“Iris, are you even listening?” Frank is asking me a question. He waves his hand in front of me.
I blink.
We’re at the penthouse and housekeeping has placed on the table an assortment of baked goods and multicolored macarons, fresh cream puffs, and trays of assorted Belgian chocolates. Distracted, I munch on a lilac-colored macaron. The taste of soft, nutty pastry melts in my mouth. It’s honestly the best macaron I’ve ever eaten.
“Are you still here?” Frank says. “Can you please repeat what I said about the proper way to greet a stranger?”
“Hmmm,” I say, my mouth full.
All I can think about is my grandmother. Was she a ghost? Was I sick and hallucinating? But I still have the hotel key. And her pleading expression is stuck to my eyeballs, like a frozen screen saver. Uncle Dai slapping the kitchen counter. Ruby’s mean-girl parting shot about my dad being a shitty person.
I pinch myself to stay focused.
“So what am I supposed to be learning?” I ask Frank.
I give him what I think is my most prize-winning smile, and to my relief, he actually smiles back hesitantly. His annoyance disappears, and I decide that I actually really, really like it when Frank smiles. He has the nicest, most genuine one that I’ve ever seen. The corners of his mouth move very slowly, and his eyes light up like those extra-giant Christmas trees at Macy’s Herald Square. And this all makes him seem incredibly playful. Self-consciously, I twirl my hair, which is super dry from having been bleached more times than I have remembered to do my laundry.
“Your hair is nice,” he says, “but let’s focus on Chinese introductions, okay? The ones we’ve been talking about for the past hour. Have you been practicing our lessons?”
“Of course!” I say, even though I haven’t.
I flash him another huge mega-smile, and then I realize that I have bits of macaron stuck between my teeth. Oops. Hopefully, Frank doesn’t notice.
Suddenly, I have an amazing idea. If I focus extra hard, after all the studying I did last night, I might be able to understand Chinese within a faster time frame. I wonder if by my fully immersing myself in class, my 8G brain will magically start to understand the language of my genetic and cultural birthright. How long does learning a foreign language take with a tutor? It’s not like I have to become fluent. I just want to understand what my grandmother was trying to say to me.
“Test me! I’m ready!” I say enthusiastically, leaning closer to Frank and propping my elbows on the table.
But after twenty more minutes of Nǐ hǎo, nǐ hǎo ma, it appears that, even with extra studying, I’m not going to pick up this language. How will I learn basic phrases by the end of the summer? I am not Jabba the Hutt or Yoda or Luke Skywalker—my dad’s favorite Star Wars characters. I cannot make these complicated science-fiction sounds! My neurological center seems to have very slow Wi-Fi. I wonder about hiring a translator. But would my grandmother even speak to a stranger?
I ask Frank to take a break.
Shockingly, this time he agrees.
At the kitchen table, I dunk more lilac macarons into an Earl Grey latte. I chew thoughtfully. I have never been this stuck on a personal problem. I don’t understand why old people and Chinese families are so complicated.
“I’m sorry to say this, but I don’t understand you,” Frank says suddenly. “I have never tutored someone who doesn’t even seem to try.”
I stare at him. “Excuse me?”
He stands up and begins gesturing at me with confusion. He’s no longer smiling. Not even a little. He looks actually bewildered and worried.
Seemingly agitated, Frank runs his hands through his neatly trimmed hair and his plaid polo shirt and cardigan hike up, revealing a slice of the nicest, flattest belly that I’ve seen in the longest time. His posture and profile are super confident and poised. It’s like the captain of the school rugby team borrowed a nerdy librarian’s costume for Halloween. Where does he even find his clothes?
Then Frank begins to pace up and down in the kitchen, and that’s when I notice his steady walk and backside. I gasp loudly. To be honest, everything about them are absolutely perfect, 250 percent pageant-worthy. Frank has the well-shaped buttocks of a prize-winning golden retriever and the legginess of a standard-size schnauzer. At least that’s what Ruby would say.
And why am I even checking out my Chinese Parent Approved tutor in the first place and comparing him to different dog breeds? Oh shit. I’ve been hanging out too much with my doggy-pageant cousin. Beijing is actually turning me into a true weirdo, and I’m worried that Frank might start to think I’m creepy.
Of course, when he catches me full-on staring, I try to distract him by gesturing excitedly at the snack table. “Macaron?” I ask extra sweetly.
I blush slightly when he doesn’t respond.
“They’re really tasty,” I try again.
No answer.
“Don’t you care that your uncle is paying me to tutor you?” Frank says instead. He sounds super determined now, like he has an actual toothache or he’s allergic to macarons. “He’s giving me an extra thousand US dollars if you finish the beginner textbook in two months. He wants you to be able to hold a basic conversation.”
“Well … ,” I say, staring at him.
Doesn’t he know Uncle Dai is a bajillionaire? A thousand US dollars is nothing.
“You and the other rich kids don’t care about anything, do you? It’s your horrible, spoiled attitude,” Frank accuses me. He crosses his arms. Like he’s genuinely offended by my creative approach to learning and spending money.
And what is Frank talking about? Of course I care! I always want to know what’s going on in everyone’s lives 24/7. I always want to know what everyone’s thinking and what they are doing and what they are buying and why they choose to date your best friend instead of you. If anything, I care too much.
Can’t Frank see that I check social media a million times a day?
More importantly, can’t he also understand that I’m going through a difficult emotional dilemma? My eyes look Popsicle-pink and puffy from lack of sleep and crying. They are practically the same size as the cotton balls on Ruby’s everyday jumpsuits.
I want to wail at a demanding Frank: I have been betrayed by everyone I thought I loved, and I’m super distracted because I am carrying a horrible family secret.
Frank is looking intently at me, and I resist the urge to blurt out what happened to me last night.
“What do you know about Beijing?” he insists. Frank flips open a page in his textbook and jabs at a paragraph with a tiny, unreadable font.
My mouth drops open.
What does Beijing have to do with me not trying? And why does everything have to be connected to a boring history lesson? There are more things, like my family and social life, at stake! I want to exclaim.
“I want to show you something,” Frank says, shaking his head in what seems to be an extreme mix of frustration and disbelief. He seems horror-stricken. Like my dad when I explain to him how I still don’t understand what’s going on in the Star Wars or Jurassic Park movies. “What is not to get?” my dad always asked me, to which I said, “Everything.”
The plot, language, and characters all seem incomprehensible.