo, it’s windy and my hair, like a napkin, is stuck to my lip gloss. My mom looks genuinely happy, and for once, she’s not worried about me, my dad, or her work. A stab of overwhelming sadness hits me like nausea from binge-smoking weed and devouring nachos. I suddenly miss her.
I miss both of my parents.
I don’t know the time difference, but right now, my mom is probably running to work, thermos in hand, looking slightly flustered. And my dad would still be sleeping with his white noise machine set to Rushing Water, which honestly reminds me of a nonstop flushing toilet. Peter would be honking the horn to let me know that he had the engine running in the driveway. And instead of driving to school, we’d go for a long drive/smoke, missing first and second period.
I seriously regret Peter. But mostly, I regret being the kid that my parents were so horrified by, and so utterly disappointed in, that they had to ship me, like an overnight parcel, in economy class to a foreign country.
How do I make my parents forgive me for such a colossal mistake?
How do I make myself forgive them for sending me to a non-English-speaking country?
Most of all, how do I even forgive myself when all I feel is a gigantic Jolly Rancher of shame and resentment stuck in my throat? Honestly, why can’t three-way forgiveness be as easy as picking a set meal from a Japanese restaurant menu? I never have any trouble choosing Bento Box B with one brown rice California roll, a side of crunchy edamame beans, and sixteen pieces of fresh salmon sashimi.
Blinking, I force myself back into reality.
The man in the driver’s outfit proceeds to show me more photos of me as a child. I nod eagerly. I’m actually supercute. In one of them, I’m dressed as a black-and-orange tiger for Halloween, posing with my dad, who is dressed as a Super Mario Brother. There are more Christmas, cruise, and beach vacation photos. I’m being shown an Oscar-worthy photo montage of my life!
“Uncle?” I ask excitedly. I did not know my uncle was a professional driver. I wonder if he owns his own limo company or if he is responsible for regularly dispatching a fleet of luxury cars. I wonder if he’ll chauffeur me around Beijing first-class, or better yet, if he’ll let me drive my own convertible.
Imagine speeding down the exotic countryside of China with my own luxury sports car.
Then I realize that I don’t actually know my uncle’s name, and due to the frantic packing for this trip, my father forgot to tell me. My dad and I have just been calling him “Uncle.” Of course, I never bothered to ask.
“Thank you for picking me up, Uncle!” I babble.
Enthusiastically I attempt to hug him, but he steps sideways. I try to hug him again, but this time, he literally long-jumps backward. My uncle looks like he’s been electroshocked. Confused, I stare up at him. I decide to try one more time. Family is always worth trying to overcome social awkwardness. After all, like no-fee checking accounts and Visa cards, aren’t they supposed to forgive you?
But the man in the fancy costume shakes his head and says something long and explanatory in Chinese. He bows twice. Am I supposed to bow back? He continues talking. It’s like I’m watching Star Wars without any of the subtitles. My dad loves the franchise and makes my mom and me watch it with him, even though I don’t understand what’s going on. When I fail to respond in a familiar but foreign language that I don’t know how to speak, the man impatiently tries again.
I glance at the cashier, who asks the man a question in Star Wars–like Chinese. They speak for a long time, gesturing at the photos.
“He pick you up,” the cashier translates, looking suddenly impressed. “You are Wang Weijun?”
“Yes!” I say, instant relief bubbling inside me, as if I’ve just taken a swig of Pepto-Bismol to combat nausea. “That’s my Chinese name! I’m Wang Weijun. Uncle, I’m your niece. My name is Iris Wang. I’m from America.”
I can’t stop babbling because I’m so relieved.
I’m finally saved. I won’t have to stay in the airport until my parents discover that I’m missing and call the US Embassy and the Chinese police, which could take ages. It could literally be a week before anyone finds me in this messy, swarming crowd. By that time, I could be extinct. That’s probably what happened to the dinosaurs. First, a broken promise by a beloved family member, and then they were kept waiting.
All I can think about right now is changing out of my day-old airplane clothes and relaxing with Netflix and a Diet Coke and a humongous bag of salt-and-vinegar chips.
“He say your uncle gave him picture,” the cashier continues. “He drive you to meet him.”
“That’s great!” I exclaim. Then I add, a teensy bit embarrassed, “Can you please ask him what my uncle’s name is, and where he’ll be taking me?”
12
Ruby
The chauffeur ushers me into the back of a gorgeous black Porsche with tinted windows. Soon we’re creeping at turtle speed through a winding highway and then we are somehow in the fast, pulsing circle that is Beijing. There’s so much thick smog, concrete, and traffic. It’s like sneaking into a two-star nightclub in New Jersey. You can’t even see the person who wants to make out with you. Instantly my sinuses clog up. I cough ten times. I was expecting a modern and ultra-high-tech city like Paris or New York City.
Never mind what I expected.
Because through the fancy car, it’s like watching a commercial for humidifiers on high-definition TV!
I’m sure that everything would look different if I were watching the city through the back of my parents’ boring Volkswagen.
I just knew that all my positive thinking would pay off! The universe is rewarding me for all my good deeds. For instance, I even found a clear bottle of extra-strong liquor in the back of the car, and I have been helping myself.
This is the first day of my brand-new life. Uncle Dai is the name of my dad’s half brother, and this man, Mr. Chen, is supposed to take me to my uncle. That’s all I got from the cell phone clerk, who looked disappointed when I ended up not buying anything. I felt kind of bad for him and gave him a wad of yuan. He looked so shocked that I think I might have accidentally given him a lot of money. I’m not entirely sure how many yuan is worth a dollar, even though my mom explained it. I’m supposed to multiply or divide everything into American dollar signs, except I forgot what the equation is.