Loveboat, Taipei

by Abigail Hing Wen

  “You didn’t mean all that, did you?” I ask.

  Sophie pops her last bite of mooncake into her mouth. “When I was seven, our landlord used to pound on the door of our crap apartment every few months. I still remember hiding under the covers. And after he left, I’d ask, ‘Will we have to move?’” and my mom would cry, ‘You promised you’d take care of us,’ making my dad feel like the little shit that he is.”

  “Gosh, Sophie.” She has such good taste and incredible clothing—I’d assumed she came from money herself. Nothing like this. “I’m sorry.”

  “My mom’s life is exactly what I’m not going to have. So yeah, Xavier coming from the richest family in Taiwan—I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care. But that doesn’t mean I don’t like him.”

  I frown. His money shouldn’t matter, but she’s right, too—it’s not something you can ignore about him either.

  Sophie hunches toward me. “Maybe your artist is Benji. He’s going to RISD to study art.”

  I automatically glance around for his stuffed bear, Dim Sum.

  “God, I hope not.” I shudder, then realize how cleverly she changed the subject.

  With Sophie sitting squarely between Xavier and me in Mandarin, I have a front-row view into their growing relationship, and also the space I need from Xavier. The few times he catches my eye, I find an excuse to turn to Spencer Hsu on my other side.

  Matteo, as far as Sophie is concerned, has fallen off the planet.

  Over the next week, we practice bartering in the marketplace and talk about our families (jiātíng), boyfriends (nán péngyǒu), and girlfriends (nǚ péngyǒu). Xavier makes Sophie go first with the partner readings every time, like he did with me. She forges right ahead—it seems characteristic of their relationship.

  As for me, I ace every quiz. What little pride I have won’t let me write down the wrong answer. Even if it would help me break a Wong Rule.

  I wash Rick’s shirt in the basement laundromat, but I can’t muster up the courage to return it to him. It’s dryer-warm in my arms as I climb the stairs, debating whether to run it again with my next load. And when I see him in the lobby, dropping off a postcard for Jenna, I spin on my heel and dash off in the other direction.

  In Chinese Medicine, Marc, David, and Sam dub themselves the Angry Asian Men. Between sets of push-ups and swigs from their steel bottle—I finally get a detergent-flavored sip—they compile a list of Asian-guy stereotypes:

  “Kung fu master,” Marc says.

  “Nerd engineer,” Sam says. “Followers, not leaders.”

  “Effeminate,” David growls from mid-push-up.

  “Own it, bro.” Marc shoves David’s head down. “That goatee isn’t fooling anyone.”

  “Shut it!”

  “This is war.” Sam cracks his knuckles. “We need to take back these stereotypes.”

  “Yeah, how?” David asks, and they huddle around their bottle, plotting.

  I turn to Xavier. “Why aren’t you angry?”

  He shrugs. “I grew up in Asia.” And he doesn’t come close to any of the stereotypes. But he doesn’t contradict the guys either. He acts like he doesn’t care, but I think he sort of does. I get the feeling there’s a lot he doesn’t let show, like his relationship with his dad. I wonder what else he’s hiding under all that tousled hair, but it’s not something I feel safe asking about.

  A week and a half into Loveboat, the romances ratchet up. Someone leaves an anonymous flower on Lena-from-South Carolina’s pillow (everyone knows it’s Spencer). Debra and Laura steal Rick’s football to lure him to their room, Jenna be damned. Sophie works through a dozen different menus, down to which wineglass name tags to ask her aunt to bring out.

  As for me, I move my feet to the beat of music from Sophie’s speakers and study my mysterious sketch. I sneak by Benji’s open door, looking for artwork, but only spot Dim Sum sitting glassy-eyed on his pillow. Once I discover my artist, I have a fantasy of flinging my arms around his neck and breaking the No Kissing Boys rule. Maybe I’d kiss baby-faced Benji. But would I be brave enough to kiss Sam? Or David, despite the goatee?

  Messages to call home pile up on my desk, but now that Pearl’s WeChat account has been commandeered, I only email her—she’s lonely, her friends are away for the summer, she’s trying to make progress on her Mozart Sonata in C, forcing herself to read all those notes through her dyslexia. Mom and Dad want me to call. Megan’s well, but hard to reach—she’s on a cruise with Dan and her parents, and although I initially try to keep her posted, too much is happening. Fill you in when I’m back, I email her.

  Evenings after dinner, I toss dance bag and pointe shoes over my shoulder and race out to Szeto Ballet Studio.

  “Kànzhe wǒ, xuéshēngmen. Eyes on me, girls.” Madame demonstrates each combination in her muted flow across the floor: “pas de bourrée, pir-ou-ette.” I greedily emulate the glide of her legs, the flawless sweep of her arms. She speaks Mandarin, then English for my sake, and I start to pick up all sorts of dance words. “Turn the foot out more, but lovely arms, Li-Li. Bend your elbow like so. Very graceful, Pei.” She’s a stickler for technique but finds something encouraging to say to every girl. In my second class, she grips my biceps in firm fingers: “Engage your arms more. Pull them apart to here and feel how that locks in your balance. Feel the lines of energy, side to side and pulling from your head to your toe.” She lifts my chin higher. “When you love the dance, it shows, my new bird. Let it show.”

  She sees me. Her praise is a dip in a warm bath of honey. I barely get out a “xièxiè” in thanks. I haven’t loved ballet as much as modern and jazz, but under her, that’s changing. If I get a solo, Odette, I’ll get to work one-on-one with her. And so I double down—tighten my turns, push my leaps higher—then waltz on a bed of clouds back to Chien Tan.

  I’ve never slept well, and almost two weeks into Loveboat, I still haven’t adjusted to the jet lag. Plus tonight, the song in my head demands satisfaction. My feet itch to dance, my body to follow its lead.

  I slip from my bed and change into tank top and shorts. On the opposite bed, Sophie’s arm is flung in a pale hook over her head. Her inky hair spills over her pillow. In the moonlight, her face is softer, like a little girl’s. She murmurs and rolls over to hug her other pillow and I tug her sheet over her bare shoulder.

  Our stubborn door almost does me in, but I finally yank it open with a wrench that echoes down the hallway. I hold my breath as it fades, count to twenty, but nothing stirs in the darkness.

  Slants of moonlight stripe the hallway tiles, which are cool under my bare feet. I make a game of leaping over each stripe, landing without sound, sashaying around the next. I waltz into the lounge, where empty bottles litter the table and the scents of beer, rice cakes, and red bean soup from an illegal Crock-Pot still linger. I’ve had so much fun hanging out each night, but now, I’m enjoying this loneliness, with just the music in my body.

  The double doors to the balcony stand slightly ajar. I step out into the light of an enormous crescent moon in a milky halo. It dims the stars around it. The humid night air envelops me like a blanket as I raise arm and knee and turn a pirouette that lands me before the stone railing.

  “Hey.”

  I spin around. To my left, the hulk of Rick’s shadow shifts. Moonlight gleams off his rumpled hair, painting silver highlights into the black. He’s sitting on a bench in a sleeveless jersey, muscled arms locked around his knees. Just behind him, a clay drainpipe glints against the brick wall.

  “Rick! I was—”

  I break off. Dancing, obviously. Tiny moons flicker in his amber eyes, which are as hard to read as always. I can’t tell who’s more annoyed by the interruption, him or me.

  “I’m washing your shirt,” I blurt. “I mean, I’ve already washed it. Twice. I want to run it one more time. It’s clean, I promise. I mean, I’m not letting it sit around molding.” Good grief. I clamp my mouth shut.

  “I trust you.”

  “I�
�m so sorry you had to see me like that.”

  “You don’t strike me as the girl who usually needs taking home.”

  “Oh, I’m not.”

  He shifts to one side of the wooden bench. “Want a seat? It’s a good moon.”

  Sitting under this gorgeous moon with him is a waste. I should be here with Marc or Sam. Anyone but Boy Wonder.

  But I find myself taking a seat. “I don’t think I’ve seen one quite that big.” A darker band of sky encircles it, populated by stars, then light pollution from Taipei drowns out the rest of the stars down to the horizon.

  “I like looking at the stars,” he says. “It puts things in perspective, seeing how small we are compared to the universe.”

  Surprising humbleness. But I get it.

  “They’re so permanent,” I say. “So old compared to our short lives.”

  “Did you know there’s a black hole that emits the note B-flat fifty-seven octaves below middle C?”

  “That is the weirdest random fact I’ve ever heard.”

  “But cool, right?” His teeth flash with a smile.

  “Yeah, it is,” I admit. “Are you into astronomy?”

  “I read all the Usborne books on stars and planets when I was little.”

  “Oh, me, too.” I shouldn’t be surprised, but I never imagined that kid in New Jersey reading books that I loved. “Why are you up so late?”

  “Couldn’t sleep.” A pause. “Thinking about Jenna.”

  So, he misses her. Hence the romantic moon. Sophie mentions he calls her and sends her a postcard every single day. He’s a good guy, to have taken home a drunk girl he barely knew. Maybe I haven’t given him as much credit as he deserves.

  “Are you up late most nights?” he asks. “You’ve been missing a killer breakfast.”

  And he noticed? “Um, yeah. I’ve been sleeping in.”

  “Why are you up now?”

  “It will sound weird.”

  He shrugs. “I’m weird.”

  “Seriously.” I smile. “Sometimes I get these songs in my head. I see the dance playing out in my head. Then I need to dance it. Hence the pirouette.” I nod toward the railing.

  “That is weird.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Weird but cool. How long have you been dancing?”

  “All my life. I was four when my parents put me in ballet.”

  “No wonder. So, you’re a ballerina?”

  “No. I grew up on ballet. I loved it—still do. But I love the dance squad just as much. And other dancing—jazz, modern, combining them. I know it’s not serious, but I—I just love it.”

  “I get that. I can pick up almost any sport and be pretty competitive, but football’s my favorite. All the strategizing. The team. What do you like about dancing?”

  Funny how conversation with Rick is easier in the semidarkness when I don’t have to look at his perfect face.

  “It’s the energy of the group. Everyone moving independently, but still coordinated.”

  “Like football.”

  “Is it?”

  “Every play’s incredibly strategic. The whole team needs to be coordinated.”

  “Have you played long?”

  “Since high school. It’s one of those sports you can pick up later and still be competitive. Enough for Yale at least. I’m not in Marc’s category. He could go pro in track if he wasn’t so committed to journalism.”

  “He’s hilarious,” I say. “All his Angry Asian Men talk. Taking back stereotypes.”

  Rick’s silent a moment. “Marc’s a hoot. We’re running buddies now.”

  Yes, I’ve seen them jogging along the river together. I pull in a breath, then take a chance. “I found a sketch in my pocket after Club KISS. Of me. It was amazing.”

  “Oh?” His amber eyes are unreadable. “Who did it?”

  “I don’t know. I’m trying to find out,” I confess.

  “Show me the sketch tomorrow and I’ll poke around, if you’d like.”

  “Thanks. Maybe Benji?” God, how presumptuous. “Sophie says he’s going to RISD—please don’t say anything to him.”

  “I’ll be discreet,” Rick says.

  A hinge creaks down the hallway. The soft clip of footsteps draws near, and I bolt to my feet. “Shit, someone’s coming.” I can’t even guess at the punishment if we’re caught, a guy and a girl in a skimpy tank top together hours past curfew.

  I bolt toward the clay pipe, tripping over Rick’s outstretched legs. It’s a water pipe that runs from the roof two stories above, all the way to the ground. I reach over the railing and grab hold: solid, clay-rough, hand-sized, much sturdier than the thin metal one outside my bedroom back home. The courtyard, the concrete steps leading to the main entrance is a three-story drop, but halfway down the wall, a narrow ledge intersects with the pipe.

  “You’re not going down that?” Rick whispers, disbelieving, but I’ve already climbed onto the railing and grabbed the pipe, fireman-style. Using the brick wall for toeholds, I ease down the pipe until my feet reach the ledge. Inches from my nose, a splash of bird poop stains the bricks.

  I step sideways onto the narrow ledge, balancing on my toes, as Rick lands beside me. His bulk sets me off-balance, but he grabs my shoulders and hugs me to his side, hanging on to the pipe for the both of us. He’s warm and smells like grass, toothpaste. My heart pounds so loudly it’s going to give us away.

  Rick’s arm tightens warningly. Above us, Li-Han appears in paisley pajamas, standing at the balcony railing. He looks up at the moon, which refracts off his glasses and illuminates the long cut of his cheeks. A short, green can of Pringles gleams in his hand. We’re completely exposed—if he glances down, he’ll see us.

  I shrink deeper into Rick and hold my breath. We’re both sweating into his jersey. His hand squeaks on the pipe and we tense.

  But Li-Han merely crunches on a chip. Then another. Another. My back grows damper with perspiration and my foot begins to tingle like mad. I shift closer to Rick and rotate my ankle, trying to wake it. A pebble pings three flights down, clanks down the steps. Rick’s fingertips dig into my shoulder, and we each hold our breath

  Li-Han crunches another chip.

  When Li-Han leaves at last, I expel a long breath. His footsteps slowly fade then Rick looks at me, a question in his eyes. I nod, then he climbs hand over hand back up the pole, and I follow until I throw a hand over the rail. Rick grabs my wrist and tugs me onto the balcony.

  “We’re crazy.” I give a soft laugh of relief. “I can’t believe we—”

  “You could have gotten us in trouble.” Rick releases me so abruptly, I stumble back, catching myself on the stone railing. “They’d have called our parents. Kicked us out.”

  Not a laughing matter to him, clearly.

  I rise to my full height, brushing dust from my hands. “I’m the one who made sure we weren’t caught.”

  “If you weren’t here in the first place, we wouldn’t have had to go down that pipe.”

  What the heck? “I have as much right to be on this balcony as you do!”

  The bear brows scowl. He folds his arms, so certain he’s in the right, because that’s Boy Wonder.

  Fine.

  “Well excuse me for almost tainting your good name. That’s all you care about, isn’t it? If Mommy and Daddy call, you can blame it on me.”

  I don’t slam the balcony door on him, but only because that will bring Li-Han running.

  15

  After the Dragon’s threats, we laid low. But on Friday night, hours after I ace our first Mandarin exam, Sophie and I and a half dozen girls from our floor decide to chance it again. We tiptoe into the humid midnight and down three flights of stairs.

  The Dragon has posted a guard at the back, and although a part of me doesn’t believe we can pull off another breakout, we’ve planned tonight with care: splitting up into smaller groups, leaving past midnight, after the guard in his booth at the top of the driveway has gone home and even the Drag
on should be deep in REM—plus disguises: I tuck my scarf more securely around my face.

  In the lobby, we move stealthily past the potted plants, the cherry-root chairs. Outside, the waxing moon illuminates the lawn. We hurry around the lily pond, the splash of the fountains drowning our steps. A laugh escapes my lips and Sophie pinches my arm.

  “Shh,” she breathes.

  We near the guard’s booth, the street coming into view. A cab passes and we quicken our pace.

  Then a muted voice behind us calls, “Xiǎo péngyǒu, tíng-tíng.”

  Li-Han in his paisley pajamas is jogging after us, shoving his glasses toward his face. On his heels, Mei-Hwa gasps for breath, the colors of her Aboriginal skirt muted by moonlight.

  “Run!” Sophie cries. I yank my scarf tighter. We’re hailing a cab on the street by the time Li-Han emerges around the bend behind us, then our doors double-slam. We’re laughing so hard Sophie can barely give the driver directions to Club Babe.

  “They’re not really trying to stop us,” I gasp as we pull from the curb. I can’t help feeling guilty. “Mei-Hwa looks like she’d rather come out with us than chase us.”

  “She’s not the enforcer type.” Sophie finger-combs her hair into order. “Anyways, it’s a game.”

  “How so?”

  “They need to make a show of trying, but they don’t really want to catch us. If they did, then what? Drag us back by our hair?” She shakes her head. “The program wants us to have a blast, so kids’ll keep coming to Loveboat.”

  “The Dragon seemed serious,” Laura says.

  “We got a lecture.” Sophie scoffs.

  “Maybe it’s that Asian nonconfrontational thing.” Debra adjusts the rings on her fingers. “When have your parents ever stood up to anyone?”

  “My parents never rock the boat,” Sophie says.

  I adjust my tank top straps. “My parents would stop me.”

  “Maybe they’re more Americanized.”