“We were given you, and then we decided that we couldn’t handle more,” my mom said when I asked her why she didn’t have a second kid.
“You’re just too exciting for a first baby,” my dad said.
I stare out the window to avoid eye contact with my smiling aunt and uncle, and scowling cousin, focusing on the few glass skyscrapers and the sprawling concrete buildings. They remind me of the gray LEGO spaceship structures that Peter kept as models in his room. I tell myself a hundred times that I’m not in a prison.
As we drive, I decide to distract myself with this amazing gift of a prepaid Visa card. I wonder how much money is on it. Is there a special Chinese etiquette for spending your relations’ money? Are you supposed to spend 60 percent on yourself and 40 percent on presents? And is there a limit at all, if your uncle is super China-rich?
Feeling homesick, despite being still furious and hurt at my parents, I decide to send them a quick message. It can’t hurt to check in, right?
WECHAT GROUP (#1WangFamily!!!)
Iris: If Uncle D gives me money, is it okay to spend it?
Mom: How much money?
IrisDaddy: Thank him and give it back.
Mom: Are we talking like 20 bucks or 200?
Iris: I don’t know.
Mom: What do you mean you don’t know?
IrisDaddy: They could be very poor and might just be giving you money to save face. Make sure you give it back.
Iris: They’re not poor.
IrisDaddy: Your uncle never brought up money in our conversations, which means that money could be an issue for them. You should thank him nicely and give it all back. Besides, we gave you the equivalent of $6,000 US for the whole summer. I’ll wire your uncle some money later for food and housing. How much do you have left??
14
Belonging
Even though Ruby and I both say NO, Uncle Dai insists that I take Ruby’s gorgeous store-display bedroom.
“Where will Ruby sleep?” I say, worried that we’d have to share a room. What if we have to share a bed? Shouldn’t this penthouse suite have a guest bedroom? I’ll happily take the couch in the living room if it means not sharing with someone who hates me more than I detest Algebra II.
I’m honestly disappointed that Ruby seems to have graduated from strongly disliking me to showing me open disdain. It stings that she thinks I’m such an international loser. Is this how an adored Bernese mountain puppy feels when she grows up and her family no longer lets her sleep on their stomachs anymore?
“I’m not sleeping in the maid’s room!” Ruby says. “Iris is a spoiled American. Make her do it. She has never even had a real job.”
“She is guest, Ruby!” Uncle Dai admonishes her. He looks flustered, as if embarrassed by his daughter’s outburst. He smiles at me apologetically.
They argue heatedly in Chinese for a while.
Spoiled? What on earth is Ruby talking about? She lives at the Shangri-La and has a personal driver! The nicest hotel that I’ve ever stayed at is the Marriott Suites in Miami with my parents, who had a corporate discount through my mom’s company.
The thought of sleeping in the maid’s quarters causes Ruby to turn the same color as the expensive washed-out wallpaper. She looks scandalized.
“I can sleep in the maid’s room,” I offer quickly. “It’s totally fine. I don’t mind. Besides, this is Ruby’s room.”
My cousin nods, agreeing emphatically with me.
She points at me like I’m a ginormous insect.
Feeling flustered but also annoyed, I roll my eyes.
She rolls hers in reply.
I feel like we could bond over our synchronized eye-rolling, but my cousin doesn’t seem to have a sense of humor.
And here I thought that humor was supposed to be inherited. Not something that people agree on.
My dad and I frequently laugh like hyperactive monkeys at the same jokes; even my mom can giggle with me.
What’s wrong with Ruby?
Then an anxious thought slithers across my mind. “Where will I sleep?” I ask, concerned.
“No maid,” Uncle Dai replies. “We have many hotel staff already. Twenty-four-hour desk help. I promise your daddy I take care of you, Weijun.” Then he adds, sounding slightly anxious, “Do you need maid? We can get one for you.”
“No,” I say quickly, feeling shell-shocked.
“You want to bring from America?”
“Twenty-four-hour desk help is enough.”
Despite our protesting, my uncle insists that Ruby move to the empty maid’s room, which is a medium-size room with its own marble bathroom and decent-size porcelain tub. It’s as immaculate and fairy-tale-like as the rest of the luxury rooms in the penthouse. Just smaller. Shocked, I don’t understand what my cousin is complaining about. I’d be perfectly happy here.
When Uncle Dai and Auntie Yingfei say good night and go to the master bedroom, I help Ruby move her clothes into the smaller room, while she mutters nonstop under her breath. I have no idea what she’s saying, but it all seems very angry and directed at me. Like she’s passive-aggressively silent-tweeting me.
“I’m sorry for everything,” I say.
I am genuinely sorry, but Ruby doesn’t seem to care.
I read in the autumn issue of Cosmopolitan that you’re supposed to communicate sorry-ness with your eyes by widening your pupils and making sure that your arms aren’t folded across your chest, to convey authentic intentions. You’re also supposed to show people your palms. I make sure to open my eyes as wide as possible and roll my shoulders backward like a baby gorilla. Then I show Ruby the backs of my unmoisturized hands.
“What’s wrong with you?” Ruby asks. Then she slams the door, causing me to jump and blink. I hear her mutter insults in Chinese and English as I turn to leave. “Horrible … spoiled … ChineseChineseChinese … spoiled brat!”
“I’m sorry!” I shout again through the door. I have no idea what to do.
“Spoiled American!” she yells back. “What was my dad thinking, letting you live here?”
“Listen, I’m really sorry,” I say again, but Ruby doesn’t respond.
I glance anxiously at the closed door. Why does she blame me for being American? I have never felt so confused about someone not liking or at least tolerating me before. How do I make Ruby understand that I’m not a supremely shitty person? I’m sure really amazing, well-meaning people, like Ellen DeGeneres and Lady Gaga, made one or two medium-size mistakes when they were teenagers too. Anxiously I try to knock on her door again. If I knew Morse code, maybe it would make it easier to apologize.
No response.
Finally, I retreat to Ruby’s bedroom, determined to show my cousin during the next twenty-four hours that I’m a fabulous and extra-generous person.
* * *
After passing out facedown with my clothes still on the next morning, I find a basketful of flaky doughnut sticks and sweetened soy milk, shrimp wontons, bean juice, gloopy wheat porridge, and breadlike buns stuffed with pork and veggies laid out on the kitchen counter. There’s also strong-brew coffee and sliced tropical fruit. My whole head, unfortunately, is slightly throbbing, but I tell myself that I’m just not used to being spoiled with rich-people food and drink.