Family can always forgive and find each other.
At least that’s what I have always strongly believed.
And my instincts, so far, have been 85 percent correct.
But for some reason, instead of immediately embracing me, the girl looks stunned. She blinks for a long time. Then she says in a snooty voice, “The dress you are wearing is for my upcoming dog show.”
“I’m really sorry,” I say again, thinking that an excuse would be totally unacceptable at this point. “You must be my cousin Ruby. I’m Iris. Hi!”
She ignores me. “It’s for MY competition.”
My expression indicates that there is something wrong with me. In fact, I have no idea what she’s talking about. She points to another closet, which I had completely missed. “These clothes are for wearing. These ones are just for showing.”
I stare at her. Is she kidding? What’s the point of owning fabulous dresses if you only wear them for dog shows?
For a moment, we just look at each other, taking each other in. Her glossy upper lip curls upward. “That dress you are wearing is from Paris Fashion Week. There’s a reason I’m number two in dog competitions in China,” she says, as if it explains my transgression.
“Oh,” I say, unsure of how to respond to her statement.
She stares at my dehydrated airplane hair, my unmade-up face, my sweatpants and sneakers, and her mouth starts to twist in almost comical revulsion. I hear a small hissing sound, and at first I think she’s passing gas. It takes me a while before I realize that it’s actually a noise of disapproval.
“I don’t understand you at all,” she says, frowning. “Why don’t you know any of this?”
I don’t understand YOU, I want to retort. And I don’t know anything about your life in China.
Instead, I stare at her, my mouth opening and closing like a socially awkward golden retriever.
No one my age has ever not liked me before. If I were a product or a business on Yelp, no one in my generation would ever give me less than four stars. My average rating, if you factor in parents, teachers, and tutors, might actually be 3.5.
“Listen, I’m so sorry,” I apologize again, wincing.
She points at my gorgeous dog-show dress. Her dress.
Smiling nervously, I struggle with the zipper. To my horror, it won’t budge.
“Can you—can you please help me?” I stammer. Mortification, in the form of an aggressive allergic sneezing fit, hits me. Ruby’s face turns murderous pink. The same shade as the dress and the chandelier.
13
New Family
Hotel services are called, and several maids all try to unzip me. It’s like an international fashion emergency.
“Move right,” someone says.
“Raise arm,” another person says.
“Suck in tummy.”
We try everything.
But I’ve accidentally stuffed myself into this doggy-pageant gown like a Thanksgiving turkey. I’m like bulging pork filling in a delicious deep-fried dumpling.
My willpower is so strong that it cannot be undone.
This dress has claimed me, and it won’t let me go.
Finally, the manager of guest services at the Shangri-La decides to call in the hotel seamstress. She’s an older lady with a bad perm who constantly humphs and growls with annoyance and then finally grabs a pair of sewing scissors from her kit. I can’t believe that my spontaneity has resorted to the destruction of a brand-new dress.
“No!” I shout, at the same time Ruby yells something accusatory in Chinese.
The older lady looks at both of us and speaks urgently to Ruby. They sound like they’re arguing. I don’t understand what they are saying, but I agree with my cousin that under no circumstances can my coronation dress be destroyed.
All I can hear from the conversation is “Valentino!” which makes me more determined that I will just have to keep this dress on. I will wear this dress for the next decade until it magically falls off. Maybe this is my karmic punishment for buying a prom dress that I could not afford, and then wrecking it with spilled beer. Iris Wang, at 102 years old, finally dies in a tattered Valentino ball gown. She could never be free of her designer garment, as it refused to come off her.
But despite my protests, the old lady starts to cut me out of the dress. A hotel maid gathers the extra-long folds of the skirt, while someone, a clerk, helps hold the dress in place. Honestly, I’ve never had so many strangers’ faces pressed so close to my backside. I wonder if we’ll all be close friends and sisters after this mess.
As the magic dress finally slides off me, Ruby and I both gasp.
“NO!!!” we both wail in a duet.
It hurts so much that I can feel the dress’s disappointment in me. Is it possible to betray a gown after feeling so wholly connected and invested in it? I’m finally free, but I feel so horrified at ruining such an expensive piece.
After all, I was supposed to wear this dress to my crowned princess of a small to medium-size country ceremony.
It’s practically dark out by the time all the staff leave us alone with the wrecked gown, which Ruby says is “unfixable.” I don’t know how the hotel seamstress will stitch it together again. I could offer to pay, but I don’t know how much it will cost. I also doubt that I could even afford to pay for it.
“Listen, um,” I begin to stammer, “I’m really sorry—”
Suddenly, the alarm on her watch beeps, interrupting me.
“Dinner,” Ruby says abruptly. “Time to go.”
“Where are we going?” I say.
“I just told you,” she says again. “Time to go.”
“Are you getting changed?” I ask as I rummage through my luggage to find something appropriate to wear. I pick a cute floral romper and a gray cardigan. I want to appear conservative and modern when I meet my uncle and aunt for the first time. Quickly, I slather on mascara and gloss to match Ruby’s made-up face.
“Why?” she asks.
Is she serious?
“You’re … wearing pajamas,” I say, trying to sound polite. Maybe dinner is at home, and I’m overthinking it as usual. Maybe people in China wear silk blanket pajamas to dinner? From the side, it looks like she could be wearing a poncho? Maybe it’s something that everyone in our family does, for the sake of having a weird practice.
It could be true that excessively rich people adopt eccentricities like multiple charities. I make a mental note to find myself a strange habit and an important social cause. I don’t have any quirks, but how hard can it be to learn one?
She scowls at me.
I pause, but only for a second. I can’t let Ruby know that I have discovered her eccentricity, which is obviously like her superpower.
“This is a very expensive jumpsuit,” she says with what looks like an evil eye. I can’t be sure because it looks like one eye is closing, and the other one is ogling me with distaste.
“I totally knew that,” I say, winking. I almost sound like I mean it.
If my tone is enthusiastic and well intentioned, does it cancel out a white lie?
The answer, in this case, must be yes.
It’s always yes if it involves someone potentially liking you.
“This suit cost 67,448 yuan,” she says, shooting me another look of disdain.