Peter Hayes always said that he was “way too broke” to buy me nice things.
Come to think of it, he never bought me anything, not even on my birthday.
Suddenly, I want to throw up.
Samira has hurt me again, and I let her. Why did I even respond to her messages? Why didn’t I just block her?
I’m seized by intense homesickness again, the shitty kind I had when I was in eighth grade at summer camp in Connecticut. Of course, I was sharing a cabin with Samira and six other girls, but when I wasn’t making friendship bracelets, I was thinking about getting pedicures with my dad. Despite his lying and all his secrets, I really miss him. I even miss my mom, and all her unrealistic expectations.
That’s probably why their abandonment hurts the most.
In the twenty-first century, it’s like getting rid of a beloved pet by giving her to another home. No one ever asks a guinea pig or a gerbil whether they want to relocate. Anyway, I thought that being an only child meant that I was automatically the favorite, and exempt from parental punishment. I just never thought of my parents as actual people who could make earthquake-size decisions for me.
I’ve been too preoccupied with my own shock, anger, and sadness to realize how much I took their love for granted. Even though they sent me away, they would never hurt me so casually like Samira and Peter.
Until now, I never understood why my mom expected so much of me, but maybe I should have tried harder to listen to her, like how I try Olympic-athletic-hard to be well-liked in any social situation. I always assumed that my mom was being overly picky, but maybe she just saw who my ex–best friend and ex-boyfriend were from the beginning: soggy, leftover Doritos that no one else wanted.
“Iris, I don’t understand why you never listen to me,” she once said, frustrated, when I waltzed out of the house to meet Peter, surprising him with a brand-new T-shirt from an indie band that he liked. Or even when I rushed over to see Samira after midnight because my best friend had an emergency favor to ask me. Never mind if I had an exam the next day and overdue homework.
“You want me to have no life like you,” I shouted back. “You don’t want me to have any fun!”
“You keep inviting termites into your house and there will be nothing left,” she said, sighing. “Why do you want these insects to like you? How is having bugs in your house fun?”
I never understood what she was talking about. I just assumed that she was referring to our ongoing home renovations. I was just grateful that there were two additional people, besides my parents, who said they liked and needed me. At least that was what I had honestly thought.
My parents would never betray me in real life and on social media, would they?
WECHAT GROUP (#1WangFamily!!!)
IrisDaddy: We have very bad news :(:(:(
Mom: We saw Samira and Peter today at the mall.
IrisDaddy: You know they are holding hands? Acting like boyfriend and girlfriend!!!
Iris: …
Mom: Good riddance to such bad people.
Iris: …
IrisDaddy: You can do better, Iris. Remember you are a Tiger. King of the jungle! Better than them.
Iris: Thanks, Dad.
Iris: I’m sorry for everything …
Iris: I’m really sorry for how I behaved.
After chatting with my parents, I feel even more teary-eyed and heartbroken. I want to go back to my old life with the boring suburbs and parents who criticize my shitty life choices. I just want to hop on the next return flight. If I had known I would be banished to Beijing, I would never have not studied for the SATs. I would have even proofread all my college applications twice.
A knock on the apartment door interrupts my soft-crying reverie. Mr. Chen is absorbed in his football game. So I wipe my wet, monster-red eyes and answer the door, wondering if it’s housekeeping. There’s a random dude in the hallway in a blue cardigan, and for a second, I don’t even know why he’s here. Normally, I might send him away like I do with door-to-door salespeople, but then I remember the unbelievably good-looking tutor at the interview who laughed at me in my housecoat and face mask. He puts his hands together and bows briefly.
Should I bow back?
Up close, Blue Cardigan is tall, polite, and handsome, the complete opposite of all the usual dudes who come looking for me. He’s better-looking than all the boys in Bradley Gardens, and in comparison, way hotter than all the tutors that my parents have ever hired.
He starts talking to me in Chinese.
When he sees my confused expression, he quickly switches to English. “Weijun, I’m Frank Liao? Your uncle said that I was supposed to tutor you to help you catch up in school.”
“Wrong person,” I say, quickly closing the door.
Then I regret that I didn’t just ask him for his number before pretending that I didn’t know who he was. For a millisecond, I almost wish that I wasn’t so severely allergic to learning.
I hope Frank doesn’t actually recognize me without the horsehair face mask. What a lucky coincidence I decided to prioritize self-care after being scammed by a cabdriver! A facial scrub is better than any superhero costume. I have always wondered why bank robbers on TV don’t just get classy spa masks as substitutes for goofy cartoon ones.
I wait for my new tutor to leave, and half an hour later, I decide to take the subway. The penthouse seems too congested. I need to hop on a train or a bus—to get anywhere from here. Mr. Chen is too busy shouting at his live-streaming game to even notice.
All those years of sneaking out to see Peter have paid off. I’m an expert at stealth. Ask any teenage girl of strict Chinese parents what her superpower is, and she’d say it’s sneaking away or telling believable white lies. I don’t have a skill in inventing plausible alternative scenarios to my parents because I usually feel so guilty that I have to suddenly confess. My dad says it’s a Tiger trait: it’s noble not to lie.
I guess Goats are great liars.
But a Tiger is excellent at stealthily running away.
Of course, I can’t find the same Oriental Plaza from the first day.
As soon as I leave the lobby of the Shangri-La and bow enthusiastically to the doormen, I don’t know which direction to wander in. I pretend to be supremely confident, like I’m strutting down a runway at a Victoria’s Secret fashion show, as I follow what I hope is a sign to the subway. It doesn’t resemble transit at all, and the logo looks like Gucci and Chanel merged as one multinational Chinese company. Is this a sign to a clothing factory? But I’m proud of myself for at least getting somewhere.
When I see the subway station, I whoop and congratulate myself. I always knew that I was destined for foreign travel. But I get hopelessly lost after I buy a subway ticket. There are so many rushing people, and I don’t really understand which train to get on. All I know is that I’m at the National Library metro stop. I ask a girl my age for directions, but she ignores me. I ask a woman who could be my mother, but then our exchange turns into a nonstop lecture about why I don’t speak Chinese.
“You look Chinese,” she says, staring suspiciously at me. “Why you not understanding?”
Why don’t Beijingers get it when I say I’m from the suburbs of Bradley Gardens, New Jersey?
“What wrong with you?” another man asks.
At his question, I glare at the stranger, and I feel a bit shitty for doing it. He doesn’t understand how language can be lost when your parents leave the homeland and work hard to adapt to a foreign culture. He doesn’t understand that I am the most important product of their decades-long struggle. My dad, who is not as smart as my mom, told me he took ten years to be able to speak English fluently, and another five more before he could compose a decent-sounding email. Both of them forced English down their throats like a hangover-cure smoothie of raw eggs, licorice root, and tomato juice. Teaching me Chinese was not their priority. Making me happy was what they cared about most.