At intermission, Sophie encourages everyone to peruse the silent auction in its last minutes. I cover my red dress in the black smock again and slip out to peek at the progress. Hundreds of people swarm the auction tables, marking up bid sheets, and then the auction closes. I smile at the crowd gathered around Xavier’s easels. Xavier himself is seated beside them, wavy black hair falling into his eyes as he presses his chop to an inkstone, and sets his seal on each painting.
So he’s sold them all. And carved his chop, too. Three Old Men, that slice of hope, is now cast like a die into the world.
As if he can feel my gaze, his eyes lift to mine, and he returns my smile.
The second half of our show kicks off with a bang. Spencer’s nailed Taiwan—with their own independence close to heart, his thunderous “I Have a Dream” rendition gets a roar of applause that rattles the chandeliers.
“A vote for Hsu is a vote for you!” yells a voice.
Debra and Laura play a duet on zithers. A trio of kids and a counselor from Bus D improv a jazz number on keys, bass, drums, and a wind instrument hand-whittled from bamboo.
Then Sophie announces the Gang of Five, the last act before ours.
I duck into the dressing rooms, the hallway behind the stage, but Rick is nowhere. As I lean my bo staff against the wall, my stomach clenches. Five minutes to go before showtime.
He’ll be here.
“Where’s Marc?” Debra murmurs. “This is his act, but I haven’t seen him today.”
I bend my knee back and massage my aching ankle. “Haven’t seen him all night,” I admit.
Runway music blares through the theater, a mash of electronic piano and a synthetic beat that demands all our attention. I crane my neck at the stage as a tall girl in a short fur coat over fishnet stockings struts into the spotlight. Heavy black hair frames a strong face with cherry-red pouting lips and devastatingly made-up eyes.
“Whoa, she’s stacked,” Debra whispers.
She is—and proud of it. Her red lace bra is covered only by the middle button of her coat. She strikes an exaggerated model pose: arm up, wrist bent, chest out—to uncertain titters and a few whistles.
“Um, who is that?” Debra asks.
“I don’t know.” Sophie folds her arms over her clipboard. “Spencer’s been passing messages for Marc. I haven’t spoken to Marc myself.” Her jaw clenches. “This had better be good or there will be bloodshed.”
I stare at the girl. “She looks familiar.” But I’m positive I’ve never seen her. A friend of Marc’s? I still haven’t met all five hundred kids, but a girl like her would have stood out. And where’s the Gang of Five themselves?
The music accelerates as a second girl steps from the wings, small-boned and delicate in a pink gown embroidered in darker cherry blossoms and white, elbow-length gloves. She’s followed by a third girl in leopard print, bursting with cleavage deep enough to drown someone. The heavy scent of perfume reaches my nose.
“Is that Sam?” I ask.
Debra gasps.
I stare hard at girl number one as a fourth and fifth girl in silk qipaos join the lineup.
I grab Sophie’s hand. “I think that’s Marc. And David.”
“No!” she cries.
The first girl takes the microphone. Her warm contralto fills the theater.
“Ladies and gents, I’m Marquette, and I’m pleased to introduce the delicious Sammi, Vida, Ben-Jammin’, and Petra. Welcome to the Ms. Chien Tan Beauty Contest! Contestants, please line up. Audience, prepare to cast your votes!”
The audience erupts in cheers and piercing whistles. Marc. And Sam, David—goatee shaved—Benji, and Peter. The Gang of Five, taking back the effeminate Asian male stereotype on their own terms.
I whoop so hard my throat aches. This is too awesome. Too crazy. Rick should be here to see this. I peer into the audience, wondering how our grown-ups are taking it. To my surprise, in the front row, the Dragon is clapping with her arms over her head. Two dignitaries flanking her are cheering equally hard.
Who’d have guessed?
The Ms. Chien Tan Beauty Contest goes way overtime as the would-be queens strut their stuff. But the audience is roaring. They vote down one after another, until, at last, it’s down to Ben-Jammin’ and Marquette, who rips off his fur coat and what turns out to be a faux-skin leotard to reveal . . .”
The Dragon’s green qipao!
The Dragon herself rises from her front-row seat, her matching qipao sparkling in the glow of stage lights. Grinning, she raises her clasped hands overhead, shaking them as she turns a full circle, lapping up the applause. On stage, Marquette is crowned and the others lift him onto their shoulders and parade around, tossing confetti.
I dab tears from my own eyes. Marc’s destroyed Sophie’s careful makeup job.
“We will never top that,” I say, turning to Sophie.
But she isn’t here.
Instead, Rick emerges from the curtained wing. His damp black hair gleams like raven feathers over his black tunic and slacks, courtesy of Sophie. He drops his sneakers into the trash, but not before I glimpse their soles flapping like hungry alligators. He’s holding his bo staff. Grabbing mine from the wall, he tosses it to me and I, too stunned not to, catch it.
“What happened to your shoes?” I croak.
“I ran all the way here from the hotel. Traffic was jammed up. Sorry I’m late. Just showered.” He smiles. “Couldn’t let Marc show us up.”
“You ran your shoes off.” I can’t believe it.
“I bought them in Snake Alley. Got ripped off, looks like.” He kneels to tie on his black dance shoes.
“Her grandparents’ flight was delayed. I ended up calling her dad and both he and her mom flew out to be with her. She’s with them now.” He takes my hand, eyes suddenly serious in a way that makes my heart lurch in my chest. “I told her I’d made a commitment to be here. I told her she needed to let me go.”
Let him go.
Happiness wars with guilt. I know what that’s cost him.
“Do you—do you think she’ll be all right?”
There’s a weight on him, the boy who shoulders his responsibilities with a maturity beyond his years, making a choice with no assurances that all will be well.
“We talked a long time. We both realized she’s stronger than she or I gave her credit for. Flying here on her own surprised even herself. This was the first time we’ve really talked openly about her depression. I told her what you said about finding the right counselor—not from you, I mean, just the advice. She didn’t say yes, but she didn’t say no either. She gave this back.” He holds up his knuckles. Light glints off the sapphire on the class ring from Jenna’s necklace. “It’s mine, actually.”
So she let him go.
A choked sob escapes my lips. “I was afraid—”
I break off, unable to say what it was I’d feared. He draws me to his warm chest and wraps his arm around me. Puts his mouth to my ear. “When I was a kid, my teacher asked who didn’t believe in life in outer space. I was the only one who raised my hand. Not because I didn’t believe. Because after reading all those Usborne books, I was afraid to believe something so incredible could actually be true.
“When I’m with you, I just know. There’s life out there. We could find it someday.”
His amber eyes smile down at me. A miracle on the order of the Big Bang.
But Sophie is calling the audience back to order.
“My ankle’s a little injured. My shoulder, too.”
“What happened?”
“Just a twist.” I center Rick’s collar and kiss his frown before he can protest. “Don’t worry. I can do this.”
My dancers line up in the wings, black hair swinging free of bands or ribbons, the gem colors of their dresses and ribbons and fans hidden under gauzy black overshirts buttoned to their necks.
Debra flashes Rick a thumbs-up.
“Thank you, Marquette, and thank you, generous benefactors,” Sophie says
. “Our auction has closed and we will announce proceeds at the end of tonight’s performance. For those disappointed folks who haven’t won yet, we have one more item—this stunning mural behind me, which I will auction off after our grand finale. Again, all proceeds go to families in Taitung impacted by the typhoon.”
I spin my staff a revolution to center myself.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen! I’m pleased to announce the international debut of The Wanderer, an original dance created and arranged by our very own Ever Wong!”
37
The opening notes of “Lán Huā Cǎo” play and my girls flow forward to form three identical bundles: a girl pirouetting, arms upraised, and four revolving around her like the petals of a black flower. Three stage lights halo over them. Their faces are neutral—for now. With languid motions, hips and arms, they form changing shapes to the soft beat of the drums.
One of my favorite aspects of choreography is that there is always a story. At least with me. The story of this dance has evolved each time we practiced, each time we added new elements.
As the music accelerates, the girls strip off their black robes and explode into sapphire, emerald, and orange. Silk ribbons erupt, blue fans snap open, jazz-hands wrist-flick. Their skirts and hair fan out like petals as they whirl: blues, greens, and oranges mixing across the stage.
Then Spencer’s drums beat out a counter rhythm. Blues, greens, and oranges coalesce like a flower arrangement as I emerge in red, bo staff twirling. My heart pounds with stage fright. It comes with the territory, but this is different—Dad’s in the audience.
And he’s about to watch me dance. With a boy.
Keeping my focus on my dancers, I weave figure eights through them. Their silk ribbons whip against my arms and my feet stamp the floor to Spencer’s counter-beat as I search for a home—do I belong to the ribbon dancers without ribbons? the fan dancers without a fan? the jazz dancers who clasp hands and knock me aside?
My dancers line up in an undulating wave, alternating blue-green-orange. They wall me out. My bo staff flies spinning in the air while I whirl in red beneath it, catch it, cast about for a place in line.
But I don’t belong anywhere.
Then a fanfare of drums and vocalization herald a newcomer: Rick steps onstage, bo staff revolving to match mine. Stage lights glitter off his coal-black hair.
A murmur ripples through the audience.
Feigning outrage at this intruder, I leap at him. My staff whistles through the air as I bring it down on his with a crack that echoes. Bo in both hands, I fly into barrel turns across the stage then back around to him.
But at a sharp pain in my ankle, I cut the turns short. Expel a breath—hang in there. My dancers form a phalanx behind me, and we’re sixteen advancing on one as I swing at Rick’s head. He blocks. Counterattacks. Swings at my head, my feet, my waist as I dodge, give him ground.
Crack, crack, crack! Rick grins as he drives us all back. The cracks reverberate into my hands as he beats out our fight down the stage. My dancers, defeated at last, drop back to form a rustling choral line.
I forget the audience, my ankle, as I take center stage with Rick. With every swing of my staff, he mirrors me, every crack augmented by the drums. Neither of us get the better of the other as we feint and dodge, swing and cry out.
Crossing staffs, we spin a circle together, faster, faster, then Rick yanks my stick from my hand. Not to be outdone, I wrestle his staff free, tossing it aside with a clatter. His hands go around me, my hand glides down the side of his face, and my dancers loop a double circle around us, flowing in opposite directions in rainbow rings.
Then my ankle gives way.
I bite back a cry as I pitch forward. My foot slips on the waxed floor and I’m falling toward Rick, about to land at his feet in an undignified heap.
But smooth as silk, Rick seizes my waist. He lifts me into the air as if I were as light as a feather, spinning, spinning circles we didn’t practice, blurring the lights into colors. I’m flying and I go with it—arch backward nearly double, hair whipping the air, arms and legs pliant, surrendered and free.
At last, Rick folds me into his arms, spins a final few circles, and lowers me to rest against him. His damp chest heaves against mine, both our hearts pounding louder than the dragon drums as we gaze at one another, the world spun away.
Only the thunder of applause brings me to my senses.
My dancers are bowing. Rick and I jerk apart to our clasped hands and drop our own bows. My heart thunders in my ears and I’m grinning so hard my face hurts. The audience beyond the stage is a blur of faces.
Except for the man who leaps from wheelchair to feet. His tortoiseshell glasses slip to the tip of his nose, and he shoves them back into place and keeps clapping as the audience follows him into a standing ovation.
Dad.
We take a second and third bow, but the clapping doesn’t stop. Finally, at a pre-arranged signal from me, the drums swell for an encore.
Rick and I separate to retrieve our staves, beat out one last fight across the stage. My ankle holds. The audience clapping turns rhythmic and my dancers form a semi-circle behind us.
And as I lunge and whirl my bo staff, dancing to the ancient drumbeats, I feel all the parts of myself coming together: glad that a part of me is Chinese, a part of me American, and all of me is simply me.
At Xavier’s request, Sophie auctions off his mural as the work of an anonymous student. I sit on a stool offstage while Lena wraps a bag of ice around my angry ankle. The bidders in the audience duke it out, higher and higher, until at last she declares it sold at US $7,100.
“Holy cow, his dad won it,” Debra says.
“No kidding?” I crane my neck at the familiar-looking man with his military bearing, not a wrinkle on his snow-white jacket, his steel-gray hair parted at the side. But how ironic. He can’t know it’s Xavier’s work he bought.
“I wish I could see Xavier’s face right now,” I gloat.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Sophie declares, “on behalf of the typhoon relief fund, all of us at Chien Tan thank you for your support. I’m thrilled to announce we raised over five hundred thousand NTs!”
US $16,000!
Even before the curtains hit the stage floor, we scream and hug, a tangle of sweaty bodies and stiff-sprayed hair: Debra, Spencer, Marc, Laura. Lena cries. Spencer high-fives the world. Sam kisses Benji. We’re drunk on ourselves and our success.
Li-Han pumps my hand up and down, stops when I wince. “I’m proud of you guys. When you all first arrived, I thought you were a bunch of spoiled Americans—I, uh—”
“We were,” I say, and hug him, too.
Sophie pushes through the curtain, yanking off one high heel, then the other. She tosses her clipboard into the air and raises her arms, glowing like the chandeliers.
“Sixteen thousand!”
I throw my arm around her neck. “Not bad for a girl with no talent!”
“Harvard Business School, here I come!”
Xavier climbs the stage steps toward us, a thumb hooked in his pocket as usual. But a new light illuminates his eyes. He fans a handful of business cards.
“Art collectors—and my dad.” He shakes his head, disbelieving. “Someday, I’ll tell him.”
“I’m glad.” I squeeze his hand fiercely. “So, so glad.”
Sophie flips through his cards. “Not this guy.” She crumples one card. “My aunt knows him. He’s a scammer. But these two”—she presses them back into his hand—“are legit.”
After a startled pause, his mouth pulls into a smile. “Thanks.”
Then they head across the stage toward the Dragon. Bossy Sophie has outdone Beautiful Sophie tonight, but I’m glad she’s both.
We are powerful.
We can be anyone we want to be—daughters, sons, mothers, fathers, citizens, human beings. We showed Taipei that tonight. And in the days to come, we will show the world.
A familiar hand falls on my shoulder.
My own hand reaches up to take it as I turn.
Rick smiles. “We did good.”
“We did.” I smile back, then spot Dad rolling off the stage elevator in his wheelchair.
“Hold on, Rick. Hey, Dad.” I move toward him.
His arms surge as he rolls toward me. “Ever, your arm! When I saw you walk onstage, your ankle giving—”
“I had to do this.”
“You might have damaged your body for good!” Dad holds a hand out for my ankle, which I place in his lap. He probes at it with expert fingers, then sets it down and rises onto one foot to check my shoulder. It aches, but nothing more, and at last he sinks back into his chair. “You need to rest that arm and ankle for the next month. At least.”
“I will,” I promise. And I mean it. Some rules are no-brainers.
He takes hold of my hand in both of his. “You were wonderful. And you look so beautiful. Maybe you can teach me how to stick spin when we get home. I saw it in a kung fu film.”
My throat swells. “I will.”
Rick has been hovering in the background. Now, I lace my fingers through his and tug him forward. Dad’s eyes open wide and I wonder how many more surprises he can bear tonight. But I only have one more.
“Hey, Dad.” I smile. “Remember Boy Wonder?”
Epilogue
Taipei’s Taoyuan International Airport is jammed with thousands of travelers, but this time, the frenzy feels friendly, not frightening. There are things I won’t miss about Taipei—too many mopeds, body-licking humidity—but I’ve grown to love the people, the night market, the street food everywhere. I will miss the intensity of my Loveboat friendships and am thankful to have them going forward. I will miss the anonymity of blending in, but perhaps I was never meant to blend in.
As for Mandarin, I have a new appreciation for my parents’ bilingual abilities. I still can’t read more than a few dozen characters. But the signs, newspapers, magazines are no longer random symbols. They’re full of significance: doors, eyes, hands, men, meat, water, hearts, dagger-axes, earth, rain, trees, suns and moons, wood, fire, power, gold, and short-tail birds.
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