My aunt, who literally looks like Mrs. Claus’s kid sister, smiles sweetly at me. “Sorry. I not speak English well.”
My instincts have been correct all along. This is the universe’s way of rewarding me for all my horrible luck in the past week. Great things usually result from immense suffering.
“Why you don’t call Daddy?” my uncle says.
“Oh,” I say in a tiny voice. “I broke my phone.”
I pull it out and show him the dead screen.
“No problem!” he exclaims. He plucks my broken iPhone from my hand and then tosses it into the tray of a passing waiter who is carrying a pile of dirty dishes. He just chucks my one-year-old iPhone away like it’s a used napkin.
I pause, a little shocked.
An iPhone costs a lot of money.
I know I’m generally wasteful, but I’d at least try to exchange it at the Apple Store for a new one. What would my mom and dad say about this waste? Do I tell them that I carelessly dropped it into the toilet, so my uncle threw it away?
Before I can say anything, Uncle Dai hands me an iPhone from his suit pocket. “Keep,” he says.
For a moment, I stare at the latest model. It looks practically new.
“Are you sure?” I say, shocked by his wastefulness and his generosity. A brand-new iPhone is at least a thousand dollars.
“Of course! You are my niece and we have many extra international phone.”
“Oh,” I say. “In that case, then …”
Quickly, I set up my new iPhone and log into WeChat. My dad said that iMessage might be spotty in China.
Thirty-five unread texts. Yikes.
WECHAT GROUP (Wang#1Family!!!)
Mom: Iris! We have been so worried! Call us back!
Mom: We are SORRY
Mom: Dad is also SORRY for everything
Mom: IRIS!!!!! Did you land in Beijing? Please respond.
IrisDaddy: Why aren’t you picking up!
IrisDaddy: We know we were harsh at the airport, but ignoring us is not the answer.
Mom: Dad checked and the airplane didn’t crash. So why aren’t you picking up! Please call/text us back!
IrisDaddy: We can talk more about this.
Mom: IRIS THIS IS NOT FUNNY. Be responsible for once in your life!
IrisDaddy: Are you okay?
IrisDaddy: Is everything all right?
IrisDaddy: CALL US BACK.
Mom: IRIS!!!!!!!!!
IrisDaddy: I am calling your uncle if I don’t hear back from you in 30 minutes. IRIS!!!!!
“Text your daddy,” Uncle Dai says.
I’m okay, I send my dad a quick message. I just broke my phone. I’m with uncle and aunt and cousin now.
He responds immediately. Glad you are okay. Your mom and I are very worried. We thought you got lost!
I’m fine. We’re eating now. Talk later.
To my stomach’s gurgling relief, dinner is served quickly. Uncle Dai chats rapidly with the waitstaff, who all seem to know him, and then, within a few minutes, a platter of hot, crispy Peking duck is brought out. I love Peking duck, but we have it only when we’re in Queens with my mom’s family for fancy Chinese banquets. This dish is literally the best duck I’ve ever eaten.
“This food is AMAZING,” I exclaim, and dump tons of sweet-spicy sauce and green onions into a thin white tortilla, then roll it up. Like I’m eating miniature tacos, I swallow ten of those delicious Chinese tortillas within minutes. I lick my fingers excitedly.
I’ve honestly never tasted such fresh, crispy, and delicious cuisine in my life.
I have no idea how I’ve grown up never eating real Chinese food. My mom and dad are excellent cooks, but we eat a fusion of ready-cooked supermarket Chinese, American, Thai, Indian, Italian, and Mexican food. We also eat a lot of takeout and frozen Costco meals.
My uncle and aunt beam at me.
They’re looking at me like I’m their long-lost daughter! Their eyes are watering nonstop, but I don’t know if it’s because the Peking duck is really spicy. It could also be the smog situation outside. What allergy meds is everyone taking?
“You don’t know how to use chopsticks?” Ruby asks, staring at me with mild shock. It’s almost as if she finds this fact to be more scandalous than me not winning a single award.
“Yeah, of course I do,” I say smoothly, and grab a pair of ivory chopsticks, but the Peking duck is small and slippery, especially when slathered in goopy red sauce. I drop my food onto my plate multiple times. More trouble comes when the waiter brings slivers of spicy Sichuan chicken with crunchy snow peas and cashews, pan-fried cod covered in a light crispy batter, scallops the size of gigantic campfire marshmallows, and sautéed pork wrapped in a thin, flaky pastry. All followed by heaping plates of zesty green bean noodles.
And forget about picking up the noodles in a dainty bowl.
The strings keep sliding off my chopsticks.
I’ve always just eaten Chinese takeout noodles and spaghetti with a fork and Western spoon. I don’t know how to properly eat with chopsticks, but I can’t exactly ask for a fork now, can I? I glance around, trying to copy my uncle and aunt, who seem to be coordinating food from their bowls to their mouths so well. They can talk, eat, and smile effortlessly! Why did I tell everyone that I know how to use the utensils of my cultural birthright?
In Bradley Gardens, I never needed or wanted to learn how to eat with chopsticks. I laughed whenever my mom and dad tried to teach me. Nervously I wonder if I can google how to use chopsticks under the table when no one is looking.
Suddenly, it feels like I’ve signed up for a dance recital and I don’t know the steps. Sweat slides down my back like a waterfall. Even my hands feel like I’ve slathered them with Vaseline. I just don’t know which finger wraps around which stick or how to balance two chopsticks with one hand. But I’m determined to prove that I can learn the choreography or at least improvise. Is eating with chopsticks like tweezing facial hair?
What would my new family say when I explained to them that I needed a fork and spoon?
“Do you want order different food?” Uncle Dai says, looking at me with concern.
“It is fantastic!” I say, and even Auntie Yingfei looks anxious, but begins scooping more scallops and green bean noodles into my bowl.
Quickly, I attempt to use my chopsticks by gripping them like a tube of lip gloss. As a clump of crispy, sauce-laden noodles plops onto the white tablecloth, Ruby snickers. “Good job,” she says softly.
No one seems to hear her.
My cheeks burn, and the muscles in my neck seize up.
Fed up, I pick up my bowl and cram as many noodles as I can into my mouth. I’m too hungry to care about bad manners. The best I can do is to anxiously shovel and slide the noodles into my alligator-wide mouth by tipping my bowl. But I’m too enthusiastic and half the noodles fall from my mouth into my lap.
Shit.
I try to smile to cover up my awkward embarrassment. This has never in all my seventeen years happened to me before. How are my table manners suddenly equivalent to a five-month-old Labrador? What’s wrong with me?!!
By now, Ruby is gaping at me like I’m a human-size cockroach.
I try my best to grab the fallen noodles with a cloth napkin. But embarrassment continues to tunnel through me like a $5.99 McDonald’s Big Mac Meal with large fries and a Coke. My newfound uncle, aunt, and cousin are watching me like I’m some sort of trashy reality television show. Uncle Dai has an amused expression on his face.