I wait for my chance. This almost reminds me of Friday afternoons with Samira, when we would lie on her bed like an old married couple and make a long list of our life complaints and boy problems, while sucking down chocolate ice-cream floats and slurping Cheese Whiz straight out of a spray can.
“What’s wrong?” I ask when she hangs up. “Seriously. Maybe I can help.”
“Why?” she asks, frowning at me. Ruby chews her pinkie.
“We’re cousins,” I say. “Isn’t family supposed to help?”
“What about … your clothes?”
A look of unmistakable guilt flashes across Ruby’s features.
I wince.
She sees my pained expression, and she looks ashamed.
We both stare at the immaculate marble floor.
“It’s fine,” I finally say, laughing awkwardly. “It’s a good excuse to get new ones.”
Forgive and forget, right?
The problem, Ruby reluctantly explains, is she needs someone to pick up a practice Tibetan mastiff that is being flown from a temple full of monks in the Himalayas. She can’t change the day of her dress fitting in Milan. Uncle Dai won’t let Mr. Chen watch her dog because he thinks that “dog grooming very silly.” But she’s going to fly in a different mastiff every four months since it takes a year to practice for the international competition. The rented dogs will be groomed and fed and then returned to the temple. Then the one with the best temperament will be paraded as Miss Piggy for the show.
I stare at her, absolutely delighted. She’s flying in dogs from Tibet?!!
“I could get the practice mastiff for you,” I offer, “while you get fitted for your costume in Italy!”
How hard can picking up a dog at the airport be? I have no idea what kind of breed a Tibetan mastiff is, but aren’t rich people always carrying them around like tiny wallets? Ruby hesitates and looks doubtful.
“I would love to help!” I repeat.
“You would help me?” she says.
“YES!” I enthuse, remembering what Uncle Dai said. I say again: “That’s what family is for!”
Uncle Dai peeks his head out of his office at my enthusiasm. He gives us both a thumbs-up sign, which makes me laugh. I give him one back. He is acting exactly like my dad, always goofy and thrilled when someone in the house sounds like they are having fun. Ruby stares at me curiously. Uncle Dai said that I was supposed to hang out with Ruby to teach her people-skills, but Ruby seems to only care about dog shows. This is the perfect opportunity to show my cousin that I’m not an awful human being, and I could win a trophy for best dog-sitter of the year.
Ruby nods hesitantly.
“YES!” I say, incredibly eager to please. “You won’t regret it.”
With a weird gravitational lurching in my tummy, I finally open Uncle Dai’s package. It consists of three cushion-size GED prep books and a Mandarin Language Beginner Guide. Wrinkling my nose, I open the first book and there is a list, which is surprisingly easy to read. Then I realize that it’s just the Table of Contents, and there’s even more text to follow! Long paragraphs of numbers and equations and diagrams and I swear they’re not even written in English. Math was obviously designed by Pictionary-obsessed aliens who had access to robots to help them understand extra-sophisticated concepts. As I try to understand an equation, another horrible, panicky feeling rushes through me. I have never felt so much anxiety from learning before. Is this how teenage babysitters in slasher films feel when they get the scary phone call from the murderer who’s already hiding inside the house?
Studying feels exactly like a horror movie.
How do you even get your mind to focus?
Recoiling, I wrap the books back in their packaging and stuff them underneath the bathroom sink.
Out of sight, out of mind, right?
The saying was specifically invented for me.
Ruby has gone back to practicing her doggy walk in the living room, almost hopping like a frog. I start giggling again and pretend that I’m yawning whenever Ruby catches me quiet-laughing.
I finally remember to scrub off my horsehair face and end up watching Ruby practice with her stuffed dog, which is far more interesting than the Shopping Channel.
16
Sibling Rivalry
This time for dinner, Mr. Chen drives us to Opera Bombana, a fine-dining Michelin three-star Italian restaurant, and even more paparazzi than last night line up to take Uncle Dai’s photo. Five scowling security guards stand impressively around us, while reporters shout nonstop questions at Uncle Dai. A few people are even holding hand-painted signs and yelling passionately. I wish I understood Chinese so I could understand the fuss. Is Uncle Dai some kind of local celebrity?
“What’s going on?” I say as Auntie Yingfei puts her arm around me and smiles sweetly.
“We build hotel,” my uncle says, while my aunt nods with excitement.
“Not malls?” I ask hopefully.
“Just hotel.”
“Shopping centers?” I ask.
Uncle Dai shakes his head.
“How many hotels?” I finally say, trying to hide my disappointment.
“Twenty-five in Asia,” Uncle Dai says proudly. “This one in Beijing will be biggest one. Seven-star.”
They have seven-star hotels? Are seven stars for real? Then why are we staying in a lowly four-star Shangri-La? Math might be my worst subject, but even I know three stars is a staggering difference.
As if reading my mind, Uncle Dai says, “Shangri-La owned by friend. He give us big discount.”
“Oh!” I say.
Billionaires like discounts too?
I don’t know how to respond to that.
Uncle Dai and Aunt Yingfei smile warmly at me.
“Weijun is taking interest in our company, Ruby,” Uncle Dai announces, nudging his daughter. “Maybe now you will pay attention too.”
In response, Ruby says nothing as we are escorted to a private dining room at the restaurant. She still hasn’t said anything since I offered to help pick up her borrowed mastiff. I smile at her encouragingly, but she doesn’t look me in the eye. What just happened? I thought we were starting to become friends. Before we left for dinner, since my clothes were still sopping wet, Ruby lent me an ankle-lenth dress made out of orange bath mat material with swaths of pink organza sewn onto it. The dress was supposed to mimic a romantic Caribbean sunset. Ruby assured me that the garment was supposed to make me feel “like modern art,” but my skin seems to be allergic. Inadvertently, I scratch myself. Rather than chat with me, Ruby sighs and keeps texting someone on her phone.
To be honest, no one warned me about lukewarm, standoffish girls in China, but I just assumed my cousin, like everyone else, would automatically gravitate toward my Type B, cheerleading persona. Compared to America, China has a long, unbelievable history of fighting wars, and Ruby could certainly be an expert in making my life as difficult as possible. Isn’t it enough to offer to help her pick up a dog?
I scoot closer to her, but she moves away. As if she’s afraid to get too close to me.
It’s like she doesn’t even want to be casual acquaintances, and yet there are moments when she seems okay.
In America, everyone used to run at me, but I don’t know what happened after Samira and Peter. It’s like I have suddenly developed horrible, eye-watering, nose-stinging BO. People in Beijing are now running away!