I wonder if everyone left the apartment already. I dump four packets of sugar into a mug of hot, delicious coffee and begin stuffing my face. It’s like I’m at a Cinnabon buffet at the mall and can’t stop myself. I shove an entire bun in my mouth and feel light-headed. Everything is freshly made and intensely delicious-smelling.
“Why are you late?” a voice asks, in a disbelieving way.
I look up, my cheeks full of soft, juicy chicken. It’s Ruby again, dressed in the same identical pajama-looking jumpsuit, but it’s a slightly different color than yesterday. Pale yellow like rotten milk. Yesterday I thought her couture suit looked like expensive poultry, but today I think she looks like an unripe banana. Is this a costume in our family? Do I get one too?
“Are we going somewhere?” I say, confused.
I thought my cousin was still angry at me, but we’re hanging out? Did Uncle Dai plan a family outing that I forgot about?
She ignores me as she texts nonstop on her phone.
When I continue eating, she looks at me with an incredulous expression. “Let’s go?”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
No answer.
I tap her on the shoulder. It’s like touching furniture. She doesn’t even move. Is my cousin a store mannequin?
“Where are we going?” I ask again.
“Store,” she says without looking up. “Time to go.”
Sighing, I grab a couple of savory pork buns in a cloth napkin and follow her out the door. Never mind that I’m still wearing the same clothes from lat night’s dinner. Groaning, I sniff myself. Eau de leftover stir-fry noodles with an undertone of spicy Peking duck. Not bad for an American-Born Chinese (ABC) in high-society China.
Mr. Chen drops us off at the Oriental Plaza, and immediately I feel myself tense with adrenaline. I’m so excited to use this beautiful piece of plastic from Uncle Dai! But then I remember what my parents said about returning it.
But my problem has always been that I just want to accumulate as many items as possible. It’s like a weird itch in your armpit that you shouldn’t scratch in public but you always do. Also, I don’t know what they sell in China’s malls, but I do know that everything is made in this country and then shipped to America. This could possibly be the most thrilling discovery of my shopping career. China is like the flagship store of the United States.
I follow Ruby, who is still text-walking on her phone, and then as if by magic, a gaggle of three chauffeured girls are dropped off individually. Are these her friends? They all look like identical chickens with matching dyed hair and gold Fendi purses and five-inch platform sneakers. If I want to fit in, do I need to buy a uniform too?
I try to introduce myself, but none of the girls acknowledge me. In fact, they look at me for a brief, revolted second, then resume their animated conversation. Has Ruby told them that I’m her non-Chinese-speaking cousin with zero awards and zero talents? Are these her champion-doggy-pageant friends? By now, I’m almost getting used to being ignored and belittled. I sigh and follow them to the mall’s ultra-modern entrance. There are so many people rushing around—it’s like Black Friday at Nordstrom.
Inside the mall, I realize that I’m in the motherland of high-end fashion.
I can feel all my senses light up, like I’ve developed ESP. Each nerve is electric, and I feel this wonderful, warm tingle running from my head to my toes. Then it occurs to me it’s because I have to pee, so I shout at Ruby that I need to use the bathroom. Of course she doesn’t hear me, but I can’t wait. I rush toward the yellow toilet signs, like I’m winning a year-end sales race.
After I hand the man a wad of yuan to use the toilet, I squeeze into the tiny bathroom stall and at first, I think there’s something wrong with the bathroom because it’s missing a toilet. I rub my eyes hard and then I see that it’s located on the ground and I don’t know how to use it. I wish I could ask someone how to use the toilet. Isn’t there an instructional video around?
Wincing, I decide that I really need to pee anyway, so I pull down my pants and it’s honestly an awful mess. Wrapping my gray cardigan around my waist, I slowly panic. My vision gets blurry and I wonder if I should try to call Mr. Chen for a ride home. I feel like I’m seven years old again when I wet the bed at Samira’s sleepover and I was so embarrassed that I covered it up with a fur rug and never told anyone.
Leaving the bathroom and slinking self-consciously through the mall, I’m thrilled when I see Esprit. I rush inside and quickly find myself a new pair of underwear and jeans. I end up buying several pairs of ripped jeans because the shop people are so enthusiastic that I cannot bear to leave without buying five. After I make the first purchase, it’s like something flips off inside my brain and my metaphorical underarm itch returns with intensity. I just can’t help myself. A voice in the back of my head keeps saying, Enough, Iris, enough, but I ignore it. It’s like a strict Asian mom saying that you can’t have the third slice of greasy pepperoni pizza or smoke that fifth joint. It’s the same nagging, scolding voice-over that told me to study for the SATs, and not to party the night before the exam. Oh shut up, I tell my conscience.
When I see a salon, all self-control dissolves. I decide that I must have a seaweed facial, a full-body massage, and a new sparkly leprechaun-green gel manicure and pedicure. Never mind that Ruby has ditched me on my first full day in a foreign country. Who cares if I’m lost?
Somehow I manage to convince myself that my parents have sent me to Beijing to enjoy the finer privileges in life.
It hits me later on that I’ve spent quite a bit of money at the mall, in total, and bought a lot of really nice leather handbags and shoes. I stopped counting after the twentieth time the cashier swiped the prepaid Visa card. Guilt-ridden, I plop down on a bench to think. The horrible sick feeling crashes down on me again, and I feel as if I’m on the tiniest plane plummeting to the ground. Actually, I don’t really need four pink purses, do I? But I guess I can give one to my mom, and the rest save as presents, whenever someone has a birthday, so I don’t have to continue shopping. I’m actually being economical and saving a lot of time by thinking ahead. Maybe I should have kept the money for emergencies or travel, but I can’t think about that now.
More quicksand feelings of shame engulf me. My parents will seriously scream at me over video chat. Will Uncle Dai be upset with the amount?! Will he and my dad gang up on me? He didn’t explicitly give me a number, but what if he was just being polite? It also doesn’t help that all the shopkeepers are so enthusiastic and friendly, offering me piles and piles of clothes. They’re like cute designer dogs offering me their favorite toys. How can I possibly say no to anyone who looks so happy to see me?
When I’m tired from thinking, I buy a strawberry bubble tea at the food court, and the lady at the stand pours a delicious cream cheese froth on top of it, which tastes like I’m actually drinking an entire cheesecake that has been put into a blender. To stop spending more money, I decide to wander outside the mall, and then I see a street vendor who also looks so thrilled to see me. Of course I just have to buy a plate of steamed dumplings, xiāo long bao, which are fat and juicy and squirt hot broth when I bite into them. They’re like little doughy firecrackers! The food is so Food Network–good that I order another bamboo tray and sit on the sidewalk, slurping and eating. I don’t care if anyone sees me, since I don’t know anyone here. I also don’t know where Mr. Chen is, but it doesn’t matter because today has been one of the better days of my life. In fact, it’s been such a wonderful day, I buy another six xiāo long bao from the vendor, who grins at me. I can’t help but grin back.