“Can we take a break?” I ask politely.
Frank stares at me, looking astonished and confused. I can’t tell if he’s laughing at me like he did in the conference room or if he’s having a seizure. “But we’re only ten minutes into our lesson,” he says.
“Is that a yes?” I ask.
With a meaningful expression, I glance at the coffee shop’s display case of cheesecakes and flaky pastries. I spot a cream puff with matcha-green filling. Slices of puffy, yellow sponge cake are arranged on a tray. “How about a snack?”
“No break,” Frank says firmly. “We need to finish the chapter.”
He resumes his long explanation about strategizing. How can test-taking be this complicated? There are only four possible answers (A, B, C, D). Does he not know that SAT multiple choice only requires a 25 percent chance of intuition, genius, and good fortune? You have more of a chance getting an answer correct than winning one of my dad’s scratch-and-win tickets.
Frank’s mouth is moving, but I can’t help thinking about the too-symmetrical shape of his lips, which is like a geometry lesson in itself. The way that he overpronounces his words and nibbles beautifully on his lower lip when he’s concentrating. It’s adorable and fascinating. Almost like watching a quirky but intelligent chipmunk.
Most importantly, I am also thinking about Ruby and how I’ll be able to get out of this “learn to be Chinese” situation. If I learn enough conversational Chinese to fake it, maybe I can convince Uncle Dai that I am authentically Chinese on the inside, so that my parents will let me return home to my former life of Chipotle and malls? Maybe they’ll let me come home early and finish my GED and I won’t have to stay in Beijing anymore. But how do I stop being a full-on banana who has to magically transform into one of those impossibly delicious yellow sponge cakes at the counter?
“I am going to fix this!” I accidentally blurt out, and Frank gives me that strange, quizzical look again.
“It’s a name of an American TV show,” I cover up quickly. “Speaking of movies, have you seen anything life-changing lately?”
Frank ignores my generous social cue to change the subject.
Instead, he keeps talking about planning and strategy (so many steps to answering one question). How will I ever finish the verbal component of the SAT when he claims there are multi-steps and multi-ways of thinking about a problem?
If Frank were discussing something exciting about pop culture or Beijing hair trends, or had some semi-interesting anecdotes about his life as a college student, I might enjoy listening to him. I want to know the fun, dirty secrets on campus. What happens at university parties? What’s Beijing’s drug scene like?
But having a lesson with Frank is like watching an hour-long show on PBS when it should be the CW. I just want the fun, winking dude from my interview back. It’s my duty to distract Frank from his tutoring lesson.
There’s a shift in tone, and then I really don’t understand what Frank is saying. Then I realize that he’s speaking Chinese to me!
“Sorry, I don’t understand Chinese,” I interrupt, confused.
“I’ve been waiting to see when you’d notice,” Frank says. “The correct term is Mandarin, and I’ve been speaking it to you for at least three minutes.”
“I noticed,” I lie quickly.
Honestly, there’s absolutely no difference between speaking the Chinese language and listening to the SATs.
“Have you ever thought about what your ancestors would say about you not speaking their language? What if they showed up at this coffee shop right now and you couldn’t talk to them?” Frank asks.
“Not really,” I say, fidgeting. “I would just assume that a ghost would have access to Google Translate.”
“What?” Frank laughs loudly.
He thinks I’m making a joke, but I’m dead serious.
I flush.
“You wouldn’t want to talk to your ancestors?” he says, sounding incredulous. He looks incredibly excited by the prospect of communicating with dead people. “You wouldn’t want to ask them questions about your history or find out what they are like as individuals?”
“Probably not,” I say, shrugging.
Frank looks astonished. Then he finally relents at my lack of curiosity. Truthfully, I wouldn’t want to speak to a ghost, even if they were related to me. What if they were just like my cousin Ruby? What if they were a million times worse?
“Okay, but can you just please pay attention during our lesson?” Frank asks.
His emphasis on the word “please” somehow strikes me as boyish and charming. There’s also something weirdly appealing about his hyperfocused personality. Combine that with photoshopped good looks and extra-polite manners. His whole presence seems to make me feel slightly strange and woozy. I fan myself with a paper napkin. I’ve never had this sort of physical reaction when I was with Peter or any of my ex-boyfriends whose names I don’t actually remember.
Smiling brightly at Frank, I nod with overly fake enthusiasm. Should I clap? Or would that only encourage him to talk more about the SATs?
But so far, Frank doesn’t need more encouragement. He launches into verbal reasoning. He’s being the perfect mannequin tutor who seems immune to my exciting EQ, which means that my parents would love him. My dad would definitely date him. Frank is a perfect CPA (Chinese Parent Approved) boy to woo and marry and reproduce two to three offspring.
Because I spend so much time trying not to listen to the SATs, I almost miss a glimpse of that bold, radioactive personality that emerges when he reaches the analogy section. A sneaky grin, a barely heard chuckle that instantly makes me wish we were somewhere more stimulating than a coffee shop. When he looks at me, my face tingles like I have been bitten by a mutant spider with magical boy-attracting powers.
Why am I staring so much at my CPA tutor?
Oh god.
Am I turning into my parents, who have the weirdest taste in boys?
I tell myself that it’s because I’ve been recently dumped and have not met any hot male twentysomethings since landing in Beijing. This is just a symptom of my wild, beating flower-heart.
It’s my unpredictable Tiger curse.
Finally SAT class is over and I want to leap up to the counter for a coffee (I deserve a mocha with extra whip and multicolored sprinkles for learning), but charming robot tutor Frank pulls out another humongous textbook from his backpack and he insists on teaching me how to greet someone in Mandarin. He also hands me a study schedule that has math, chemistry, physics, economics, and American history printed on it.
Rubbing my face, I yawn pointedly and stare at the schedule.
He wasn’t kidding, was he?
“Nǐ hǎo, nǐ hǎo ma,” he says. “Hello, how are you? Let’s look at page three.”
It’s honestly both terrifying and boring learning a brand-new language. I have no idea how my parents both did it. Most of all, I’m so scared that Frank will think I’m a hopeless, unteachable mess if I don’t pick up a few of the easier phrases within the next hour.
I try my best to stifle it, but I end up panic-yawning so much that I think I’m giving myself a self-induced TMJ disorder.
Frank doesn’t even blink.
Dude is like a learning machine!