Loveboat, Taipei

by Abigail Hing Wen

  “You can’t make me come home now! I’m not ready!” I’m shouting, making no sense to anyone. I’ve forgotten how swiftly my parents can cut me off from privileges, even from seven thousand miles away.

  In a last attempt, I appeal to the cardinal Wong-family sin. “You flew me here already—why send me home now? It’s wasting money!”

  “You made this stupid decision!” Mom snaps. “So you suffer the consequences!”

  The line goes dead.

  I barely remember stumbling from the Dragon’s office. My chest burns as if my parents have filled it with live coals then kicked it in. I had begun to understand where they were coming from. Even felt sympathetic for what they’d given up by emigrating—home, acceptance—and appreciated that they’ve never pushed me to find a husband or called me a disgrace to nine generations.

  All that’s gone. I don’t care what baggage they dragged over the ocean. They have no right to make me carry it the rest of my life.

  As I enter the lobby, catcalls and whistles shatter the air.

  A hundred eyes leer from every corner: guys at the Chinese chess game, the pool table, the foosball box. The automatic doors glide apart to admit Sophie, prim in her tangerine dress and arm in arm between Chris Chen, a tall guy whose teeth have started to stain from chewing betel nuts, and another guy whose name escapes me.

  Sophie halts in the doorway, takes in the scene, and smirks.

  This is what I’ll face the rest of my stay. The price of my last days of freedom.

  But even as I whirl toward the stairs, as I grip the rail, intending to bolt for my room, a flood of anger surges through me.

  These guys know me.

  They’ve broken out with me over the catwalk. Danced at the clubs and even gotten advice on med school from me, for crying out loud.

  How dare they treat me like a piece of meat now?

  And how dare Sophie?

  Releasing the rail, I march up to her, ignoring the boys.

  “That was my property,” I say. “You had no right.”

  Sophie makes lewd kissing noises. “Please don’t play innocent little victim.”

  “I’m sorry.” A flush rises in my cheeks. I’d underestimated her. In so many ways. “But that silk rug in our room is also mine. So don’t you play victim either.”

  She stiffens.

  I glare around the lobby, and suddenly no one will meet my eyes. “If you guys want a live viewing someday from a girl you actually care about, then maybe instead of doing a hundred push-ups a day and ogling a photo that doesn’t belong to you, you should man up and be the guy who deserves one. So anyone with my photo, hand it over now.”

  I hold out one hand, palm up. I hate that it trembles.

  No one moves.

  My heart sinks. Can they really be so piggish and low?

  Then David crosses from the foosball table and places a photo in my palm.

  “Sorry, Ever,” he murmurs, and drifts away.

  My entire body trembles but I keep my chin high as seven more photos grow in a stack on the first. There were only a dozen or so guys in the lobby after all.

  “How many are there?” I hold up the stack.

  Sophie’s lips thin into a line. She won’t say.

  “Don’t even think about sending these to Northwestern. Or Dartmouth will get a letter, too.” Her eyes flicker—with fear? Anger? Still shaking, I shove the stack into my pocket. “Look around, Sophie.” The lobby’s emptied out. “No one’s left on your side.”

  Then I walk away.

  I drop by the infirmary, only to be informed by the nurse that due to her flooded store room, thanks to the latest typhoon, she had to send Rick and Xavier to the local clinic. My photo has grounded me for life. I can’t even go after them.

  The afternoon darkens to evening as I wait anxiously on a couch of silk pillows in the boys’ lounge, three doors down from Rick and Xavier’s room. I don’t know who will return first, or if they’ll return together, just that so many things have gone wrong since the bo fight and Rick’s fingers on my chin: I’ve lost Odette and my parents are yanking me home. Then there’s Xavier, and the fistfight, and whether Rick’s angry with me for doing the one thing he asked me not to do, and why couldn’t he freaking stand up to his family for Jenna in the first place, and why I took that God-awful photo, and how many are still out there and is one going to end up on social media or make its way to Northwestern, and did I subconsciously sabotage myself by losing Odette because it would only make the titanium prison of the burglar’s lantern more unbearable, and can I ever, ever go back to being the daughter my parents want me to be?

  An angry sob issues from my throat. Raindrops spatter the windows that look out on the night. I reach for my cup of bubble milk tea, which tips and spills across the black lacquer coffee table. It drowns the seashell figurines of Chinese fishermen, which match the living room table back home. I glare at it: another Wong invasion.

  They never even gave me a chance to explain.

  Ignoring the mess, I rise to stand by the windows. Down below, the blue pipe stretches tauntingly across the black waters of the Keelung River. A pair of dragon boats, glowing like magical slippers, glides under it. I never got to ride one, feel the spray of water on my face.

  “Ever, you okay?” Spencer pauses by the elevators, a wooden mah-jong box under his arm.

  Unlike Rick, Spencer really is like a brother to me. So is Marc. And Benji.

  “Have you seen Rick?”

  “He left Taipei.”

  “Left?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Li-Han drove him to the airport. I heard from Marc. He’s flying to Hong Kong for a few days.”

  “Hong Kong!”

  He never mentioned a trip there—only that Jenna’s dad works for a bank there. By the time he’s back, I’ll be gone.

  I’m never going to see him again.

  “You coming out tonight? We’re hitting the beer garden in Gongguan. Rick said that one’s the best; too bad he’s not here to join.”

  “Um, I can’t.” My bones have turned to jelly. “But have a good time.”

  I sink back down on the couch as Spencer heads off. The pang of loss surprises me. How did that happen? A week ago, I would’ve been relieved to be shed of Boy Wonder, but now . . .

  The floorboards squeak. “Hey. Ever.”

  Xavier. He’s wearing his favorite black shirt, the silver threads catching the muted light. His nose is a purplish hue, which fits the mysterious, tough-guy persona he projects, though not the real person he’s allowing me to glimpse. A long, rectangular box is tucked under his arm, one of those boxes made to hold scrolls, with two halves that come apart like a tube of lipstick.

  The memory of last night’s kiss, his soft, sweet mouth devouring me, springs back up between us.

  I rise from the couch, braiding my fingers together until they hurt. “You’re back.”

  “And grounded. Twenty demerits, baby.” With that sardonic smile of his, he holds out his hand for a high five.

  I step back. “I heard Rick went to Hong Kong,” I blurt.

  He lowers his hand. “To meet Jenna.”

  “Jenna!” So she’s overcome her fear of flying? And why do I feel this stab of betrayal? Our charade had been for her benefit. He’s never pretended otherwise but somehow, I feel . . . rejected.

  Xavier’s eyes are oddly soft. Sympathetic. I remember the picture of me watching Rick’s bo fight. Xavier sees me so clearly, and last night—last night, he made me feel so wanted.

  “What’s in the box?” I ask.

  Xavier puts a hand to its top. Then releases it. “Nothing.”

  Something about the way he says it makes me reckless. Or maybe it’s the kiss that emboldens me. Or that it’s my last night in Taipei, forever.

  “Let me see.”

  It’s his turn to back away. “No.”

  I snatch at its upper half and he grabs it back with a s
mall cry of panic, and then the top rips free, followed by a flood of rolled pages. Xavier snatches at them, his face desperate, but there are too many: a half-dozen Ever sketches flutter to the floor. Not hasty sketches like the ones he’s given me, but full-colored, detailed, shaded, woven through with shadow and light and time and dedication.

  Me dancing at Club Love.

  Me gazing out on the lily pond, my hair blowing in a breeze.

  Me wrinkling my nose at a gnarly Chinese herb.

  Me sitting by Aunty Claire’s glowing fireplace, a bottle of wine at my feet.

  My eyes filling an entire sheet.

  My lips.

  My body trembles as I kneel before these beautiful sketches, pieces of his heart in purple and red and green. Gently, I gather the paintings and roll them back into a soft tube and fit them into his box and rise and hand it back to him.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  He laces his fingers through mine. “Ever.”

  There’s a warmth in his low voice. A shy invitation. And it’s my last night. Before I return to the straitjacket of my real existence.

  Xavier’s arm goes around me. He cradles my head against his chest, his sensitive fingers massaging the vertebrae in my neck. My back arches slightly with the pleasure of his touch, then I pull back to look into his eyes.

  The desire there makes my knees tremble.

  It’s my last night.

  But if I take this step, there’s no telling where it will lead. No telling what it will mean to leave behind not just my parents and their rules—

  But myself.

  Then I put my hand on the back of Xavier’s head and pull his face to mine.

  25

  The sun is peering through the two-paned window when I awaken. I lie on my side on a cloud of down feathers, nude between cotton sheets and a blue duvet and the weight of Xavier’s arm over my waist. His naked body presses against my back from shoulder to thighs. His breath warms the nape of my neck.

  Last night returns like a dream: Xavier’s hand on my back, guiding me to this room as our mouths moved together, the click of the door sealing our privacy, then his mouth on my eyelids, my cheeks, the hollow of my neck, his hands exploring, the ripping of foil between us, my fingernails in his shoulders.

  My body is sore in places I didn’t know could feel sore.

  What have I done?

  I stir under Xavier’s arm, which shifts to my hip. Heavy and intimate and possessive. The subtle scent of him, cologne, sweat, male, reaches my nose. His body is imprinted all over mine—and what does this mean? I’d never been the focus of such ravenous want. Never imagined how irresistible its pull. Sex isn’t the barely tolerable duty of procreation, like Mom always insinuated. It’s two human beings fitting seamlessly together. Maybe it was the dancer in me, but I’d known instinctively how to move—

  I wanted to wait for love.

  Opposite me is Rick’s unmade bed. Nothing has changed since Friday, except his clothes from the weekend are dumped on his rumpled sheets. His stuff is still here—snacks, soap, care package. The folded bag of rice on his desk lies by the stack of postcards.

  Xavier’s arm tightens, drawing me closer. “You’re so sweet, Ever,” he murmurs, still half-asleep.

  And how strange he’d said the one thing he could have to make me want to leave.

  Slipping from his arms, I hunt for my bra, panties. I don’t want to regret what we’ve done, but I’m not the kind of person who can shrug this off. My gaze drops to a red smear, like a smudge of calligraphy ink, on a drooping corner of his bedsheet.

  Blood.

  My blood.

  Biting back a small cry, I slip out the door.

  The silver lining of flying home today is that I won’t ever have to face Xavier again.

  I’m afraid to return to my room and Sophie, so I head downstairs. The hallway is empty, and though I’ve walked them dozens of times, I feel lost and aimless as I wander the corridors. Somehow, I find myself in the dining hall. The breakfast bar is weighed down by pork-stuffed buns, a porridge bar offering five different toppings, platters of scallion pancakes, heaps of fried eggs and Chinese sausages. Salted eggs, Dad’s favorite that he makes himself by slipping raw eggs into an old pickle jar of warm, salted water.

  Rick was right: I’ve been missing out on a killer breakfast. Now, it’s my last supper. I should eat, but I can’t muster up an appetite. I’ve put a single pork bun on my tray when the Dragon arrives, her green skirt swishing.

  “Ai-Mei, my office please. Your parents are on my phone.”

  More English. It’s official. I’m out.

  In her office, Mei-Hwa is sorting papers, a song playing on her iPod. She shuts it off and meets my eyes timidly, and I flush. “My favorite,” she apologizes, though I don’t know why—she has great taste in music. The Dragon sends her to substitute teach our class, then pushes her speaker phone toward me. The scent of Chinese ointment makes my eyes water and the air conditioner blasts my head.

  “Hello?”

  I grip the edge of her desk, brace for the flight number, instructions for how to spend my time on the plane, pickup plan, along with those wounding shots that only Mom can deliver. My lips sting from Xavier’s kisses and a part of me fears that the Dragon can see them there, or that Mom will hear it in my voice.

  “Ever, we can’t fly you home.” Mom’s voice is like chipped ice. “The change fee is too high.”

  “Wait, what?” My eyes meet the Dragon’s impervious ones.

  “You stay until we find a cheaper ticket. But no more going out by yourself. All special activities canceled. Gao Laoshi said you don’t do your homework. You have more demerits than anyone else. You sneak out past midnight. You take naked pictures! Good Lord, what’s next?”

  My fingers clench together in my lap. Her worst nightmares about me have all come true. And why, I don’t know—but I’d needed Xavier last night, and maybe I used him.

  “Nine o’clock bedtime. Counselors will guard you at night.”

  “No boba factory tour for you.” The Dragon weighs in. “No lantern launching, no dragon boat racing, no talent show—”

  My head snaps up. “I’m not even in the talent show!”

  “Educational field trips only,” Mom concludes.

  “You can’t control me.” My throat aches as if I’ve swallowed a razor blade. I hold my voice low to keep it from cracking. “I’m eighteen.”

  Once again, the line goes dead.

  26

  I try to call Megan from the lobby phones, but she doesn’t pick up. She’s probably out with Dan, or still traveling with her parents. I hide in the fifth-floor lounge the rest of the day, skipping classes and avoiding Xavier. But there are four weeks left in the program, two more weeks of class before the Tour Down South. I’ll have to face him eventually.

  Hunger finally drives me to dinner in the dining hall, where I seek out Debra and Laura at a table near the back and hide myself among them. Across from me, Mindy shoots to her feet, tossing her black hair contemptuously over her shoulder.

  “Slut.” She storms to the next table, where she puts her head together with girls from the second floor. All of them shoot me scathing looks.

  My eyes prickle with tears, but Laura squeezes my arm. “You were so brave. You told those guys.”

  “That was such a shitty thing Sophie did.” Debra spoons mapo tofu onto my plate. She knows it’s my favorite and I dig in hungrily, grateful to have someone looking out for me.

  “We hate you, you know?” Laura laughs. “I mean—if I had your bod, I’d pass my photos out myself.” She hands me a napkin-wrapped package. “We collected six. How many are left?”

  They’re standing by me. I choke down a mouthful of spicy tofu.

  “I don’t know,” I whisper. “I need to find out. The photographer knows, but I’m not allowed off campus. I can’t speak enough Mandarin to even call.”

  “We’ll ask for you,” Debra promises. “We’ll find the
m.”

  “Thank you,” I say. But short of fishing in every pocket, notebook, and drawer on campus, the only way I’ll get all of them back is if someone hands them to me.

  I head to my room after dinner, hoping to avoid Sophie by going to bed early. In the lounge, Mei-Hwa lies stretched out on a blue-silk couch, head propped on the red-, yellow-, and green-striped pillow stitched by her grandmother. Over the top of her novel, she meets my gaze and her face reddens, then she hides behind its pages.

  So. My babysitter. Who, I’m sure, has never done something as stupid as . . . well, any of the things I’ve done these weeks.

  I sweep by without a word.

  “Ai-Mei. Wǒ néng tígōng bāngzhù ma?”

  Her tone is timid, not judgmental. I pause, my back to her. “My name is Ever.”

  “Ever. My other name is Gulilai.”

  I look at her. She’s sat up and set down her novel. She tugs an earphone from her ear and I hear a song. “Your tribal name?”

  She nods. “I always forget you don’t understand Mandarin.”

  “Which name do you prefer?”

  “I like them both.”

  “Is that what you’re supposed to say?” It comes out more belligerent than I mean.

  “No, I do like them both. I’m an ethnically Plains and Puyama girl, but I’m also Taiwanese.”

  She’s me in reverse. A minority in Taiwan, like I am in the States. Somehow, she’s making all her identities work: she wears clothes that reflect her heritage, and brought her grandma’s pillow, and tries to convert people to her favorite music, and yet she goes by a Chinese name and reads an English book.

  I touch her iPod. “What song is this?” It feels strange to use English, in this longest conversation we’ve had yet.

  “Lán Huā Cǎo.” She tugs her earphone free of the iPod, and a girl’s voice sings out the song she was playing in the Dragon’s office. Her favorite. “It’s an old Chinese folk tune. ‘Orchid Grass.’”

  My toes twitch to the beat. “I like it.”

  “You do?” She seems surprised, like I feel when the twelve members of my dance squad love my routines. And has she grappled with the same insecurities, the same fears of being accepted as someone outside the main culture? Have I given off a snobby vibe of my own? I find myself wanting to reassure her.