Is she joking?
We could have been seriously maimed and she still wants me to learn a new language?
Ruby pulls out a textbook on eighteenth-century poetry and begins furiously taking notes. It makes sense that my cousin is a gorgeous robot with a 64GB brain and legs that are longer than a Great Dane’s.
Hours later, after a tense silence in the suite, I receive an email from Frank, inviting me to a party tomorrow night at someone’s apartment near Tsinghua University. It’s a long, explanatory message about his angry lecture at the museum and an apology for his behavior, asking me if I want to meet his friends. Let me make it up to you, he wrote. I didn’t mean to be so patronizing.
I type back: What you said today made me really upset. It made me think a lot about myself. I know I haven’t been the best student, but I honestly mean it when I say that learning is scary AF. You are right that I need to try harder, so consider your apology accepted. I’m also sorry for having a shitty attitude too.
Maybe it’s the word “party” in his invitation that causes me to almost instantly forgive him.
But I don’t know what the interpretation of “party” is to Frank.
What if he actually means “study group”?
Astonishingly, Frank immediately responds and his message catches me by surprise. I REALLY hope I see you tomorrow night.
My heart leaps.
Does Frank mean it or is he just being polite?
I expect Uncle Dai to say NO to a fun gathering of college students, so I tell him that I need to “cancel my study group with my tutor because of the incident.” I wonder if he will order us to never leave the hotel until the end of summer, but seeing my extremely worried expression, he insists that I attend “study time” with Ruby, who looks uncomfortable and surprised by his announcement. He will hire additional bodyguards to stand outside the study group building.
“You are going to a study group?” Ruby finally says, glancing skeptically at me.
“Yes,” I quickly say. “What’s wrong with studying languages in a group?”
“I don’t need a study group!” she says.
We stare and try to out-eye-roll each other. Her eyeballs seem to reach the back of her brain. She wins.
Uncle Dai ignores us and touches his bandaged forehead. Like he has a serious migraine, which is probably true. “Auntie Yingfei and I have lots of work to do. Mr. Chen will drive you to party. Weijun tutor Frank is good serious student. Please go.”
* * *
Despite the scary mob incident yesterday, I’m excited to be surrounded by my peer group. In the car, I keep checking my reflection in the phone’s camera, wondering if I have any bits of food stuck in my teeth. Then I wonder why I care so much. It’s just Frank. My tutor. He’s seen me cry and spill tea in public before. Ruby is ignoring me as usual, reading and highlighting a passage on her phone.
Oh god. Is she still studying?
Whatever for?
The party is off-campus, at a tiny, cramped apartment where there are at least fifty students dancing and drinking. Strobe lights flicker on the ceiling, and everyone is practically elbow to elbow and shouting like they are separated by a whole continent. You literally can’t move without smacking someone in the face. I hear super-loud Korean pop music and I suddenly relax. I’m finally in my element! How I miss parties and no-purpose socializing.
“Oh my god, I’m going to be okay!” I shout at Ruby, who stares at me.
“This isn’t a study group,” she says.
“I’ll tell your dad about your Miss Piggy mastiff if you say anything,” I reply.
In response, Ruby turns pink and purple, reminding me of saltwater taffy.
On the counter, I grab a couple of bottles of Tsingtao beer (my dad’s favorite) for a nervous-looking Ruby and me, and then that’s when I see Frank with his friends, who are all good-looking and interestingly dressed. They’re wearing gold platform sneakers and stage makeup. Frank, of course, is the exception, but at least he’s not wearing his boring plaid shirt and cardigan, thank goodness. He looks normal today: a black T-shirt and ripped skinny jeans.
Frank actually smiles charmingly when he comes over to greet me, and despite myself, my heart thumps extra fast. Not the scared fast that happened in the car with the mob, but an exciting roller-coaster rhythm. Giddy heart palpitations for my usually ultra-serious, no-nonsense tutor? Tonight Frank looks and acts handsome and not like a CPA (Chinese Parent Approved) boy. I swig down my beer, hoping it will calm my quivering insides when I interact with Frank. The beer tastes extremely watered down, so I’ll need something else ASAP.
The insides of my stomach are literally shaking.
God, I hope it’s just a case of mismatched physical attraction, not PMS hormones or food poisoning again.
I stand very close to Frank. He doesn’t say anything for the longest time but keeps full-on staring. Is this what flirting is like in China? Just sexy, lingering eye contact, no talking? In Bradley Gardens, the boys hand you an unrefrigerated beer and herd you upstairs. In America, hooking up at parties is usually to-the-point, superefficient, and requires minimal eye contact.
“Iris! You made it,” Frank finally exclaims when I’m beginning to wonder if I should apologize or even bring up the museum. “You look so, so lovely.”
“Thanks,” I say, pleased that he noticed that I’m wearing a new polka-dotted dress from Auntie Yingfei, which is red and white and I’m not entirely sure she didn’t order it off Minnie Mouse from the Disney Store.
More smiling from Frank.
And more serious eye contact that feels like serious, unsubtle flirting.
“I’m really sorry again about yesterday,” he continues. “I was out of place for scolding you.”
“You’re right,” I say. “I just haven’t been focusing.”
“Beijing really hasn’t been easy for you, has it?” he says, looking sympathetic.
I nod, for once wholeheartedly agreeing with him.
To my amazement, Frank absentmindedly runs his hand firmly from my bare shoulder and rests it on my forearm. Carefully, he touches and examines my wrist where I once started a small tattoo of a flower inside a heart and quit three minutes in because I was in such excruciating pain. I hadn’t even realized that the ink wasn’t temporary that time Samira and I went to some dude’s sketchy basement in New Jersey. Luckily, the accidental tattoo is like a tiny outline that resembles a funny-shaped, zigzag mole, not even noticeable unless you look super carefully.
Frank takes my barely tattooed wrist in his, but he doesn’t ask me about it. I’m practically hypnotized. I should move my hand, but this feels way too nice. I haven’t been touched by a boy since Peter dumped me. Frank flushes. And I notice that he’s rabbit-chewing his lip. Is he nervous?
“You said something that really shocked me,” I eventually admit, ignoring the fact that my heart is thumping and he is still holding my arm. “Honestly, I didn’t realize I was coming across as a two-headed monster.”
“I keep forgetting that you aren’t Chinese at all,” Frank says, frowning at my unfinished tattoo of a flower-heart.
“What are you talking about?” I say, confused. “My family lives in Beijing. You reminded me of my family tree at the museum.”