Advance Praise for Beauty
“With sly wit and a sure hand Chiu embroiders the life of a female fashion designer whose sexuality, ambition and creative vision make the traditional roles of perfect daughter, wife, and mother, let’s say, a challenging fit. Unapologetically honest and compulsively readable.”
— Elissa Schappell, author of Blueprint for Building Better Girls, Co-founder of Tin House, and Contributing Editor at Vanity Fair
“Beauty immediately caught me with its propulsive force and kept me mesmerized with its lyrical writing, insight and humor as we watch the sweep of a woman’s life, from young to old, through loves, lies, children, marriages, artistic promise and failure, and the changing meaning of “beauty.“ I couldn’t put this book down, and I was so sad when such a richly described world came to an end.”
— Marie Myung-Ok Lee, author of The Evening Hero
“In Amy Wong, the protagonist of Beauty, Chiu has created a rapier-sharp heroine who marches into all her messes and triumphs with a wit and bravado that is as seductive as it is astonishing. A fast-paced, sexy novel about growing up, making mistakes and learning from them, written in a defiant, witty prose that is utterly mesmerizing.”
— Helen Benedict, author of Wolf Season and Sand Queen
“Beauty is a moving story of one woman’s journey through loss, trauma, and disappointment to self-acceptance and healing. Chiu renders her protagonist, Amy Wong, with clear-eyed compassion, pulling no punches, and the reader falls in love. We cheer for Amy’s successes and mourn for her losses and want to scream in frustration as she makes the wrong choice again...and again. This is an entirely absorbing, emotional novel, a deeply rewarding read.”
— Cari Luna, author of The Revolution of Every Day
“Amy Wong, the protagonist of Chiu’s captivating debut novel Beauty, is an undercover powerhouse. She’s a person whose strength is hidden even from herself. As she navigates a life in the fashion industry, Amy struggles with expectations—expectations heaped on her by family, a string of bad-news men, and a world skewed by sexism and racism—and so, when the novel begins, Amy believes her only power is in her beauty, defined by others. But her journey is toward something deeper and more true—“Delicate. Resilient.”—and we’re rooting for her all the way.”
— David Ebenbach, author of the novel Miss Portland
“As a young woman and a child of immigrants, Amy Wong discovers that she will do anything to have and to create exquisite things. But after she falls in love with the celebrated and demanding fashion mogul Jeff Jones, marriage and motherhood threaten to snuff out her radiant gifts as a designer. Only Amy’s courage—her brave loyalty to her children, to her talent, and to the ex-husband who has become her dearest friend—leads her to enlightenment and back onto the path she’d pursued all along. In this mesmerizing and unflinching novel, Chiu offers a series of brilliantly curated moments, vivid examinations of the turning points in an extraordinary woman’s life. Chiu fearlessly illuminates how love, integrity, and creativity can shape a world and bring wisdom.”
—Lan Samantha Chang, author of Hunger and Inheritance
“I can’t think of novel more unflinching in its portrayal of lust, love, and parenthood. Chiu has a unique gift as a storyteller for unflinching honesty, and the ability to see the transcendent in the details. Beauty is a novel of one woman’s life, epic in emotional proportion. I was captured by Beauty and gleefully held there through to the last page.”
— Mat Johnson, author of Loving Day and Pym
Praise for Troublemaker and Other Saints
“These are accomplished stories, with the mark of a true storyteller.”
— Elizabeth Strout, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Olive Kitteridge
“In sharp, witty, heartbreaking prose, Chiu communicates the Asian-
American experience as adeptly and freshly as Sherman Alexie describes the Native American experience, or Junot Díaz defines Latino life in
the U.S.”
— Publishers Weekly
“A truly auspicious fiction debut.”
— Vanity Fair
“Honest, complex...deeply satisfying.”
— Entertainment Weekly
“Literary debuts don’t come much nervier. [It] explores the generational, cultural and sexual divides with humor and compassion.”
— The Washington Post Book World
“Troublemaker and Other Saints is full of intriguing situations and great conversations. In describing how Chinese immigrants deal with their American kids, Chiu reveals all our misunderstandings and hopes. I loved every page and would read anything this woman writes!”
— Alice Elliott Dark, author of In the Gloaming
“These compelling tales of loneliness and loss, hunger and need, the pain and crazy love for family will break your heart, and strangely, leave you feeling uplifted.”
— Mei Ng, author of Eating Chinese Food Naked
“Fresh, daring, bold, Troublemaker and Other Saints eagerly explores the neither-here-nor-thereness of young Chinese-Americans as they bridge the gap between two complex and troubling social orders with humor, pathos, and heart. How often have you heard the phrase ‘a writer to watch’? Christina Chiu is a writer to read.”
— Helen Schulman, author of The Revisionist
Copyright ©2020 by Christina Chiu
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express permission of the publisher or author.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Chiu, Christina, 1969- author.
Title: Beauty / Christina Chiu.
Description: Santa Fe : Santa Fe Writers Project, 2020. | Summary: “Amy
Wong is an up-and-coming designer in the New York fashion industry—
she is young, beautiful, and has it all. But she finds herself at odds with
rival designers in a world rife with chauvinism and prejudice. In her
personal life, she struggles with marriage and motherhood, finding
that her choices often fall short of her traditional family’s expectations.
Derailed again and again, Amy must confront her own limitations
to succeed as the designer and person she wants to be”—
Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019022787 (print) | LCCN 2019022788 (ebook) | ISBN
9781733777759 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781733777766 (kindle edition)
Classification: LCC PS3603.H5743 B43 2020 (print) | LCC PS3603.H5743
(ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019022787
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019022788
Published by 2040 Books, an imprint of the Santa Fe Writers Project
369 Montezuma Ave #350
Santa Fe, NM 87501
www.sfwp.com
Find the author at www.christinachiu.org
Contents
Wild Hen
Bootman
Shadow
A Kiss
Prenups and Other Engagements
A Wedding
Blood
Black Ice
Loved. Past Tense.
The Masters Class
Toby
Dust
A Closet Into Eternity
Lost and Found
Black Lace and Blue Secrets
Wild Hen
“Let me give you some advice,” the woman says, in Chinese.
“He’s not aware you’re calling, is he?” Ma says.
Phew—it’s one of Ma’s friends. Not Cosine Cozza calling to say I’ve got a C going into the Algebra II final tomorrow. Good old Georgie, my older sister, always gets straight A’s, even now in medical school. Ma’s on the kitchen phone. I’m in her room directly above, about to hang up, when the woman says, “Lao Tai.” Oh my god. She’s calling Ma “old lady”.
I clamp a hand over the receiver.
“There’s no need to get upset,” the woman says. “We’re good friends, you and I.”
Ma hmphs.
“One should recognize when it’s time to let things go,” the woman says.
“I’m sure he won’t be too pleased when he finds out,” Ma replies, her voice cooler than an ice pick.
“He’s given you the best years of his life,” the woman continues. “He’s old now. He deserves a few years of happiness.”
“You Mainland girls sure are bold,” Ma says.
“Old lady, why don’t you do us all a favor and release him?”
“My, my, it’s come to this, has it?” Ma laughs, an ugly bite in her voice. “A wild hen thinks she’s taken over the coop.”
My jaw drops. I’ve never heard Ma use that term before.
“You old, useless—”
“I tell you what,” Ma says, cutting her off. “You want him so badly, go ahead, take him. Tell him I give you my permission.” Ma hangs up. She doesn’t even bang down the receiver.
The woman, on the other hand, curses and slams down the phone.
Shit, Ma kicked her ass.
Then Ma’s headed upstairs. Her slippers clap over the hallway floorboards, then go silent as she climbs the carpeted steps. I race back to my room. My bed is covered with tests and quizzes. I hop into the eye at the center, switch off the TV, then hide the channel changer beneath the pillows behind me.
Ma bangs into my room. She’s about to yell, but she sees me studying, and her voice catches. Her head cocks to the side. It’s like she’s listening to the air. She sweeps her hand over the TV. Static dances across the screen; it must be warm.
“I’m studying,” I say, panicking.
She comes at me, whacks me across the face, my hair catching in her ring. Plick-plick-plick!
“Ow!” My eyes smart from the sting. I hold my cheek with one hand, rub my head with the other. “I was taking a break.”
“You want a break, I’ll give you a break,” she says. Uneven strands of hair—my hair—stick out from the diamond. Hatred rings in my ears. I hate her.
“Where’s Daddy?” I say. “I want Daddy.”
Ma startles. She stumbles back, retreats from my room to hers, and shuts herself inside.
It’s quiet. Too quiet.
He deserves a few years of happiness.
On the end table by my bed, there’s a photo from the day I turned five. I’m sitting on Dad’s lap, blowing out cake candles. Georgie’s on one side of us, Ma’s on the other. We’re all smiling. Or at least I thought we were. When I look more closely at Dad’s face, I wonder if he’s grimacing instead. Is he really that miserable? I want to call him to ask if all of this is true. It can’t be.
Dad has an interior design company. He goes to Hong Kong, sometimes for months at a time, and has an office there. He needs to.
Doesn’t he?
I climb out of bed. The hallway has a hint of cigarette smoke. Officially, Ma quit a couple years ago, but since she never smokes in front of me, we pretend it doesn’t happen. I knock. When Ma doesn’t answer, I peek inside. The blinds are down. She’s in bed, chain smoking Marlborough Lights, the ashtray overflowing with ash and crushed filters.
I open my mouth to apologize, but what comes out instead is: “What’s for dinner?” I’m not even hungry.
Ma drags on a cigarette. The tip glows a fiery red.
I flick on the light.
“Ay!” Ma squints her red, swollen eyes. On her lap is the latest issue of Y, the pages warped and hardened from dried tears.
Ma blinks, seeming to notice the magazine as if she hadn’t felt it there all this time. “Wah,” she sniffles, tracing the object. “Now, that’s beautiful.”
“What?” It’s an advertisement. The famous, hooked Cs embossed into leather. “Chanel,” I say.
“What you see, Mei Mei, mh?”
“A purse.”
Ma jerks like she got stuck by a needle. “Handbag, Mei Mei. How many times I have to say? Don’t be such xiang wu nging.” A peasant.
“Okay, okay.” I describe the purse—black, quilted, rectangular-shaped.
“And?”
“I guess it’s big?”
“Bigger than the typical Chanel,” Ma nods. “And?”
“There’s a zipper across the side.”
“Yes, changing from the original look. But see the whole picture, Meme. It’s not just a bag.”
“There’s a woman. She’s got an undo. A crown. Bangs. She’s like that actress from that movie—”
“Yes, breakfast at Tiffany’s,” Ma says.
“Yeah, what’s her name again?”
“Audrey Hepburn.” She scoots off the bed and digs through her DVDs until she finds the one she wants. She tosses it to me. “Look.”
With the movie cover juxtaposed beside the advertisement, I see what Ma’s getting at. “They’re sort of alike, but different,” I say.
“More modern version,” Ma says, getting into bed, again. “In the movie, she wears those sunglasses, too. Sooo elegant. Sooo beautiful, mh?”
Audrey Hepburn. Her eyes. The black liner and extended lashes. The shaped, drawn-in brows. The rest of the makeup palate’s neutral. “She looks like you.”
Ma smiles, acknowledging the compliment.
“I’m going to be beautiful one day, too,” I say.
“Ai.” There’s a sadness I’ve never seen in her before. “What’s beauty, uh? Doesn’t last.”
“Yeah, it does.” She’s just trying to put me down for not being smart like Georgie.
“Getting old,” Ma sighs.
Lao Tai.
“You know, when we first came here, we had nothing,” Ma says. “We worked and worked. You know I was your Daddy’s secretary.”
“No way, you can type?”
“Way-la,” she says. “I teach myself, can you imagine?”
“Actually, no. Not really.”
“Back then we used typewriters. You had to punch so hard. Bang, bang, like that. So bad for your nails.” She pulls on the cigarette, drawing in a long, deep breath.
“I got a C in math,” I admit.
“I know.” Ma crushes the butt in the ashtray. “You think I don’t know? I know everything. There’s nothing I don’t know.”
I start laughing. But then it hits me she’s talking about Dad. I get a pain like I swallowed a cough drop.
Ma taps at the Chanel advertisement. “I’m not show off like your father, but I know fashion. I know advertising.” For a second I think she’s going to cry. “So well made this is. Such careful attention to detail.”
“Where?” I ask, not seeing it.
“Ai, tomorrow, we go to Neiman Marcus. I show you.”
“Tomorrow’s the final.”
“I take you after,” she says.
“Can I have one?” I ask.
“No.” She frowns like I said something crazy stupid.
“You never get me anything,” I say, my shoulders slumped.
“That’s not true,” she says. “I just buy you the miniskirt you want.”
“I mean handbags.”
Ma watches me a moment. “You get A on the math final, mommy buy you this handbag,” she says, tapping the page.
“That’s not fair.”
Ma gets up from the bed and pops the DVD into the player. “Go back to study.”
“Can I watch a little with you?” I ask.
“No.”
“Please? I’ve been studying for two whole weeks.”
“Half hour,” she says. “Then you go study and I make dinner. Understand?”
I slip under the summer blanket, grab the remote, and press play.
Ma falls asleep. I watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s to the end. I leave without waking her, then nuke leftover beef and broccoli for dinner. Ma appears when I’m done eating. She’s got major bedhead. “You study already?” she asks.
“Yeah, lots.”
“Good,” she says. She returns to her bedroom to sleep. I rush the last couple of math tests and quizzes. Run through the questions I got wrong. When I’m done, I watch TV until I fall asleep.
The next day, I realize while taking the final that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to watch the whole movie and stay up so late. Maybe I should have gone over all the tests and quiz questions. It would have helped to read through my notes, too. When I hand in the final, Cosine Cozza takes one look at it, and sighs with disappointment. Georgie was only fifteen when she took Algebra II; she skipped a grade. I’m sixteen and still fucked up. I’m a fuck up. Cozza said it before, so he may as well say it now. Georgie was such a good student. She worked so hard. She did so well.
Exactly three days and two finals later, Ma busts into my room again. I’m not shocked. Actually, I’m so not shocked that I’ve hidden my Chanel under the living room sofa.
“What is this?” Ma yells, shoving her computer in my face. “You tell me! What is this?”
There it is on the screen:
Algebra II: Amy Wong.
Final: C.
Year: B-.
“A B’s a B,” I say.
“Not true,” she says. “Tenth grade!” Meaning, of course: This year, unlike the rest of high school prison camp, possibly counts more.
Does she really think I can get every question right, including the two bonus questions at the end? Only Georgie can do that.
Beauty Page 1