“Why don’t you like me?” I ask, averting my eyes.
“Iris, of course I like you,” he says, sounding stunned. He tries to shush me, and his face reddens as he apologizes to a curious museum guard in Chinese. Frank looks guilt-stricken and confused for whatever reason. His expression makes me almost believe what he said.
“Shhhhhhh!” Frank says again when I open my mouth to speak.
“Then why do you keep telling me to study like you’re my parent?” I ask, trying to use a softer tone.
“It’s my job,” Frank whispers, and finally stops trying to pat me on the back. “Tutors in Beijing are strict with their students so they can get better.”
“I really don’t understand how to get better,” I admit. “I just don’t know how to learn another language or study.”
Overcome with emotion and unable to control myself, I eventually let out a huge wail of immense frustration, rage, and sadness. I swear, you could hear me all the way in Bradley Gardens, all around the world. Not just in China.
Everyone at NAMOC stares at me, looking shocked.
College students, parents, staff, security guards, families with young children, and international tourists. They all look at the sniveling, bewildered girl with gray snot pouring from her nose like soft-serve ice cream.
For once, I care deeply that I’m a hot, awful mess. Usually, I can always forget after a few blunts and beers. But Frank’s accusations burn like too much Nair Wax on my upper lip. It really hurts that Frank thinks so poorly of me and identifies me as an outsider. Even though he is not related to me and was just hired by my uncle, he already knows that I don’t belong.
Looking deeply uncomfortable, Frank pulls out a thermos from his bag, unscrews the lid, pours himself a cup of tea, and offers it to me. How is this helping? Angrily, I knock it away and brown liquid splashes all over the framed ink painting of two swallows diving headfirst into a lake. Tea slides down the glass like mud. The lid clatters noisily to the ground.
Oh shit.
I’m not even surprised when the NAMOC security guard asks us to leave immediately. Frank escorts me out with his arm draped around my back, looking thoughtful but relieved.
For the rest of the day, we actually make it through three whole chapters and I learn how to successfully apologize in Mandarin. “Dùi bu qǐ, dōu guài wǒ,” I can say slowly. I’m sorry, this is all my fault.
22
Hard Feelings
I don’t have enough time to scream.
I have been spending all evening thinking about what happened at the museum, and my brain feels mushy like leftover red bean pudding. I am strangely quiet all through dinner at Shi Zhi Liu Qui Noodles, and everyone comments on my lack of appetite. Normally, I remember exactly what dish everyone ordered, but I don’t remember taking even a fruit-fly-size bite. My mind keeps showing me repeat images of Frank looking incredibly stricken and horrified by my attitude. I’m so preoccupied by the fact that Frank thinks I’m a selfish disaster that I almost miss what’s going on around me.
But it’s real and scary, like a commercial truck driving straight into a tree.
As we wait for the Mercedes-Benz SUV after dinner, someone hurls a glass bottle through the air, striking Uncle Dai’s head. The bottle passes me, but it sounds like a toy airplane, whooshing past my ears and landing on the ground. Grabbing his head, Uncle Dai shoots a panicked look at Ruby, Auntie Yingfei, and me.
“Get in car!” he yells at us.
Uncle Dai sounds absolutely terrified. His head is bleeding, as if oozing ketchup.
I gasp at his forehead, but he points at me to get into the car.
This might be exciting if it were happening on the big screen, but in reality, it’s slow-motion and scary.
Auntie Yingfei and Ruby push me facedown into the backseat, and I think this is just a bad party drug trip.
How could this be happening?
“Move!” Ruby screams, waking me up. She folds my legs like I’m a store mannequin and plops down beside me.
Suddenly, Mr. Chen is trying to speed through the chaotic traffic of the city, but the mob of protestors outside at Shi Zhi Liu Qui Noodles is blocking us. He tries to back up, but there are more shouting crowds. Uncle Dai is dialing frantically into his cell phone.
“What’s going on?” I finally manage to say.
No one answers me.
Someone throws another glass bottle at the car. It shatters.
Ruby looks terrified. Her face has gone eggshell white, at least three shades lighter than her usual skin-whitening foundation. I examine my reflection in the window mirror. My own face resembles the color of milky iceberg lettuce. Together, we look like we’re starring in our own horror movie.
Auntie Yingfei motions for us to get on the floor of the backseat. More furious protestors are surrounding the car and then they are suddenly banging on the windows. What did we do wrong?! They’re all shoving the car, as if they want to football-flip us over!
“What’s happening?!” I manage to yell, terrified.
“They’re—” Ruby says. Auntie Yingfei glances at her and speaks sharply to her. She looks at me. “It is okay, Iris. No worry.”
Incredulous, I stare at my aunt. Is she serious? There are at least a hundred people outside who want to force us out of the car?!!! Have they gotten Uncle Dai’s car confused with someone else’s? Like a political figure? A war criminal?
As the protestors gather, we crouch on the floor for what seems like an eternity. My heartbeat fills my ears like July 4 fireworks, while Uncle Dai shouts instructions to Mr. Chen. He wraps his tie around his bloody forehead as a bandage. More extreme yelling in Chinese, and for once, I’m almost glad that I don’t understand anything. The rocking of our car gets worse. I hear screaming sirens and then we are finally lurching forward. I breathe a heavy sigh of relief.
Ruby, Auntie Yingfei, and I stay huddled together on the floor until we get back to the Shangri-La.
No one says anything when hotel security escorts us to the suite.
I want to ask so many questions. I want to know why a screaming mob of people would prevent my uncle’s family from getting home safely after dinner. How could we have gone from being photographed to being punished? Why are people so angry at us?
Dr. Xiāo is called, and he instantly attends to Uncle Dai’s bleeding head. Three stitches, special black-market Chinese Advil, and two drinks of strong liquid later, Uncle Dai seems to be absolutely fine. No one says anything when I pour myself a strong drink from the bar too. Auntie Yingfei is still shaking like a newly rescued frostbite victim. Ruby is strangely silent. No epic eye-rolling, sneers, or snide remarks.
Why isn’t anyone saying anything? Is this normal in Beijing? To not talk about us almost being injured/killed? Why do the scariest things happen to me in motor vehicles? Is this a new summer Tiger curse?
Uncle Dai is suddenly on the phone, yelling maniacally in Chinese at someone.
He catches my worried expression and then shuts the door to his office.
I look at Ruby, who looks at her phone again.
Auntie Yingfei tries to smile at me, but it doesn’t quite work. “No worry, Weijun, okay?” she says. “Not happen again.”
“What should I do?” I wail.
“Go study,” she says firmly. “No waste time.”