Grudgingly, I follow Frank outside the Shangri-La and we take a crowded subway. Normally, I love crowds, but it’s rush hour in Beijing and I feel myself become increasingly lost. Someone tall elbows me in the head, and then a harassed-looking woman accidentally stomps on my foot as she exits the train in a hurry. “Ow!” I shout, but she doesn’t hear me or apologize.
How could I have thought that Beijing was better than my suburban teenage life in New Jersey? I am trying my best, but I don’t know how to do better.
If I did, I wouldn’t have been sent to China in the first place.
The subway takes forever, but we get off at Dongsi, and Frank and I are suddenly in front of the National Art Museum of China (NAMOC). I have no idea what we’re doing here. I have always liked art, but I have never been to a museum before. Outside of school, of course.
Frank and I stand in the ridiculously long line, get our bags checked by security like we’re entering an incredibly expensive store, and then arrive in a showroom full of dull red terra-cotta statues and white-and-blue antique vases. I tell myself that I love home decor. This will just be like shopping at Homesense with my mom. I glance at an English-translated plaque:
Magnificent Ming Dynasty vase with ornate blue-and-white dragon and lotus roots, Xuande period (1426–1435) …
Oh god. Is Frank trying to punish me for ditching him last class? Is he trying to give me a coma from boredom? These English words make absolutely no sense. Also, how will I know how valuable an item is if there is no price tag?
Does this mean that these items are not for sale?
Or does it mean that customers can bargain?
Frank scurries through a wing on Ming Dynasty art, and I reluctantly follow him.
After a while, I finally realize that no one is haggling and there are absolutely no price tags on any of the display cases or ink paintings, which means not even the richest person in the world can hand over their platinum card and purchase any of this collection. I’ve entered the most expensive, most boring shopping experience of my life!
He stops in front of a sculptural exhibit on twentieth-century Chinese nationalism.
“What do you know about Beijing?” Frank asks me again in a quiet, intense voice. “What do you know about our people, the language, the culture?”
“The smog is terrible,” I say, checking my phone for messages.
Samira has tagged me again in a photo of her and Peter at Starbucks. She sends me a message. Thinking of you. Hope you’re well. Shopping date when you get back from the end of the world? xoxo. A second later, she sends another one: BFF, I seriously miss you. Hugs. <3 <3 <3
Anger fills me. What the hell is wrong with Samira?
What does she gain by making me feel even more shitty about being dumped and not getting into a single college?
Somewhere, the answers to some of the most pressing questions of my life are floating out there on a weak museum Wi-Fi signal.
Frank taps me urgently on the shoulder. Like it’s Morse code for “Pay attention.” He honestly looks incensed and concerned by my inability to learn. His eyebrows furrow, and I feel like a moth trapped in a glass jar under his stare. For some reason, his gaze feels seriously outer-space-magnetic today.
I’m not liking or hating the feeling. But my mouth feels dry and raw and tingly.
Frank’s still wearing the same navy-blue interview cardigan like a uniform, and he begins to nervously shove his hands in his pockets. His face is solemn, like he’s seriously sorry for what he has to say. He paces back and forth like a German shepherd following orders. He squares his broad, basketball-player-shaped shoulders. What’s the rush? Doesn’t anyone in Beijing ever slow down?
“Iris, when you wake up, what do you even think about? Do you think that people like your uncle work hard so you can enjoy living in a hotel? Do you think that your grandparents and great-grandparents and great-great-grandparents suffered so you could enjoy yourself? Don’t you get that you come from a culture and tradition and people that are several thousands of years old? And the wealth was not handed to them, but earned with hard work and sacrifice?”
Frank sounds scary-disappointed and also scary-sad at the same time. Like Uncle Dai confronting my grandmother, minus his Dragon Zodiac rage. And exactly like how my dad sounded when he first learned that I hadn’t gotten into colleges. I force myself not to think about it, even though I feel seriously hurt by his tone.
Staring intensely at me, he continues, “If you don’t care about anything, then what’s the point of anything? What’s the point of being tutored? Don’t you care that you’re wasting money and time?”
I say nothing.
“What do you actually care about, Iris Wang?” he continues. “Why do you even get out of bed in the morning?”
I don’t know how to respond. “Breakfast” doesn’t seem like the right answer.
Sometimes, denial is the best way to go.
Other times, I wish I was a possum and had an excuse to drop dead any moment that I faced something overwhelmingly difficult: the SATs, disappointed parents, and maybe a seriously hot college student interrogating me in a public space. The museum lights emphasize Frank’s stark emotions, highlighting his confusion and sincerity. Is that why I need to have everything I see in shops?
Focus, Iris, I think. Focus. You are a Tiger, not a possum.
Frank continues staring at me, and I avert my eyes like a guilty terrier. Under his hyperfocused gaze, I start to feel like I’m suffocating. Suddenly, I’m so ashamed. His question confirms why no one (minus my aunt and uncle) seems to like me in Beijing. His question pushes me to think about why I was banished from America in the first place.
I don’t know where China is in relation to America on the world map, but it feels like I’m falling off the edge of the world.
Frank is absolutely right.
I have never really tried in my life, unless it was related to fitting in and being liked.
I just don’t know how to begin.
In the east wing of NAMOC, I sit on a bench beside the sculptures of the Heavenly Moon and Earth Goddess. Feeling horrible because I know Frank is telling the truth, I pull my knees to my head, and I start to cry. Not just a few sniffles, but a whole lot of messy tears. In less than six minutes, I am sobbing uncontrollably. My tears could fill the entire China Sea (the one that I just learned about from reading a plaque).
“Oh no, Iris,” Frank exclaims, sitting beside me. He looks and sounds horrified as he tries to pat me clumsily on the back. “I’m really sorry. Please don’t cry.”
He’s surprisingly awkward for someone who looks like he should know how to comfort a crying girl. It’s like he’s trying to soothe a heavily drooling chow chow but doesn’t really like dogs. This makes me cry harder because I think that he doesn’t like me as a human being but sees me as his lucrative summer job.
“Why is China all going so wrong?” I sniffle.
“What?” he says, looking startled.
“My cousin hates me no matter what I do,” I say, sobbing as softly as I can. “Even you’re disappointed in me.” Words are dropping out of my mouth like Fruity Pebbles. With Frank, for some reason, I’m more conscious of my inability to control what I say.
Unlike with Peter, Frank’s presence seems solid and no-bullshit. He takes up space with lionlike confidence, as if he believes whatever he says 150 percent. Also, I usually don’t even understand at least 40 percent of what Frank is saying. I could probably understand a squirrel or pigeon better. But Frank is real and beside me. And he’s gazing at me like how Ruby looks at one of her top-rated mannequin practice animals, like I’m at least an 8.5 Miss Piggy. I just wish he would hold me or take my hand.