Loveboat, Taipei

by Abigail Hing Wen

  王爱美

  I blow on the paint until it dries.

  All Rick’s stuff is still here. He has to come back.

  He has to.

  Xavier’s already on the couch when I enter the fifth-floor lounge, the top three buttons undone on his black shirt, his pencil gliding over the sketchbook in his lap. He’s drawing out in the open, new for him. A reader and box of dragon’s beard candy are stacked at his side.

  With a finger, he brushes his wavy hair from his eyes. “You all right?”

  I slump down beside him and open the box. “My parents are trying to fly me home after forcing me to come here in the first place. When I’ve finally gotten a group of dancers together.” When I finally feel at home.

  “I don’t want you leaving either.” He massages the back of my neck with cool fingers and I battle a twinge of guilt.

  I shift away. “Don’t.”

  He puts his hand into his lap. After a moment, he says, “If it’s ticket prices they’re waiting on, I doubt they’ll come down.”

  “Let’s hope not.” But I’m not just fighting the ticket. I’m fighting the anxiousness, the guilt that welled like blood from a bad cut when I saw her tonight. The wrinkles deepening around her eyes. Her cup of herbal medicine she takes for the ache that won’t leave her back. Her bulldog fight to stretch every dollar.

  “I brought some rice.” I hold up a plastic-wrapped handful, wheedled from the kitchen staff. “We can make rice-clay letters.” Pearl’s tip. We kneed the rice into gray clay and form letters on the table until the rice starts to harden.

  “Cool.” Then Xavier holds up an ancient-looking DVD. “I brought something different for tonight. Fong Sai-Yuk. You said you’d try it.”

  The kung fu flick. “I said maybe.” I smile. “The first day, when I didn’t know any better.” And he remembered. “I’m game.”

  Xavier pops the DVD into the player and dims the lights. It’s an old film, the acting overdone, but as the story unfolds on the screen, I sink deeper into the couch. I read the subtitles: an ambitious Chinese martial artist competes to win the hand of the daughter of a powerful hooligan, then journeys to save his father.

  “I can’t believe I’m watching this. I mean, my dad watches these movies. Some of the girl stuff is way old-fashioned, but the story’s pretty good.”

  “I tell you, kung fu flicks get a bad rap. They’re not all beating up guys. They’re about honor. Glory. Sacrifice.” He thumps his chest, making me smile.

  I applaud when the credits roll. “Oh, wow. When Jet Li straps his dead friend onto his back and makes their enemies kowtow, it was seriously—”

  “The greatest scene in kung fu movie history.”

  “Totally got shivers. You’re right about the choreography. Thanks. I’d never have watched that on my own.”

  He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers linger on my neck and this time, I don’t pull away. It’s past my bedtime, but Mei-Hwa hasn’t appeared yet.

  “Why do you trust me?” I ask.

  His fingers trail down the bump of my shoulder, the line of my arm to my elbow, sketching my outline.

  “You never told anyone about my drawings.”

  “I did before I knew it was you.”

  “Exactly.”

  Even if everything Loveboat feels fair game for the gossip circuits, it had never occurred to me that I could share he was my artist.

  “It wasn’t my secret to tell.”

  His fingertips have reached the back of my hand. “That doesn’t stop most people.”

  I pull free. “Can I see your new sketches?”

  He holds my gaze a moment. Then puts his sketchbook in my lap and shows me the five-arched gateway to the National Palace Museum. The jasper meat, creamy layers of glistening fat, as delicious as the real deal. With each page turn, his sketches grow in confidence.

  “You should have your own act at the talent show,” I say.

  “For paintings?” He scoffs.

  “Sure, why not? You could make a mural and hang it up there.”

  “I’d rather just show my drawings to you.” His gaze makes me blush. I drop mine to the rectangular tube as he tugs a short scroll from it.

  He unrolls a sketch of three old men in black hats, sitting in a row with a pots-and-pans vendor of the night market behind them. Their beards are gray, threaded with black. Their cotton clothes patched, dusty in parts. An unusual choice for a rich boy.

  “I saw them, and I thought, maybe when you get that old, that’s when you find peace. Maybe the secret’s just living a fucking long time with the right people.”

  “Oh.” A soft chord twangs in my heart. “I love this.” A cloud of peace does hang over them. Wistfulness. He’s baring his soul.

  “I painted it for you,” he murmurs.

  Without realizing it, I’d hunched closer, my knee brushing his. I smell hair gel and cologne. I close my eyes and try to steady my breathing. What if I did go down this path with him? Him drawing, me dancing, both of us pursuing our art and cheering each other onward? He’s rendered my portrait a dozen times and seems so sure of me.

  “Xavier, I don’t know—”

  His soft lips silence mine. He tastes of powdered sugar. I pull back, but before I can decide whether I enjoyed the kiss or am angered that he stole it, footsteps pound down the stairwell. The door bangs open, and Sophie rushes through, her favorite tangerine dress wrinkled as if she’s slept in it. Her knuckles press to her cheekbone. She averts her eyes from us, but above her hand, one eye purples like a damp ink block.

  “Sophie, what—” Xavier rises, but she brushes by, smelling of coconut oil.

  I push to my feet. “Xavier, I’ve gotta go.”

  I hurry after Sophie to our bedroom. With her hand still pressed to her cheek, she fumbles with the hot water thermos on our dresser. Snatching my towel off the back of my chair, I move toward her.

  “Sophie, are you okay?”

  “I walked into a wall.” Both hands go to unscrew the thermos. The white of her eye is solid red—I swallow hard as she spills hot water onto her towel.

  “You need cold, not heat. I’ll get ice. Wait a sec.” I duck outside and jog to the ice machine by the emergency exit, taking the opportunity to wipe the shock from my face. This can’t be happening. Is it? Did Matteo . . .

  When I return, I press the cold bundle into her hand. “Heat’s good later, but not for a few days,” I babble. “I hit my eye with my flag staff once.”

  She frowns, not wanting my help. Then she flinches and presses my towel to her face.

  “Are you sure you walked into a wall?”

  Her good eye glares. “You of all people have no right to lecture me about my love life.”

  She’s right. “I’m worried about you,” I say painfully. “You need to tell the Dragon—”

  “It’s none of your business.” Towel to her eye, she climbs into bed and pulls her sheets over her head, turning her back. She lies still.

  After a moment, I shut off the lights and climb into my own bed. Her shuddered breath reaches my ears as she stifles her crying. My fist tightens helplessly on my pillowcase. Without Rick here, she’s so alone.

  I reach over the edge of my mattress for the rattan staff, which I pull into bed beside me, needing its solid comfort. I want to stretch it across to her, build a bridge between us, but I know she won’t take it.

  And if I can’t get through to her, then I need to get to someone who can.

  In the morning, Sophie’s gone. Her bed is made. She’s folded my damp towel into a square and left a note on it that she’s gone out with Matteo and won’t be back until late. She’s never done that before.

  I dress and run downstairs, but she’s not in the dining room, lobby, or courtyard. Debra walks across the grass toward me, holding a paper bag of hot bāozi from the 7-Eleven.

  “Have you seen Sophie?” I blurt.

  “She went out.”

  “Who with?”

&n
bsp; “Matteo, Benji, Grace, I think—they’re headed to Yángmíngshān for the day.”

  The mountains—a day trip from Taipei. At least Sophie’s not alone with Matteo, but her note has firmed my resolve to get help.

  I climb the steps to Rick’s floor, in the off chance that he’s finally back and I can ask him for help. There’s a pain in the center of my chest I’ve never felt before. What I told Aunty Claire about him was true. Since I was a little girl, a part of me was drawn to that boy with immigrant Chinese parents like mine who had managed to conquer his world. The truth is, if I did have a boyfriend, if I could set aside the annoying fact that my parents worship the ground he walks on, I’d want him to be like Rick.

  So I’ve admitted it.

  And he’s with Jenna.

  There’s no answer to my knock. Xavier’s dad picked him up this morning for a day with family. I head back downstairs to the front desk.

  “Is Rick Woo still in the program?” I ask the clerk, hoping I don’t come across as stalker-ish. “Has he left for good?” How silly of me to think his stuff was anchor enough to make him come back. Li-Han could pack a box and ship it to the States.

  How silly to hope that I might have been an anchor.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know,” answers the clerk.

  “Can I get his cell number?”

  He frowns. “I’m not allowed to give out private information.”

  I never wanted to set foot in the Dragon’s office again, but I try her next. Li-Han is there, whittling a whistle from a stalk of bamboo, which he shoves out of sight when I appear.

  “I don’t think he’s left.” He scratches at his thick shock of black hair. “But aren’t you leaving? Your parents are changing your ticket, yes?”

  “I’m not,” I snap. “They’ll have to kidnap me and air-drop me home.”

  Xavier’s still out with his dad, so we don’t meet tonight. I’m glad he’s gone. I still haven’t figured out how I feel about his kiss. Whether I’m ready to go down this path with him. In my room, I pull my bo staff from my sheets. There’s a certain move I love, a series of barrel-turns across the stage, but it’s a male dancer’s move from Prince Seigfried of Swan Lake. My room’s too narrow to execute it so I head outside to the back courtyard and practice it there under the darkening sky, pushing my leaps higher, sharpening my turns, reveling in the power and the bo staff. A routine begins to gel, and I laugh when I recognize a few kung fu moves from Fong Sai-Yuk. Thankfully, only the stone carp is watching me: Ever Wong the dancing dork.

  After my shower, I pull on my nightgown and wrap my wet hair in a towel. On my way to my room, my feet dance the new combination: rapid footfalls, a lunge, a one-footed turn—

  A scream behind me rips me from the dream.

  Sophie races up the hallway toward me, thrusting her arms into her floral blouse. She’s bare-legged in nothing but black panties and her matching lace bra. Her blue skirt flutters from her arm.

  “You bitch!” Just behind her, Matteo lunges in a drunken stupor, hauling up his pants with one hand. He slips, catching himself on a hand and knee. “You fucking bitch!”

  Sophie’s voice wobbles. “Stay away from me!”

  They’re back.

  I bolt for our door and grapple with the terrible knob, shoving, shoving—why must you always jam? Desperation gives me strength and I ram it open, ram her through, tumble after her. She smells of men’s shampoo, sweat, and fear. I shove the door shut as Matteo lunges, his beefy face a mask of rage and blood-shot eyes, spewing curses. The door shakes under his weight. I jam the bolt in place, then hang on tight. Under me, the door convulses as he pounds and pounds.

  “Bitch-cocktease!”

  The door shudders under his blows. The lower hinge splinters and dust bunnies fly over my bare feet while I pray the wood holds fast.

  “What the hell, Deng?” snarls a voice outside.

  Xavier?

  My eyes widen, and Sophie’s hand flies to her mouth.

  “Fuck off, rich boy. You don’t own this hallway.” But Matteo’s pounding subsides.

  Xavier’s voice is smooth. Calm. “Why don’t we go get a drink, you and me? You need to clean up. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  Matteo grumbles something I can’t make out. Then his footsteps shuffle away. After a moment, Sophie sweeps her hair from her face with a trembling hand. My shoulder’s bruised, but Sophie is frantic like a hummingbird’s wings. Her eyes are wide with panic, the purple eye swelling shut.

  A tap sounds on the door. Xavier. “You girls okay?”

  Sophie’s eyes flare. “Yes. Fine.” She motions for me to keep the door shut. “Thanks, Xavier. I’m fine.”

  “We’re fine, Xavier.”

  “He’s already passed out in his room. I’ll be in the lounge down the hallway. Don’t worry.”

  Xavier’s standing guard. I’m grateful. “Thank you,” I whisper through the crack in the door. I was only lucky he turned out to be a much better guy than Matteo.

  After his footsteps fade, too, I turn to Sophie.

  “I thought he was going to kill you.”

  She slumps on her bed, tucking her bare legs up. Mascara runs down her cheeks and she smears it over her face in a grayish splotch.

  Her lips narrow, set and furious. “I bit him.”

  I drop beside her and grab her hand. “It was self-defense. We need to tell the Dragon.”

  Sophie pulls away with a bitter laugh. “Oh, that’ll go over well. The cocktease got a shiner. What’d she expect?”

  “Sophie.” I clench my nightgown in both hands. She can be so strong for others . . . why not when it comes to herself? “No guy should treat you this way.”

  “Yes, mum.”

  I give her a measuring look. “I don’t think you know that.”

  Her good eye spasms and she rubs it impatiently. Then she pulls her legs to her chest and buries her face in her knees. She chokes out a sob. “I can’t respect him. Any of them. I can’t keep my mouth shut—and they hate me for it. Even if all the probabilities were on my side on Loveboat, Aunty Claire’s right. No good guy’s ever going to want me.”

  Oh, Aunty Claire. “She has an amazing life, but I’d never wish it on you if I had all the wishes in the world.” I tuck a length of my friend’s hair behind her ears. “Does landing a guy really mean this much to you?”

  “A rich guy.” She pulls away. “Just let me be the horrible person I am, okay? You have no idea. Even Aunty Claire has no idea.”

  “Try me.”

  “After the divorce, my mom went to work in a hotel and then some asshole manager slapped her butt and she shoved him onto his, and now she’s cleaning toilets. I had to give up my dinners to my brothers. Mom comes home with a new gray hair a day. She got ugly in a single year—no one good wants her now. I’m never going to be old and poor and thrown away like her.”

  “You’re not your mother. You are freaking going to Dartmouth!” I give her shoulders a shake. “You negotiate like a shark and you’re smarter than ninety-nine percent of the planet. Last I checked, that includes most guys in existence. So why don’t you go make your own millions of dollars?”

  Sophie blinks as if I’ve spoken pig Latin. But then her legs come down.

  “My mom told me not to apply to Dartmouth. Your parents harp on your grades. My mom was the opposite. She said I wouldn’t get in, and now that I have, she’s worried I’m setting myself up for failure. Like her, I guess.”

  How can her mom be so blind? flares the thought. But another part of me is starting to understand. Like Dad, crushed under the weight of his own wasted education. But instead of pushing her daughter to new heights, Sophie’s mom has tried to keep her from the same failures.

  “Sophie, you’ll run companies someday. You’ll get yourself on those most-powerful-women lists.” I believe it. “Trust me.”

  She winds her blanket around her fists. Her eyes are moist. “I have never”—she chokes—“done anything as horrible as wha
t I did to you.”

  “Yes, it was horrible.” But I learned something about myself. That after hitting bottom, I’m strong enough to get on my feet again.

  “I knew you wouldn’t tell—and you didn’t. I wanted to carve your face up for what happened with Xavier. But the whole time I knew you were a better person than me. I knew that was why he liked you more.”

  “I’m not a better person. I was jealous.” In all the ways I was jealous of Megan I was jealous of Sophie. Of Jenna. “I was insecure—and I ended up hurting everyone.”

  She balls her fists in her sheets. “I printed twenty of your photos. I tried to get the rest back, but I don’t know who has them. Or if anyone does.”

  Twenty. I swallow hard. That leaves five left in the world, unless any one of them made it to the infinity of the internet.

  I flip open her blue fan and pass it to her. “Do you think, maybe, you might like to join my dance team?”

  Her eyes widen as she takes it. Turns it over in her hand. “What would I do?”

  “Dance with us.”

  She almost smiles.

  “I’ve seen you. You know how to move. I can put you in the center, or the back, anything you want. Just promise me we’ll talk to Mei-Hwa about Matteo in the morning.”

  “Mei-Hwa?”

  I nod. “She’s not the Dragon. But she knows her. She’ll help us figure out the best way to handle this.”

  Sophie folds down the fan and rubs her cheek uncertainly. “It’s not nice when girls tell, right?”

  “Or to ever rock the boat.”

  We fall silent. Then she nods.

  “Done.” I hug her.

  I find Mei-Hwa at breakfast and the three of us retreat to an alcove off the lobby. Mei-Hwa’s thin face grows grimmer as we give her the account. Then she springs into action. Fifteen minutes later, Mei-Hwa, Sophie, and I are in the office before the Dragon. Mei-Hwa does all the talking in speedy, flawless Mandarin, about what happened to Sophie, and the shame this could bring on the program.