Loveboat, Taipei

by Abigail Hing Wen

I’m not alarmed, not after witnessing Sophie’s killer negotiation skills in the market. Sophie will slowly give in until she gets the deal she wants, and miraculously, the photographer will feel equally pleased we value her work so highly.

  At last, Sophie turns to me. “She’ll give us two for one, since we’re doing it together. Three outfits each, and she’ll cut us a deeper deal if we pay American dollars.”

  “How much?”

  When she tells me, I swallow hard. It’s less than what it would cost in the States but wipes out a third of the savings I brought as spending money.

  In my purse, my phone chimes with a text. My fingers brush my mysterious sketch as I dig my phone out.

  Pearl: Mom wants to check how Mandarins going better call back soon

  My stomach clenches. Mom’s grasping fingers are after me. How much longer can I dodge them? I text back:

  Thanks for the warning

  I drop my phone back into my purse, then join Sophie at the counter. I run my hand over the gold embossing that frames a gorgeous girl in the album open before her.

  Glamour shots. I can’t imagine a more wasteful use of money.

  Another Wong Rule downed.

  I flip the album closed. “Let’s do it.”

  Through her entire first shoot, Sophie yammers on about Xavier as she poses in a yellow batik wraparound, standing in three-inch heels on the white backdrop before Yannie’s camera. “We really connected, Ever,” and “We never even got his shirt off!”

  In the corner, surrounded by dresses on racks, I hold a pomegranate-red gown to my body and examine my reflection. Nothing’s right—I’ve lost count of how many I’ve tried. I hang it back on its rack with a discouraged thump and dig into an accessories trunk of silk scarves, ropes of pearls, and elbow-length gloves.

  But at last, when Sophie’s session ends, I wobble in knee-high boots to take her place, tripping over the wire to the inverted umbrella that reflects light onto the backdrop. I’ve finally decided on an indigo mesh dress cross-tied with black satin sashes over the shoulders, bodice, and waist. Yannie’s hairdresser braided a matching indigo sash into my black hair in a reversal of the dress. The white leather boots are a perfect contrast and I love the overall effect.

  But as I face Yannie’s silvery equipment, I feel like an imposter, as if I’ve shown up to a Cleveland Ballet rehearsal to the confusion of the entire corps.

  An alarming burst of instructions flies from Yannie. I throw a pleading glance at Sophie, who breaks off agonizing whether Xavier liked her in gold to translate: “Lift your chin. Look straight into the camera. Bend your knees more and keep your chest pushed out. More—good!”

  I force my fingers to unclutch my skirt. At Yannie’s instructions, I stretch out on a white chaise that smells of perfume. Cock a leg. The velvet glides against my skin as Yannie repositions me, shooting my front, back, profile. She plays with the lights. Throws stars onto the backdrop. My body sinks into the cushions as I finally begin to relax.

  “Beautiful!” Yannie removes her beret and scratches short, blond-dyed hair.

  By the end of my first session, I’m flushed with the attention. Any compliments I’ve received over the years—my dramatic eyes, my silky black hair, my porcelain-doll features—usually made me cringe with the focus on my Asianness.

  But now, an ember inside me flares brighter.

  I change into a white jumpsuit as Sophie poses in her second outfit: a black dress covered by a blue trench coat that she slips suggestively down her bare shoulders with each shot. “This is the photo I’ll slip under Xavier’s pillow,” she jokes. Then her smile fades. “Ever, I need your advice. So many girls are after him.”

  Honestly, how can such a smart, resourceful girl be so single-mindedly boy crazy? She told Rick no one would break her heart and told me she’s going in eyes wide open. But she’s so earnest, desperate in a way that seems out of character with her confidence.

  Still, years of being Megan’s wing woman means I play a darn good moral supporter. I think about options as I side-knot a long, wine-colored sash around my waist and let the ends dangle. I smile at my reflection: elegant, with a hint of martial artist—I like it.

  “What about inviting him to your aunt’s house at the end of the month?” I suggest. “You’ll get him off campus that way.”

  “Oh, great idea! I’ll call her and ask—I’m sure she’ll say okay. She’s the one who told me about his family.” She starts for the dressing room, then turns back. “Oh, and Ever? Please don’t take this the wrong way. But we only get three outfits so maybe go more . . . sexy? Not like that little-girl dress last night—and definitely not that preschooler jumpsuit. I mean—have fun, okay?”

  She blows me a kiss that’s 100 percent sincere. This is how Sophie Ha loves on her friends, like her no-yellow-clothes advice to Rick. Which means I’m in her club, and which also means that despite my trying very hard to break the Wong Rules, my pawn hasn’t advanced at all.

  I stammer something like sure, okay.

  But it’s all I can do not to stomp my way back to the costume racks.

  I trade up my jumpsuit for a pink-and-black lace leotard that reveals skin in suggestive patches. Way more risqué. Yannie’s hairstylist sweeps my hair into an updo that bares my neck. As Yannie snaps away, I strike a few dance poses, showing off my flexibility by grabbing my leg from behind. I grin, baring my teeth in a monster face for the mirror.

  “That’s more like it,” Sophie says.

  “My parents would kill me if they knew I was doing this. I’ve definitely violated the Dress Like a Nun rule.”

  Sophie, long-limbed in a white Italian bikini, walks to the back of the studio, dialing her aunt. She makes a skeptical noise. “Wait until my next shots—then you’ll see a real rebel, baby girl.”

  I lower my leg, fighting annoyance. I am rebellious.

  Sophie chatters with her aunt through the rest of my second shoot. When she hangs up, she’s beaming ear to ear. “We’re on! She’ll send a car to pick us up that Friday.” She hugs me and squeals, knocking over my wide-brimmed hat. “Ever, that was the best idea! My aunt lives in this amazing mansion—even Rick says so. Xavier’s going to be so impressed—and you’ll love it, too.”

  “Rick . . .” Damn, of course he’d be there. I retrieve my hat.

  So you were watching my moves—

  Why, Ever? Why?

  Another text chimes on my phone. Then another. And another. Another. Another. Pearl—is something wrong? I dive for my purse, nearly knocking over Sophie in her bikini as she steps onto the backdrop.

  I hunch over my phone, my back to Sophie.

  Call us.

  Are you eating well? Studying hard?

  Did you find the biology book? We heard you have spare time to study.

  Hope you are taking full advantage of learning Mandarin!

  It is hot there but dress modestly!

  “Something wrong?” Sophie asks.

  I clench my fist, unable to answer at first. I power off my phone and jam it deep into my purse, under my sketch. “Nothing.” Except that my parents have struck again. Violated Pearl’s privacy and invaded my life. My stomach pulls taut and I pivot toward Sophie. “I just—oh my God!”

  My roommate stands barefoot on the backdrop, her back to Yannie’s camera. Her bikini lies in a silky, white heap on the floor.

  She’s naked.

  Not practically. Actually. Yannie’s lights shine off her golden skin, illuminating paler bikini patches. They bring out her rosy undertones. I gape at her, awed by her daring. She places her hands on her hips.

  “Ever, you’re such a prude! This is art, not porn.”

  But a triumphant smirk hovers on her lips. She’s sexy incarnate. A surge of jealousy thumps through my heart as she strikes pose after pose, as Yannie snaps away at the unbroken line of her backside.

  I remember an afternoon in the park when I was six. I was eating a green apple, sitting on the grass in a skirt, when Mom pou
nced in a scolding panic, scaring me, reducing me to tears. Apparently, I’d spread my legs too wide. Exposed myself to all the people in the park who might or might not have been looking.

  The grip of that shame has only tightened as my body developed more parts to feel ashamed of flaunting.

  And I don’t want her shame to control me anymore.

  I change my outfit for yet a third time. Sophie wraps herself in a bathrobe, digs into a bowl of hard candy, and drops onto a couch to watch my last session.

  With a nervous gulp, I step barefoot onto the backdrop, sliding a rebellious lock of hair behind my ear. I’ve decided on as provocative an outfit as I can stomach. The diaphanous skirt slits to mid-thigh. The sleeveless top, open at the front, flows like angel wings to either side. A single golden safety pin holds the fabric together over my chest, so flower-petal delicate that I can’t wear anything beneath.

  No bra.

  No panties.

  Truly risqué, Sophie-style.

  I take a deep breath.

  At Yannie’s instructions, I raise my arms in a freeing Y. I arch my back. My neck. The pin stretches over the barely-there fabric. The slit inches seductively up my leg.

  Sophie kicks her heels over the couch arm, translating. “Tuck your chin in—perfect! Now toss your hair—makes you freer. Yes—gorgeous! Not bad for my baby roommate!”

  I grit my teeth—Sophie can be so patronizing. But the shyness of my first shoot is gone. I’ve never felt so naked. Or so sensual.

  A few dozen poses later, Yannie flashes me the okay with her thumb and forefinger.

  “One more pose,” I say.

  If Sophie can do a naked back shot, so can I.

  Turning my back to Yannie’s camera, I shrug and let the entire outfit slip to my ankles. Fully nude, I step out of its soft ring and nudge it with my toe off the backdrop. My heart pounds and though only Sophie has a view of my front, I cup one arm over my breasts and fan my other over my crotch.

  For the first time, Sophie falls silent.

  Stiff with terror, I hold the pose as Yannie’s flashes radiate off the backdrop. I open my arms to present in second position. I throw back my head, letting my hair cascade to the small of my back. I curve sideways like the marble statue of a water nymph—Dress like a Nun—that rule has most definitely gone down.

  At last, the rapid-fire clicking stops. Yannie speaks in Mandarin.

  Sophie’s no longer smiling. “We’re done.”

  “Already?”

  “I told you. She’s got another customer in a few minutes.”

  I don’t budge.

  This is art, not porn. And as girly as it is, I want to see my body as I’ve never seen it before. As beautiful and free and daring as my roommate—no, even more daring than Sophie, who, after calling me a little girl all morning isn’t saying a word now.

  “Just one more pose,” I say. “For my eyes only.”

  “And mine.” Sophie rolls her own eyes. “I’m picking them up with you, aren’t I?” But she translates for Yannie, who raises her camera.

  I wrap my arms around myself and tense, like that moment right before the stunning opener to a new dance routine.

  Outside, I imagine the footfalls of Yannie’s next customer. My time’s up. It’s now.

  My hands fall to my sides, wrists gently flexed, and I twist to face Yannie, baring myself to the storm of a thousand flashes of light.

  14

  “I shouldn’t have done it.” Regret haunts me as I walk the moped-lined sidewalks with Sophie toward the Metro, to Chien Tan for her, the Szeto Ballet Studio for me. “That last pose—”

  My cheeks burn with the memory. When I close my eyes, I can still see Yannie’s flashing lights, still feel them on my naked skin. The worst is that, left to my own devices, I’d have worn the white-and-wine jumpsuit and returned to the States happy as cream cheese. Why? Why did everything my mom say make me want to do crazy things?

  “Calm down.” Sophie twists her hair into a knot and secures it with a clip. She frowns, impatient. “Not like anyone’s going to see your photos. Unless you were planning to hand them out.”

  “If my parents find out, they’ll disown me.”

  “Well, they won’t find out. You’re so paranoid about them. Honestly, Ever. All this insecurity is getting annoying.”

  She’s trying to stop me from worrying, but I can only imagine Megan’s wide-eyed horror. Pearl’s, too.

  This isn’t like you, Ever! they’d say.

  And would they be right?

  The fact that I’m not sure scares me.

  Sophie and I separate at the Metro, and I walk another few blocks to the blue line, still trying to shake my worries.

  It’s done. No one has to know.

  Szeto Ballet Studio is forty-five minutes from campus, on the outskirts of Taipei. I cross a few quiet streets to a modest, two-story building, swing open a glass door—

  And step into heaven.

  Faded pink walls enclose a reception room of dated but well-loved Chinese wooden furniture. The air smells of lilacs. Past a desk, I come upon a mirror-lined studio and a dozen girls my age, black ponytails whipping as they bend and stretch along a polished double bar. Tchaikovsky’s “Waltz of the Flowers” plays. A red-haired woman calls in time, an unbelievable mix of Mandarin and French, “Sì ge rond de jambe, shuāng rond de jambe, arabesque—fēicháng hǎo, Lu-Ping! Hěn hǎo, Fan-Li.”

  My own heart lifts with the familiar liturgy. Then an elegant Chinese woman, black hair pulled into a tidy French braid, glides toward me. She’s in her forties. Her graceful carriage tells me she was once a dancer herself.

  “May I help you?” American-accented English—I guess she can tell from my clothes. She seems surprised.

  “Um, I’m here with Chien Tan and saw your Coppélia album at a photography studio. I’m, um, a dancer”—I stumble over the word—“and wondered if you have space in your classes or summer ballet.”

  “Chien Tan, of course! I’m Madame Szeto. You’re welcome to join us.” She walks me back to the reception desk and hands me an amateur playbill. “We’re performing excerpts from Swan Lake in August. At the community theater.”

  “Oh, Swan Lake! One of my favorites!” The Princess Odette cursed into a swan, her dress of white feathers, her evil double, the love story that makes me cry. “How—how much are lessons?”

  My hunch was right—she must not have raised prices in ten years.

  The cost for the summer, week by week, will still wipe out the rest of my savings.

  But it’s a chance to dance.

  “Are there auditions?”

  “No need. Only the solos require auditions.” She opens her ledger.

  “Which solos?” I blurt.

  Her brow rises. “All but the Prince. Odette—”

  “Odette!”

  “—Odile, Von Rothbart . . . to be honest, the roles will likely go to the girls who dance with us year-round. You may try out, but would need to prepare a two-minute piece—”

  “Sure.” I knock a pointe shoe off the counter and hastily replace it. “I can do that.”

  “Well, most of the girls have been preparing for weeks—I don’t want you to be disappointed.” She opens a notebook. “I could squeeze you in Sunday after next—eight a.m.? I realize it’s early.”

  Not for the chance to dance a role whose choreography I’ve studied obsessively! I might even improvise a bit to show off what I can do. I’ll take the Metro from Sophie’s aunt’s house. I read the brochure. The performance is the second weekend of August—when Chien Tan is on the Tour Down South, the highlight of the summer. But so is dancing, for me. And this will be my last dance. My farewell. I’ll find a way out of the tour.

  “I’ll take the slot,” I say. “Thank you,” I stammer as she inks Wong Ai-Mei onto her ledger. She hands me a card for a dance shop for clothes and shoes and I clutch it like a lifeline.

  Back outside under the hot sun, even though I don’t approve of showy c
artwheels, I put my hand on the sidewalk and turn one anyways.

  The Dragon’s lecture at dinner leaves our ears stinging. She stands on a stage under red paper lanterns, facing our dozens of round tables, but there’s nothing festive in her expression.

  “You are intelligent young people with bright futures. Why do foolish things that could harm yourselves? Anyone else leaving campus past curfew will be severely punished and may be sent home.”

  Yesterday, I’d have welcomed the chance, if I were brave enough to stomach my parents’ anger and disappointment. Now, I don’t want to go home. I’m free to dance. Spend money the way I want. Kiss a boy if I find one. I was drowning back home, and Chien Tan is a lifeboat.

  “Looks like we’re off the hook for strike one.” Sophie pushes her empty dinner plate toward the lazy Susan, then opens a box of gourmet cakes she got Xavier to buy her. Four square cakes, burnt-butter tops stamped with intricate designs, nestle on a red silk bed. She hands me one. “Sesame seed balls or lotus cakes for afternoon tea?”

  I bite into sweet lotus paste. “Um, yum. Both?”

  “What about dessert? Shaved ice or make-your-own mochi? Too much sugar?”

  Seems it will be full speed ahead planning the visit to Aunty Claire’s for the next two weeks. But I don’t mind. I’m looking forward to meeting Sophie’s family—not to mention she’s filled my head with stories of rooms and meals straight out of Beauty and the Beast.

  “How about one per day?” I suggest.

  “Did you buy those cakes yourself? Or did you get your rich boyfriend to do it?”

  At Mindy’s voice, Sophie pauses mid-bite. She chews and finishes swallowing before twisting around to face Mindy in a baby-blue dress.

  “Nothing wrong with knowing what you want,” Sophie says coolly.

  “So, you admit it.” Mindy folds her arms across her chest. “You’re after him because he’s from the richest family in Taiwan.”

  Sophie gives her a level stare. “I like nice things. So what?”

  Mindy’s arms unfold and her hands ball into fists, then she storms away.

  Sophie lets out a breath. “She’s jealous. It’s understandable.”

  My cheeks feel singed. How much does Xavier suspect his family’s money is a draw for the girls who are after him? I’ve never given much thought to a guy’s money; I always assumed I’d be the one supporting my family. But maybe a guy like him has to think about it.