Loveboat, Taipei

by Abigail Hing Wen

  He gives a short barking laugh. “My dad says it’s an excuse. Western obsession with psychology. Chinese kids don’t get dyslexia.”

  I swear under my breath. “Didn’t you ever get special instruction?”

  He shakes his head. “I had a tutor here in Taiwan when I was younger. He was about a hundred years old. He told my dad I couldn’t learn.” He locks his elbows around his knees. “My dad used to say he should’ve beat me harder to beat it out of me. Then I’d have learned.”

  I close his notebook. “He beat you over dyslexia?”

  Xavier drains half the bottle before passing it back to me.

  “My mom used to try to stop him.”

  “Used to?”

  He’s silent. Then, “She died when I was twelve.”

  “Oh! I’m sorry.”

  Xavier shrugs. “It’s just my life. My father set me up in an apartment in Manhattan while he stayed in Taipei. I had an educational consultant. My teachers figured I couldn’t read because English was my second language. Eventually, I figured out how to cover up. Money can buy you anything in middle school and high school.” Xavier reaches for the bottle again. “Last March, when my dad visited, he found out I hadn’t even applied to college. I figured there was no point. He fired the consultant, and I didn’t bother showing up for finals. I don’t even have a diploma.”

  “Oh, Xavier.”

  He touches the small of his back. “My dad gave me a new set of trophies and told me I was a disgrace to nine generations.” His lips twist sardonically, and he takes another pull from the bottle.

  Trophies. He means bruises.

  But the message has penetrated over the years—so deep that Xavier believes it, deep down.

  A memory of my own resurfaces. Mom with the chopsticks, hitting the inside of my bare thigh, once, twice, three times. I must have been young; I remember wailing, scrubbing my eyes on the hem of my Hello Kitty nightgown. I don’t even remember what I’d done, except that we were in the study. Maybe I’d botched my spelling drills. The chopsticks only came out occasionally, and left no scars, but the shame has lingered.

  “Let them wallow in their disgrace,” I whisper.

  The firelight makes his cheekbones prominent, like blades. His jaw tightens. With a single finger, he traces a line down my nose. Then over each brow. Then, from corner to corner, my lips. Drawing me. Seeing me.

  Then he leans in, and kisses me.

  His mouth is soft, sweetened by wine. The gauze bandage brushes my cheek as he tucks his fingers into my hair and cradles the curve of my neck. Under his lips, my back arches slightly—

  What am I doing?

  I start to pull away. But he gathers me to his chest. His arm slides down my back, his lips devouring me. He breaks for breath.

  We need to stop.

  “Xavier—”

  His mouth silences me, parting my lips, making me gasp with the unexpected pleasure of his tongue. He tastes like the wine, the fire in the grate, and I’m pressing back against him, wanting him to take this Wong Rule–breaking kiss deeper and deeper, to heal that hole in himself and to keep making me feel so wanted—

  Then Sophie’s scream rips open the night.

  22

  “Sophie,” I choke as I pull free of Xavier.

  “You’re my guest.” She runs at us. Her rose-print robe falls off one narrow shoulder and she hauls it back over herself. Xavier’s opal glints on her lobe—she’s returned it to her ear. “You’re my guest!”

  “Soph—”

  “Shut up!” My cheek explodes under her palm. “Shut up, shut up, you slut!”

  White blurs my vision. I press my hand to my burning cheek. I’ve never felt so small and low, all my guilt blazing on my swollen lips.

  But I thought you didn’t want him anymore. I thought—I thought—

  Her arm whips back for a second blow.

  Then Xavier seizes Sophie’s wrist.

  “It’s my fault! I kissed her.”

  The part of me not overwhelmed by horror is stunned by how swiftly he’s stepped to my defense. Sophie flinches as if he’d struck her and wrenches free. She clutches the front of her robe. Her dark brown eyes are a lost puppy’s, so vulnerable and hurt that, even knowing she’s played us both, my heart aches for her.

  Then her lips twist. “Oh, so now you’ve got a spine?” she spits at Xavier. She whirls as if to go, but pauses as her gaze sweeps the floor. Swooping down, she snatches up a sheet of paper. Her mouth works like she’s trying to speak but can’t find the words.

  “You.” Crumpling it, she flings it at Xavier. It bounces off his chest to the floor and unfurls, refusing to keep its secrets.

  Another sketch: Aunty Claire’s blue porcelain cup raised to my lips.

  With a sob, she bolts toward the stairs, her robe rustling around her like crumpled butterfly wings. An eternity later, I hear the slam of her door.

  Xavier’s hand finds my waist. “You all right?”

  I jerk away, as if he’s burned me. I honestly believed Sophie was done with him, but I should have known better. I’m back in the moment when Megan told me about Dan, only what I’ve done is a hundred times worse. What kind of friend am I?

  “Ever, please talk to me—”

  With a small cry of my own, I pull free and flee down the hallway to the Eleanor suite.

  I awake to the pair of amethyst brocade drapes fluttering over their windows. The sun is high—it’s nearly mid-day. Groggy-eyed, I slip from my bed and pad into the bathroom, still trying to shake the weight of last night. Aunty Claire’s beautiful mosaic tiles echo with my unsteady footsteps. In the shower, as the water blasts, a gray frog leaps from the corner and my short scream reverberates off the glass.

  “Oh, Fannie,” I sob. “Frog—go away.” It ignores me, and I leave it ribbiting maniacally while I drown myself in the hot spray, letting its sharpness chip at the ache in my heart, until at last, cold water chases me back to my bedroom, toweling off my hair and face. I feel heavy, like I’m draped in one of those lead blankets under an X-ray machine. I’ll have to face Sophie again back on campus. And Xavier. And Rick—

  My foot lands on a soft, paper-wrapped bundle on the floor by the door. Orange tissue paper tied with a matching ribbon. What’s this? I detach a note and unfold a thick sheet of paper filled with blocky handwriting.

  Dear Ever,

  I didn’t want you to go to sleep tonight without my apologies. You’ve done nothing but help me this weekend, and yet I overstepped boundaries. I have no excuses. Only that I never want to jeopardize our friendship, which has been a surprise and gift to me this summer.

  Your friend always,

  R

  P.S. I found this in the market tonight and couldn’t resist. Hope you’ll get a kick out of them in the winter.

  He must have dropped this package through the room service slot last night. My eyes sting as I unwrap a pair of cuddly sky-blue socks, printed with male and female dancers, spinning, whirling, pirouetting. I slide my hands into their woolly warmth. After this lavish weekend, after Xavier, these socks. They’re so goofy, so dear.

  But he showed me Jenna’s photo the first hour I met him. This note is a reminder we’re just friends, and once Sophie gets ahold of them, his family will beat down his door with an heirloom ring and beg him to put it on Jenna’s finger already. I’ve succeeded beyond his wildest imagination.

  And what could I say? I’m sorry for not-cheating on you; I’m sorry for cheating on your cousin but things aren’t what they seem; I know you told me to stay away from Xavier, but—

  My toes connect with a satin box. My pink pointe shoe flies right, ribbons splaying in careless loops over the rug.

  My heart lurches into my throat and my eyes dart to my alarm clock, which never rang.

  “My audition.”

  I’ve missed it.

  Two minutes later, letter, socks, and clothes crammed into my dance bag, I race down the hallway toward the stairs. My heart is too crowded
to make sense of anything but the need to get to Szeto Ballet Studio.

  As I near Rick’s room, I hear him in English, Aunty Claire hysterical in Hokkien, each reverting to the language they’re most comfortable in, like my relatives when excited or stressed. I don’t hear Sophie’s voice, but maybe she’s in there, hands on her hips as Rick sits up in bed. Shame claws through my chest.

  At least I’ve cleared his path for Jenna.

  “We were just pretending,” Rick says as I pass his door. “Please don’t blame her. She was helping me—”

  “Rick, no!” I whisper. You’ve ruined everything.

  And then I’m leaping down the curved staircase two steps at a time.

  23

  The sun is directly overhead as I reach Szeto Ballet Studio, breath laboring in my lungs. An oppressive dread rides my shoulders as I barrel through the door. My sweat-drenched shirt clings to my rib cage.

  But as the faded pink walls and air-conditioning envelope me, and the strains of Swan Lake reach my ears, a sense of refuge closes around me.

  I run toward the music.

  The familiar ballet posters—Coppélia, Nutcracker—feel cliché after Aunty Claire’s art collection. But that disloyal whisper is swept away when my eyes fall on Madame Szeto in the studio, the scooped back of her maroon leotard reflected in the wall-length mirror. Before her, a handsome man with trim black hair executes a stunning barrel-turn, arms out, legs whirling, while a girl in a white leotard sashays around him. Prince Seigfried, auditioning more Odette hopefuls. I’ll beg her to squeeze me in. Stay past closing if she needs me to.

  Darting into the dressing room, I dump out my bag and have my tights in hand before the door swings shut.

  But it never does.

  Instead, it opens again to admit Madame Szeto, ebony hair swept back into its usual graceful chignon at the nape of her neck. Her leotard pulls taut over her straight shoulders and small breasts.

  “Madame, I’m so sorry—”

  “You’re no longer welcomed here.” Her mouth, usually soft with fondness, pinches like a shriveled apple.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late.” Apologies tumble from my lips. “I was hoping—”

  She seizes my bag and shoves my things back inside. The papery tear of Rick’s note reaches my ears.

  “Please, Madame,” I say, but she grabs my arm and half drags, half steers me through the reception room, while I babble explanations and try to right myself. The firm hand that showed me how to hold my midriff now pinches my flesh like a talon. Maybe she can’t give Odette to the girl who shows up an hour late, but why is she kicking me out?

  “Please, I don’t under—”

  “Our young ladies have reputations to uphold. We cannot allow anyone to tarnish that. Not even a girl from America.” She drops me like a filthy rag at the door and hurls my bag into my stomach.

  “Can’t I just dance with the chorus?” I cry.

  “Leave, Ms. Wong.” She holds the door wide. “Don’t require me to call security.”

  “Security?” I cling to my bag. The doorjamb hits my shoulder as I back into merciless sun. “There must be some mistake.”

  She throws a wallet-sized photo at me. I snatch at it but miss, and it flutters to the cement.

  “I don’t presume to know how dance studios run in America, Ms. Wong, but in Taipei, we don’t operate this way. Please don’t come back. Same to your friend.”

  Friend?

  My hand shakes as I stoop to recover the photo. Of a girl.

  She’s back-dropped in white, the only object in her rectangular world. Her hands open like fans at her sides. She gazes out at me, chin raised boldly, dark-red lips parted with a seductive intake of breath, coils of black hair swept up to show off every curve of skin from the slope of her neck to her coyly cocked ankle—and everything in between.

  All oxygen is sucked from the world.

  My nude glamour shot.

  While I was sleeping this morning, Sophie must have picked it up from Yannie’s studio.

  And delivered it here.

  The door squeaks as Madame Szeto begins to swing it shut. I grab its edge with both hands.

  “Wait! Please let me explain.”

  I’m forced to pull my fingers away as she shuts the door in my face.

  I am out of cash, so I walk the two hours back to campus. I’ve lost a week’s tuition at Szeto’s but I can’t ask for it back. My feet feel as heavy as the concrete blocks that rim the shoreline against typhoons. Mopeds race by, spewing clouds of grit over me. My pocket bulges from the crumpled photo that I can’t bring myself to look at. My lips sting—I need to speak with Xavier after running from him, but I don’t know where we go from here. As for Rick—

  My fingers rise to my chin. I can still feel the imprint of his fingers there.

  I need to understand why he gave me those socks.

  Why he told his aunt we weren’t really together.

  I need to explain.

  I drag myself up the brick steps to Chien Tan and enter the lobby through a side door. It’s unusually deserted. Panicked voices are shouting in the salon next door, but I can’t muster up an ounce of curiosity. The demerits board covers one wall: our Chinese names in a long row, raining down demerit check marks, with a long column under Xavier’s name, and a matching column beneath mine. It’s so juvenile.

  “Stop it! Stop it right now!” a girl shouts next door.

  “Do something!” yells another.

  “Guys! Cool it!” Marc yells.

  What’s going on?

  Hitching my bag higher on my shoulder, I round the corner and crash into a sweaty back.

  A ring of kids has formed around two wrestlers: Xavier’s arms are locked around Rick’s neck, both bent double as they lurch into Marc, who grabs at them, earning himself a punch in the stomach.

  “Quit already! Let go!”

  “Break it up!”

  Other hands yank at them, but they’re inseparable, a force of muscled arms and legs and rage, knocking over everyone in their path.

  Before I can cry out—dive forward—Rick jerks free. His shoulder surges, then his fist explodes in Xavier’s face.

  “Rick, stop!” I cry.

  Both boys turn to face me, mirror expressions of rage. Blood streams from Xavier’s nose. Rick meets my eyes and flinches. Then Xavier grabs the back of his shirt and they’re at it again like a pair of wild beasts.

  “You asshole!”

  “Coward!”

  I’ve never been the girl fought over by boys, but I don’t need any kind of ego to understand this fight has to do with me . . . but why? Because of the kiss?

  “Xiang-Ping! Guang-Ming!” The Dragon in her green dress jostles past me, Li-Han on her heels. I never thought I’d be happy to see her. She snaps her fingers, barks orders, and Li-Han, Marc, and two other boys pull Rick and Xavier apart. They glower at each other. Xavier scrubs at his nose, which drips red petals onto his cream shirt. His eyes flicker to me, dark and unreadable, but Rick doesn’t meet my eyes.

  I watch in numb silence as the Dragon dispatches Li-Han, Marc, and Rick to take Xavier to the infirmary and have a talk—that’s the Dragon’s way. Rick looks as furious as if she’s ordered him to donate both kidneys to Xavier.

  “Ai-Mei!” My name is like shrapnel on her lips. “Nǐ zài zhèlǐ děng!”

  “Shén me wèntí?” I blurt. What’s wrong?

  She motions me toward her office. Only now do I see that in her hand, the Dragon holds another naked photo, of me.

  Sophie struck again.

  24

  I know what my punishment is even before the Dragon shuts the door of her office, a chaotic workspace of four long tables and a steel desk flooded with papers. The air is sharp with Chinese ointment. Photo collages of students from prior Chien Tan years cover the walls, none of whom, I’m sure, have ever been escorted here for the reason I have.

  “Zuò,” she commands.

  Tight with dread, I sink into a chai
r before her desk. She dials my parents. I picture them on the other end, bolting upright in their floral-sheeted bed, Mom on her bedside phone, Dad on the wireless, as the Dragon speaks rapid-fire Mandarin.

  Then she hands me the phone.

  My hand shakes as I raise it to my ear. “Hello?”

  “How could you do something so foolish?” Dad cries.

  “We raised you better than this!” Mom cries. “Now you’ve shamed us!”

  “You know what those boys think of you now?” Dad demands, words that puncture a veil between us—he’s yet to acknowledge my first bra, let alone that boys might think anything of me. The shame of that little girl who spread her legs too far crashes down all over again.

  “What if Northwestern finds out?” Mom’s voice rises a decibel and I have to hold the phone from my ear; the Dragon can hear every word. “They’ll kick you out. You may have ruined your life!”

  Fresh panic erupts like lava in my chest. I clutch the phone. Sophie wouldn’t send my photos to them, would she?

  “They can’t!” I cry.

  “We trusted you enough to send you by yourself!” Dad shouts.

  “This isn’t why I sold my black pearl necklace!” Mom cries.

  Black pearl necklace again?

  “I didn’t ask you to sell it!” I roar. “I didn’t want to come here! All I wanted to do this summer was dance and you stole that from me!”

  Great gulping sobs tear from my throat. The Dragon hands me a tissue, but even with her in on our dirty laundry, it feels so good to hurl that truth into the open.

  “How can you be so ungrateful?” Mom cries. “We’ve done everything for you. Lord, why did you curse me with such a daughter?”

  “How can you call me ungrateful? I gave up dancing! I’m going to medical school! You never ask me what I want!”

  And there’s no answer. Just the murmur of my parents conversing, then Mom again.

  “We will find you a ticket to come home.”

  I grip the phone. “No!”

  “Go pack your bags. Be ready to leave in the morning.”