Iris: How can you pretend we’re still best friends??? You’ve done so many shitty things.
Samira Chadha-Fu: Iris, my nearest and dearest, what are you talking about?
Iris: Goodbye, Samira. Please don’t contact me again.
I unfriend her on social media. I block her number and email address.
Then I turn off my iPhone.
And nervously, I start prepping the hotel staff.
After the caterers have arrived, I stand at the front of the banquet hall with an electronic checklist on my iPad. A stunningly dressed Frank/Paul arrives early, and he watches me sheepishly. He refuses to make eye contact. I haven’t seen him since he showed us his apartment. We have communicated briefly through text messages, but he has mostly talked to/through Ruby, who has been sending him mandatory fundraising updates.
We both agree that Frank/Paul is a humongous heap of steaming dog shit, but the cause is more important than whether or not we personally like and respect him.
“Zhī jǐ zhī bǐ, bǎi zhàn bù dài,” Ruby told me, quoting from her all-time favorite book, Sun Tzu’s The Art of War. “If you know both yourself and your enemy, you can win a hundred battles without jeopardy.”
I didn’t know exactly what she was referring to, but Ruby ordered me the English version and said that it would dramatically improve my dating life. She uses The Art of War to strategize all her doggy-grooming pageants.
Honestly, I’m just grateful that my cousin is like a relentless pit bull, and that she’s finally on my side.
I never want to be on opposing sides with Ruby again.
“Iris, how have you been?” Frank/Paul asks.
I pause.
Then … finally! A group of guests have just arrived, and I dash away to check them in. I pretend that I haven’t heard him.
“Huān yíng guāng lín!” I shout joyfully at a gaggle of women in couture evening gowns. “Welcome, welcome to our event.”
They smile politely at me, which means that I must be pronouncing it correctly.
Excited, I practically scream “Huān yíng guāng lín!” fifty more times at random groups of people, including the waitstaff.
Peeking over my iPad with the guest names, I secretly observe an animated, smiling Frank/Paul. He’s dressed in the bright red designer tuxedo that Ruby picked out and sent over. Of course Ruby has excellent taste in fashion, and the fit makes Frank/Paul look like a lead spy from an international thriller and a fire hydrant at the same time. The loud, garish color also reminds me of a North American stop sign. Was it intentional?
Was Ruby helping by sending me an unsubtle message?
Whenever Frank moves through a crowd of guests, there’s not a chance of me missing him. The color of his suit is literally screaming STOP! STOP! STOP!, and even a student driver could see the resemblance. Frank and the danger-suit keep creeping into my peripheral vision. Should I stay away?
Doesn’t Ruby know that I’m naturally drawn to lying boys and danger?
It’s just a symptom of being flower-hearted.
Despite his ulterior motives and his hot and cold conversational skills, I still can’t hate Frank/Paul. I understand why he did what he did, but I don’t feel ready to face him yet. I don’t feel ready to acknowledge him as a human being.
But why should I?
What do I gain by bringing him back into my life?
Don’t I deserve someone who is at least honest about important things like sharing their real name?
As if on cue, all the twenty-plus journalists and media people from the New York Times Asia and Vogue China arrive, and I insist that they speak to Frank/Paul about the importance of migrant workers’ rights and access to basic education. After all, he’s the expert and he can speak passionately into microphones and cameras. He enjoys giving lectures and has the personal experience to back up his points.
Mostly, I’m just glad that they’ll be covering our event in tomorrow’s news!
Gliding over to me, Ruby triumphantly points out a few soap opera stars and minor Beijing celebrities, including a rising politician and a fifth-place pageant queen. We have 4,508 guests in total. This was the entire population of my high school. Guests swarm the conference room, greeting and hugging and kissing each other, while a professional photographer takes their photos.
“I told you!” Ruby whispers excitedly. “Didn’t I say they would all come?”
I don’t know who these people are, but they all seem to know Ruby, Uncle Dai, and Auntie Yingfei. They all seem to eat at the same restaurants and dance in the nightclubs in Beijing while also frequenting the same spas in Paris and ski lodges in Switzerland.
Everyone is so beautifully dressed and groomed. It’s like a red-carpet night at the Oscars.
Not one but two local television stations will be covering the event and asking for more donations.
On a last-minute whim, I invited Madame Xing to do specialty face-readings at our event, and I’m thrilled when she arrives late with her assistant, Hollie. Madame Xing is also part of my secret backup plan. When she sees me and I check her name off my electronic list, I grin and flash her my extra-long red acrylic nails. She laughs and shows me hers. We match perfectly.
I finally have my own Tiger claws, filed down to extra-sharp stiletto points for protection. Whether I need them or not.
Am I destined to be as fashionable and mighty as the formidable Madame Xing? Could I be a world-class entrepreneur, if not a successful fortune-teller? I seem to be a horrible judge of character. Don’t business and fortune-telling require reading the personalities of people around you?
“Iris, how is your heart?” Madame Xing asks, and I say that it’s still banged up but improving.
She smiles knowingly.
“If you have a flower-heart, it can still grow back,” she offers. She places her hand on my shoulder and squeezes.
I introduce her to my parents in the crowd, and my dad immediately reacts as if he’s meeting a legendary historical figure. His eyes widen. He beams. He doesn’t know if he should bow or shake her hand or both. It’s as if he’s meeting Confucius for the first time. My poor dad is practically speechless, and I can see that he wants to ask her so many questions about his past, present, and future.
As Madame Xing sets up shop in the center of the room for face-readings (65 percent of the profits will go to our cause), my dad eagerly follows her. My dad keeps pointing at moles on his face and arms and legs and asking her to explain what they all mean.
She patiently answers all his questions at first (“Good job with Tiger daughter! The Dog wife is an excellent choice!”), but after his tenth question about a raised birthmark shaped like Arizona on his lower back, she becomes seriously annoyed. In response, she smacks my dad on the back of the head.
“Sometimes a spot is just a spot,” she finally says, and my mom and I start laughing. We turn away when my dad gives us a confused, shocked look.
Her answer was not exactly what he was expecting.
Nothing in China is what it seems, apparently.
When it’s Uncle Dai’s turn, Madame Xing peers down at his round features and massages his smooth high forehead. She counts his wrinkles: exactly twenty-four.
“You’re a very powerful Dragon,” she says, which causes Uncle Dai to grin.
She then closes her eyes and hums. I wonder why she doesn’t make him spit in a cup.