A horn honks from the street intersecting our alley. I step out of the shop to see a silver BMW with tinted windows, forcing its way through pedestrians to pull up beside the sidewalk. To my surprise, a familiar-looking guy in a black shirt swings a leg out the back door. Wavy black hair tumbles into his face. An opal earring glitters on his earlobe.
The boy making out with the pink girl—Xavier. Rick’s VIP roommate.
I duck out of sight and move to a gap between two vinyl flaps, through which I watch Xavier jerk to a stop halfway out of the car. Inside, a man with a face like Xavier’s grips his arm. Xavier’s dad? Does he live here?
They exchange an impressive torrent of Mandarin in loud, angry voices that cause a few tourists to scurry by. I recognize one word from his dad, only because my cousins used it on each other when we were little: báichī. Idiot. Xavier flashes his middle finger, hops out, and slams the door. The silver car squeals away.
I draw farther back, shaken by the force of their anger. Xavier’s body is all hard, furious lines as he stares after the car, arms at his sides, fists clenched. A reddish blotch shines on his cheek—a bruise? Did his dad hit him? Whatever his dad wants—better grades, not a toe out of line, prostrated nose-to-the-pavement filial piety—Xavier’s not just taking it like an Ever Wong.
He’s fighting back. Can it work? Is it even possible?
Dan floats to the center of my memory. My first real crush, who sat behind me in eleventh-grade chemistry. He was the only senior, and Will Matthews called him an idiot, too. He lent me a pencil, then I lent him one, and we started partnering in labs, helping each other decipher the teacher’s chicken-scratch on the blackboard. Dan was struggling with solubility calculations and asked for help.
“Sure.” I’d danced with excitement into the eye-wash station. “Want to come over?”
I’d been an innocent then.
When Dad opened the door to Dan—freckled, blue-eyed, towering half-a-head over him and asking for me—Dad’s jaw dropped. As we worked on the coffee table, he hovered waspishly close, flipping his newspaper, blowing his nose trumpet-loud.
Dan came two more Tuesdays. He wasn’t an idiot; he was acing world history. His brain just wasn’t wired for calculations. And maybe I’d smiled too much while he was over. Laughed too hard when he used my pen to play connect-the-dots with the freckles on his arm. Because when we slipped outside behind the backyard shed and he took hold of my waist, we were together for only five minutes before Mom was raging over us like a stung bull, swatting at us both. Have you no shame? Her cries, long after Dan had sprinted down our driveway, still echo in my ears.
I ran to find Dan in class the next day, desperate to explain. But when I arrived, he was emptying out his desk behind me. “Sorry, Ever,” he’d murmured. “I just can’t get in the middle of that.” Before I could speak, he slipped away to a seat at the back. Then bolted after class before I could catch him. As the days turned into weeks, I lost the courage to speak. He lent me a pencil when I asked, but never borrowed mine again, and if he hadn’t started dating Megan, I wouldn’t have known him well enough to congratulate him when he graduated.
I snap back to the present. On the roadside, Xavier’s shoulders have slumped. There’s something vulnerable, almost little-boy lonely about him, left in the dust of his dad’s fancy car. He jams his hands into his pockets and heads into the crowd, dodging a family sucking from fresh coconuts through straws. The crowd closes over him like stage curtains.
Before I can lose my courage, I return to the shop across the street and tap the vendor on the shoulder.
“I’ll take that skirt and corset after all,” I say.
8
“Thursday, after lights out.”
“Thursday. Thursday night.”
In the morning, the whispers buzz through the humid hallways, stilling whenever a counselor walks by. Everyone’s invited. I get my phone partially working at the lobby store, but maybe I’m on the cheap plan, because my internet won’t load, and I can’t get calls or texts. The cheerful woman behind the counter shows me how to download WeChat, the Chinese messaging app. It means I can reach Pearl and Megan secretly, and Mom and Dad can’t reach me—I’ll take silver linings where I can.
I send Pearl an invite to sign up for We Chat. Miss you, I text her. How’s it going? It’s okay here. My roommate seems cool, but she spends money without even blinking. A bunch of us are sneaking out clubbing Thursday.
Hey, I text Megan, along with her invite. How’s Dan’s visit going? Things are okay so far, although lots of kids here seem to know each other already. Cousins and camp friends. Classes are whatever, but I’m looking for a dance studio. Sneaking out clubbing Thursday too—hope we don’t get caught.
I’m staring at the screen, hoping for an answer. But they’re asleep on the other side of the world.
I arrive in classroom 103, an airy white cube cut into five rows of white desks and orange, curved-back chairs. To my dismay, the Dragon, draped in a green jumpsuit, stands at the whiteboard, taking charge of the remedial language learners herself, apparently. She’s printing symbols: the Chinese alphabet, which I only vaguely recall from Chinese school. Getting a failing grade won’t be hard—at least one Wong Rule is guaranteed to bite the dust.
One body then another bang into me from behind, nearly knocking me off my feet. Blue-haired Debra and Laura in her Yankees cap rush by for the front row.
“Sorry, Ever!” they chorus.
Goatee-Harvard David, another Presidential Scholar, races in on their heels. The scent of his cologne oversaturates the air and stings my nostrils.
“Think they’ll let us accelerate into Level Two if we test again end of the week?” he asks. “Rick Woo’s in Level Ten, the bastard.” He sounds admiring.
Honestly, do they really care what Level they are? I’m rarely into climbing mountains, and definitely not one that doesn’t count for anything. I make a beeline in the opposite direction to the back, out of teacher-calling range. I’m just happy to hear I’m not stuck in class with Boy Wonder.
As I take my seat, Xavier steps through the door, wavy hair tumbling into his face, his posture slouchy under his finely cut blue shirt. His dark eyes alight on me, cool and sardonic. Crap. I pretend to flip through my workbook, hoping he’s walked into the wrong classroom. Two rows ahead, a trio of girls coo over albums of themselves in sexy outfits—the glamour shots, which are, apparently, a quintessential Loveboat experience. All the girls are booking appointments.
The seat beside me slides back.
“I’m Xavier.” His voice is smooth and low, dark chocolate with hints of cherry. If he remembers Sophie and me staring at him (all of him) when the Dragon barged in, he doesn’t give any indication.
“Um, I’m Ever.”
“Where you from?” The vulnerable Xavier has vanished, too, replaced by this artsy-hot guy with a mocking smile. Even the blotch on his cheek is gone.
“Ohio.”
“There are Asian people in Ohio?”
His perspective on my home state is off, but not by much. I can’t help a small laugh.
“Where you from?” I ask.
“Manhattan.” A big-city boy, no surprise.
“You’re Rick’s roommate, right?”
“Yeah, I’m stuck with Whole Foods all summer. We won’t be seeing him here—he doesn’t slum it.”
“So I hear.” I don’t even have to ask what he means by Whole Foods—Rick could be the poster boy for clean living. “Boy Wonder strikes again.” I scowl. The corner of Xavier’s lip turns up and I return his smile—we understand each other just fine.
“Hey, guys, how’s it going?” Matteo Deng, a Euro-preppy rugby player, takes a seat in front of us. His family in Italy are wealthy clothing boutique owners and his accent’s Italian. He’s brushed his permed black hair into a thick plateau on his head.
Before I can answer, a hand closes on my bicep. A pale blue scarf tickles my cheek.
“Ever, I need to a
sk you something,” Sophie whispers in my ear. “Xavier, Matteo, excuse us a minute?”
I follow her out the door. Her blue dress swishes and her scarf flutters like a kite tail down her back.
“Something wrong?”
The hallway is deserted, but she lowers her voice anyways. “Matteo bought me bubble tea this morning, and Xavier was flirting with me at breakfast. Now they’re both in our Mandarin class! Should I encourage them? Invite them clubbing?”
This is the emergency? Really? “You’re seriously boy-crazy.” I laugh and she gives a charming shrug.
“It’s—”
“Loveboat. I know. Well, do you like them?”
“Matteo’s adorable. Have you heard him talk? Although I heard he yelled at Mei-Hwa when she dropped his laptop bag, but he was probably jet-lagged. He apologized. As for Xavier.” She clutches her stomach dramatically. “Oh my God, Ever. He makes me so nervous.”
“Um, hello. Pink girl?”
“Oh, Mindy.” She swats at a gnat. “They met at the airport a week ago and she apparently threw herself at him. She was at breakfast. They didn’t even sit together.”
Less than twenty-four hours into the program, and Sophie knows everyone and everything already.
“Fine, invite them both,” I say.
“Okay. I’ll do it after class.” She draws a quivery breath. “Help me if I chicken out?”
I hide a smile, tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. Back home, I’m on friendly terms with the girls on the dance squad, but really just have Megan. With Sophie, our friendship feels strangely effortless.
“Definitely,” I say.
She beams and we slip back inside.
“Ai-Mei. Bao-Feng, nǐn wǎnle,” says the Dragon. “Duǎnchu.”
“Shit, seriously?” Sophie mutters. She grabs my elbow and steers me faster toward the back.
“What?” I whisper, alarmed. Not understanding a word is going to get old very quickly.
“We got a demerit each. For being late.”
“What? We were here—”
“Zhūyínfú hào. Gēn wǒ chàng.” The Dragon taps the alphabet on the board. In a deep voice, she sings to the tune of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”: “Bo po mo fo de te ne, le . . .”
As we reach the back, Matteo throws Sophie a wolfish grin and she giggles nervously. Behind Matteo, Xavier still slouches in his chair, bare legs crossed at the ankles.
Sophie pulls out my seat beside Xavier and drops into it. I’m a little surprised—my purse is still hanging off its back. Maybe she didn’t notice? I pull its strap off and slide into the seat beside her as Xavier gives me another of his dark glances. He noticed. I turn my gaze to the Dragon and pretend to sing along.
Whatever, right? It’s Xavier. I might feel bad about what happened with his dad, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a Player. Someone to be handled with care.
We sing the alphabet twice more. “Bo po mo fo de te ne, le . . .” It’s more torturous than Chinese school, because back then, I was six. Fortunately, or not, the gunners up front sing loud enough to cover for the rest of us.
Over the next hour, we learn the four main tones and the neutral one. Our voices slide up and down like a song. We combine two letters with a tone to sound out full-blown characters. Then the Dragon shoves aside one board to reveal another bearing five sentences written with the Chinese alphabet and Romanized letters, English translations mercifully printed beneath.
Matteo swivels in his seat with a squeak of chair legs. “Be my partner,” he purrs at Sophie in his alluring Italian accent. No wonder she’s swooning over him.
She glances sideways at Xavier, then smiles at Matteo. “I thought you’d never ask.” Slipping from her chair, she moves into the empty seat beside him.
“Guess you’re stuck with me, Wong.” Xavier shifts into Sophie’s empty chair. “You go first.”
“What are we doing? I can’t understand anything,” I complain.
“Taking turns reading and answering the questions.”
“Then you go first. You actually understood the assignment.”
“No, you.” He folds his arms over his chest.
“Fine. Nǐ hǎo. Wǒ de míngzì shì Ai-Mei. Nǐ ne?” I read the phonetics in an American accent that makes me cringe. Hello, I am Ai-Mei. And you? You’d think growing up hearing Mom speaking to her sister on the phone would help. Apparently not.
“Xiang-Ping,” he answers.
I read the rest, finishing with: What is your favorite movie?
“Fong Sai-Yuk.”
“What’s that in English?”
“Fong Sai-Yuk. Only the greatest kung fu flick in history.”
“Kung fu flicks?” I make a face. “Ha.”
“What’s so funny?”
“My dad watches those.”
His brow rises. “Well, maybe you should, too. You won’t see fight scenes like that anywhere else. The choreography’s amazing.”
“Choreography?” I’ve never thought of kung fu as choreographed, but he’s speaking my language—who am I to judge his taste?
“Maybe I should watch,” I say. “So prejudiced, sorry.”
“You should be.”
I smile. He’s very cool and guarded, but also kind of funny in a dark, wry way that makes me feel less on guard myself. Maybe I’ve been too quick to write him off.
Sophie drops a pencil and reaches back to retrieve it, flashing us a well-timed dimple. “No English,” she chides in a scarily accurate imitation of the Dragon, before returning to Matteo.
Xavier turns the tables and asks me the first question in fluid Mandarin. He barely glances at the board. With all the proper tones, his low voice takes on a song-like quality; he’s even better than Boy Wonder.
“Did you grow up here?” I ask.
“Was born here before moving to Manhattan.” He shrugs.
“You should be in a higher level.”
“I only speak. Haven’t learned to read and write.”
“Got it. Most of the kids in Chinese school were like that. Which was why I couldn’t keep up.”
Sophie tips back her black mane of hair so she’s looking at Xavier upside down. “Ever mention we’re going clubbing?”
The reminder twists my stomach. Less than a day in and I already have a demerit. Am I really going through with this? With so many people in the know, how can the Dragon not find out our plan?
Xavier’s dark eyes glitter at me. “Not yet.”
“Matteo’s in. You should come,” Sophie urges. Then the Dragon makes us sing “Liǎng Zhī Lǎo Hǔ,” a rhyme about two little tigers that Mom taught Pearl and me years ago. To the tune of “Brother John,” we sing it once, twice, three times, in a round, then again, again, again. She writes a big red A in the upper corner of the board.
“Hěn hǎo. Very good,” she praises us. “Hěn cōngmíng, xiǎo péngyǒu. So smart, my little friends.”
“Kill me now,” Sophie mutters.
“Seriously.” I grimace, stabbing my workbook with my pencil. I may not be a Presidential Scholar or Level 10-er, but as hard as I might try not to, I’m going to ace this class.
9
After lunch, I stop by the computer terminal in the lobby. I look up dance studios in Taipei and run across studios focused on ballet, jazz, modern, Chinese dancing. If my parents had to choose one, they’d pick ballet for the discipline and focus. Twelve years of training at the barre gave me my foundation and got me into Tisch, but over the past few years, I’ve branched out—flag corps, jazz with the dance squad. I’m not a purist, I love all styles, love picking up new moves—I’d join all these studios if I could.
But ten minutes later, still no luck. Every studio is out of my price range and I can’t ask my parents to pay—they’d tell me to focus on Chien Tan. But this is my last hurrah, my farewell to dancing. I need to find a smaller studio, like Zeigler’s, maybe farther out from the city. Maybe something so small they don’t even have a website—
“
You done yet?” Mindy pokes my shoulder. Her pink tank top shows off her plump arms and her eyes are bright with blue eye shadow—but her expression is stormy. “Electives are starting. I need to get online.”
“Sure, sorry.” Relinquishing my seat, I head out the front doors into a blast of humidity. Introduction to Chinese Medicine is next. I hope it’s not a hands-on acupuncture class. I say a prayer as I take the steps down: please no needles.
On the lawn, kids are gathering into three groups. Chinese Medicine is housed in the big white tent directly opposite. By the pond, a group of kids rain mallets down on barrel-sized drums. Beyond the volleyball net, a line of girls are receiving blue silk fans from a rattan basket held by Chen Laoshi—Teacher Chen. I join the line behind Debra and stretch my calves and laugh as Laura pretends to modestly cover her face behind the gold-etched silk, knocking into her Yankees cap. A dance unfolds in my head.
When I reach Chen Laoshi, she hands me a fan. I flip it open with a snap, tip my wrist, and flutter it out of line like a bluebird in flight.
“Cool move,” Debra says.
The fan is snatched from my hand.
Chen Laoshi frowns. “Zhèxiē jǐn shìyòng yú shànzi wǔ xuǎnxiū kè.”
“Sorry?”
“Only for the fan dancing elective.”
“Oh,” I stammer. “I didn’t realize.” The next girl in line taps her foot, waiting for Chen Laoshi, but my feet are glued to the grass.
“Can I switch electives?” I blurt. “I dance. Back home.” I’ve never gone this long without. “Please”—my voice cracks—“I really want to join a dance elective.”
She gives my shoulder a soft squeeze. “Yòng guóyǔ,” she chides. Use Chinese. “Bàoqiàn, zhè mén kè yǐjīng mǎn le.” She motions me off gently, her kindness worse than if she’d planted her sandal in my face. The universe has conspired to tear dancing from me before I even set foot on Northwestern’s campus. If only Tisch—
But I can’t think about Tisch.
I’ll just have to find that studio.
Loveboat, Taipei Page 6