Before bed, I try on my new Gucci boots and they fit like a pair of leather gloves. They’re so soft and warm and glamorous. I stare at myself in the full-length mirror, and suddenly, my legs look twice as long, and I swear I’ve lost five whole pounds.
As I look in the mirror, I keep wondering: What if no one likes me for just being me? What if I’m someone without anything to offer anyone? And what did Frank mean that I wasn’t afraid to be myself?
If he thinks that I’m open and authentic, it means that I’m seriously unraveling in China. There could be something very, very wrong with me.
23
Family Secrets
The next day, I agree to meet Frank at Tiananmen Square, where there was a violent and messy massacre many years ago. Admittedly, I don’t know much about China’s history, but even I have heard a bit about this important location.
While I was eating delicious vegetable baozi and brown gloopy miancha for breakfast, Frank sent me a message on WeChat saying that he was too tired to make our morning class, and he suggested that we meet in the early afternoon for a history field trip.
I shock myself by getting there fifteen minutes before Frank. Granted, Mr. Chen dropped me off, but I have never been early for tutoring before. In fact, in New Jersey, I’m always late or never even show up for lessons.
Frank nods stiffly at me when he sees me at the entrance of Tiananmen Square. Like a newbie pageant queen, I wave awkwardly at him, trying to smile. He doesn’t smile back.
We pretend that nothing happened, and Frank seems way more somber than last night. I’m almost glad when he launches into a speech about political activism and resistance and executions, where Chinese people were fired on by their own government. At least talking seems to animate him.
Also, it makes it easier to find him a little less attractive whenever he starts talking about learning.
But his half-moon smile.
And the way that he watches me when giving me a straight-up narration about the square.
I could literally observe him all day, but it’s more than that. It seems like he can actually see through me, as cheesy as it sounds. None of the boys that I have ever hooked up with or dated have ever treated me like a real living person before. Peter and all the ones who came before him always mixed me up with the ATM machine.
How can I find a tutor nerdy, handsome, mysterious, and a bit alluring at the same time? Who am I? Iris Wang would never make out with one of her tutors back home. Pothead guitarists and intense partygoers were always my preferred boyfriends. These dudes were never 100 percent authentic Chinese, and they were always despised by my parents.
How can I be falling for a Chinese Parent Approved boy?
It literally makes no sense.
But Frank is someone who has a life purpose. He knows exactly who he is, and what he cares about. He’s the complete opposite of Peter Hayes, who had negative zero direction.
In fact, Frank is the very opposite of me, which is probably why I’m so confused and repulsed and fascinated at the same time. Frank is like my first foray into eating braised fermented red bean chicken feet. When I ate my first clawed foot at a Chinese restaurant in Manhattan, it was slimy, terrifying, and tantalizing all at once.
For the former Iris Wang of small-town Bradley Gardens, New Jersey, Frank Liao would be the equivalent of falling in love with the narrator on the History Channel while using them to cure late-night insomnia.
Beijing time has truly messed up my understanding of romantic attraction.
Frank is still talking about political activism. He gestures at the walls and open space around us, pointing enthusiastically.
I can’t help but grin genuinely at him.
He smiles back, like I’m almost as important as a historical landmark.
My heart beats faster. Like I’m about to parachute off a plane.
When is the history lesson over?
Don’t get me wrong, Tiananmen is a really nice public meeting area, but where is the gift shop? I still have some leftover yuan to spend, and Tiananmen Square could totally benefit from more tourist spending.
Also, the boots Ruby gave me are a few sizes too small and the sides pinch my feet like passive-aggressive hermit crabs. Where can we find a bench to sit?
I do feel proud of myself, though, for enjoying a real-life cultural heritage site. I mean, the flagpole is nice for younger children playing tag, and there’s even something called an Arrow Tower for a great view of the city (perfect for hooking up). There’s also a Great Hall of the People, which I gather is a backup meeting place for citywide emergencies. In front of the entrance is where the Forbidden Palace is located, and there is also a full-size photo of a stern balding man that reminds me a lot of Uncle Dai.
In fact, I’m almost certain that the portrait is of Uncle Dai.
Is my uncle a major donor? Is that why Frank brought me to the square? Is Tiananmen Square part of Feng Construction Corporation?
“That looks exactly like my uncle!” I say, waving at the portrait.
No answer from Frank.
“You think your uncle looks like Mao Zedong?” Frank finally asks, sounding incredulous.
“Well, yes. Don’t you see the resemblance? Who’s Mao, anyway?”
I snap a selfie with the poster and try to take several where I put a leg up to showcase my new beautiful gold boots. These photos are definitely Instagrammable. Frank stares at me, looking stunned. As if he can’t believe that Uncle Dai owns the entire square. As a matter of fact, I don’t believe it either.
Suddenly, a security guard starts yelling in both English and Chinese, “NO PHOTO ALLOWED! What you doing, miss?”
I quickly apologize for the misunderstanding and scamper away. I worry that he’ll make me delete the photos. It’s a bit difficult to run, actually, since these boots are high with six-inch heels. It’s honestly like walking on a pair of attention-grabbing gold stilts.
Frank bows and apologizes profusely to the security guard, who mutters something long and explanatory in Chinese as we leave.
As I continue to scan the area for a gift shop, I pretend that I don’t see the National Museum of China in case Frank wants to go in.
After I accidentally compared Uncle Dai to Mao Zedong, Frank has said nothing for the longest time. But I’m glad when he agrees that it’s time for a late lunch.
He hails a rickshaw, which is a bike pulling an old-fashioned carriage, and I honestly feel a bit bad for the skinny older man who agrees to haul both of us. We can’t be very light, especially since there are two of us, and there is a lot of panting and huffing on his part, especially when we turn up a bumpy cobblestone road. Going uphill takes forever and each time we hit a pothole, I worry that we will flip over.
“Isn’t this great?” Frank says, grinning.
He seems more relaxed now, as if able to put last night’s “mistake” behind us.
I nod, but I keep worrying about how the rickshaw driver will manage to get us to our destination. I can’t understand why I want Frank to like me when I see all my flaws and mistakes in his totally serious, opposite-of-Iris personality.
A shocking thought hits me: Maybe love, like family, isn’t supposed to be just for fun?
What if the real reason for all my previous mistakes is that I’m horribly afraid of hard work? Come to think of it, whenever there is a pothole in the road, I find the nearest overpriced coffee shop and will my problem to go away with a fudgy pecan brownie and an extra-large caramel latte. I just don’t enjoy problem-solving. I just don’t want to figure out how much cement to use to fill a hole.