Does that make me extremely forgiving or someone who is a sad, desperate pushover when it comes to besties and shitty boys? Even though I know the answer, I can’t help but want to talk to my former best friend. I want to imagine that just messaging Samira will temporarily soothe my heartbreak. Like putting a Band-Aid over an expanding wart. No one tells you that your best friend, whom you swore to love through college and take on the role of spunky, joyful maid of honor at her wedding, can also tear up your already fragile flower-heart.
Through the walls, I hear Ruby happily singing the Muppets’ theme song to herself. She’s completely off-tune, but she’s obviously excited and super focused. The snip-snip sound of her shearing is almost as loud as her singing. The spa’s owner comes in occasionally to check on her cutting technique and evaluates it on a 10 scale. So far, Ruby’s average is 8.5.
I wish I could be as content and focused as she is. Ruby seems genuinely passionate about her professional hobby.
I distract myself with a perfectly timed WeChat message from my dad.
Hopefully, he’ll have some exciting news from home to share, or he’ll send some goofy selfies and videos of himself and Mom trying to sexy-Hawaiian-dance in the kitchen. They used to go to a weekly community center class together, with mostly old retired people, before Mom got too busy. My dad even took Peter and me with him one time so we could practice the easy swaying choreography with him.
There’s a YouTube video of me hiding in the back of the class, in the very last row, oddly out of sync with the rest of the students, feeling absolutely humiliated and thinking that being recognized was the worst possible thing that could happen to me. Peter, shockingly, is in the front row with my dad, thoroughly enjoying the steps. He and my dad are laughing like baboons, moving their hips as if they’re at a real-life luau, and they are actually getting along. We’re all wearing matching green grass skirts, and even then, I remember that I cared so much about what everyone thought of me. I just couldn’t have any fun. And no one except ten retired people in the class ever saw the posted YouTube video.
I just want Ruby’s joyful confidence to pursue whatever she wants. But most of all, I want to know exactly what I’m good at, and like Ruby, what I want to devote my life to. If I had an aptitude for it, creative dog grooming wouldn’t be so bad.
But instead of a casual text checkup, my dad is all-business, no-bullshit.
WECHAT GROUP (#1WangFamily!!!)
IrisDaddy: How is Beijing?
Iris: Fine.
IrisDaddy: Everyone nice to you?
Iris: It’s fine.
IrisDaddy: Are you learning Chinese?
Iris: No.
IrisDaddy: You know you can’t come home until you know basic conversation.
Iris: Why are you being so hard on me? Are you still mad?
IrisDaddy: We are not mad anymore. Just very disappointed and sad.
Iris: Don’t you want me to come home?
Iris: And what do you mean by basic conversation?
IrisDaddy: . . . . . .
Iris: How many phrases?
IrisDaddy: When your uncle tells me you are learning enough.
Iris: What does that mean????!
IrisDaddy: He will decide.
Iris: What if I don’t ever learn Chinese?
IrisDaddy: Then I guess you have to stay in Beijing forever.
Iris: Gtg. Bye.
Why is my dad making the most ridiculous demands? Doesn’t he care about my feelings, which are as soft and messy as Jell-O Pudding Snacks? Most of all, I just want validation from someone my age. Ruby is too busy practicing for her competition. And even then, she wouldn’t understand how school is so terrifying and impossible for me.
Hesitantly I type a message to my ex-BFF.
Iris: Hey, what’s up. I’m in China. Long story.
Samira Chadha-Fu: WHAT???!!
Iris: Yeah … it’s been interesting.
Even though I’m not supposed to tell anyone that I’m in China, I can’t help it. Samira is like a really bad habit. She’s like picking your nose on public transit or smoking a jumbo-size joint between classes. Samira and I always share very awkward details, from radioactive acne in embarrassing places to gross, unsatisfying encounters with boys. She used to be my only confidante and powerful female ally. How can I suddenly stop talking to her? How can I not tell her that I’m stuck in the black hole of China?
Soon we’re engaged in our usual lighthearted banter and an hour practically flies by. I almost miss Ruby telling me that we’ve forgotten to phone our private driver to pick us up. Mr. Chen will almost be at Hanyuan Language School by now.
“We have to go!” Ruby says, sounding breathless. “Weren’t you paying attention to the time?”
Running to the hired Didi, we barely make it because the rush-hour traffic is terrible. The driver honks at least five times. We nearly collide head-on with a bicycle, but thankfully, no one is hurt. No damage is done to the car, just our throats from screaming so much. On the way back to summer school, Ruby looks incredibly anxious, fidgeting with the thousands of yellow cotton balls on her jumpsuit. She accidentally plucks one off.
“Iris, just don’t tell my dad, okay?”
I promise that I won’t.
Ruby looks at me with incredible relief.
“My jumpsuit looks good on you,” she admits.
“Thanks,” I say, smiling.
Nervously Ruby tries to smile back, but only the corners of her lips twitch, like they’re superglued shut.
18
Listen to Iris
I wake up at three a.m., thirsty, nauseous, vomit-y and achy all over. I barely have time to stumble to the bathroom before I pass out. Auntie Yingfei finds me unconscious and calls for Uncle Dai. Instead of calling an ambulance, they carry me back to bed and tell me, “Help is driving.”
Dr. Xiāo is the family doctor who pays house calls. In this case, he caters to families in the most elite hotels in the city. He works 24/7, and all I have to do is phone him and he’ll come running. That’s what Uncle Dai says, anyway. Ruby once had the Hong Kong avian flu at five a.m. on a Sunday before the China National Youth Debate Championship, so Auntie Yingfei called Dr. Xiāo to give her experimental meds and hook up a personal IV into her arm to combat dehydration.
He looks like a businessman in a baby-blue Prada suit rather than a doctor. Glancing at me quickly, Dr. Xiāo explains that I have “traveler’s diarrhea.”
“What does that mean?” I say.
Traveler’s diarrhea sounds like a made-up, bullshit name for food poisoning.
“Foreigner cannot eat street food like local,” he says.
He then hands me some marshmallow-colored powder to mix with water for dehydration and says the sickness will pass within seventy-two hours. I hope he is right because I cannot seem to leave the toilet. Luckily, the penthouse has three bathrooms, not including the toilet in the maid’s quarters.
“You want IV, too?” Dr. Xiāo asks. “How is sleeping?”
I reassure him that I’m absolutely fine and he looks a bit disappointed. I wonder how much he’s paid to be a private hotel physician.
“Here is pill for nausea, and I will give you more when you finish,” he says, before exiting the penthouse.
Uncle Dai and Auntie Yingfei are extremely worried about me. They keep glancing at me and asking me if they need to call Dr. Xiāo again, even though he just left an hour ago. Uncle Dai excuses himself because there is “emergency at work,” and he’s needed at a new hotel construction site. He stares pointedly at Auntie Yingfei, who exchanges rapid words with him in Chinese. She looks upset.