by Lindsay Wong
If I can get into a top-tier college, I know my parents might eventually forgive me for the humongous mess downstairs and our busted garage door. Since I’m their only child, I am practically their main responsibility, so they will never be able to fully forget when I go away to college (unless they replace me with some kind of medium-size pet). But if I get into one of the Ivies, they might stop lecturing me about how “irresponsible” and “unbelievably reckless” I am.
Which part of the country will I even be in next year? Who will be part of my ever-expanding entourage? TV shows and movies always show that characters who make it to any type of postsecondary education suddenly become smarter, better-looking, and less average than who they once were in high school. If this transformation is true, I’m seriously excited about the future.
Okay, admittedly, the SATs were a bit difficult to finish in my semi-drunk, practically comatose state, and maybe I should have asked my tutor to proofread all those application essays. Maybe I shouldn’t have just randomly clicked the SUBMIT button on the Common App and then raced downstairs when Peter picked me up for a drawn-out make-out session.
Holding my breath, I open the first extremely thin envelope from NYU.
A horrible flulike feeling overcomes me, but I force myself to ignore it.
If I think positively enough, the letter could possibly say that I’ve been accepted into NYU with a generous financial aid package. In fact, the amazing, prestigious scholarship that I’ll win means my parents won’t even have to pay a single cent for four entire years. The letter could possibly include a nice congratulatory note from the dean of admissions, who will want to meet me for a fancy lunch on campus, and he or she will even ask me to give an inspiring speech at freshman orientation. I already know what I’ll be wearing. I bought my sleeveless floral knee-length dress from J. Crew and matching cream-colored sandals ages ago.
I gasp.
Dear Ms. Iris Weijun Wang,
The Admissions Committee has completed its review of your application. I am very sorry to tell you that we are unable to offer you admission to New York University this fall.
Please understand that this is in no way a judgment of you as a student or as a person, since our decision has more to do with the applicant pool than anything else—many of our applicants are not offered admission simply because we don’t have enough space in our entering class. This year we had nearly 19,000 candidates for fewer than 1,600 offers of admission, from which will come our 1,100 freshmen. Since all of our decisions are made at one time and all available spaces have been committed, all decisions are final.
I wish you the very best in all of your future endeavors.
Sincerely,
Dean Sandy P. Schmill
My fingers tremble.
My lower lip wavers.
The nauseous, flulike feeling tunnels through me again, this time at full force.
I want to believe that this is some mistake. Another Chinese American girl called Iris Weijun Wang received my actual acceptance letter. It’s a straightforward case of mistaken identity, easily proven when I show up on the first day of classes and show them my driver’s license and passport.
I tear open the rest of the envelopes, fighting my mounting disbelief. These are all addressed to me, but not one of them is an acceptance.
I, Iris Wang, am a real victim of twenty-first-century identity theft.
“What is it?!” my mom gasps, and picks up each dropped letter.
Then my dad practically grab-wrestles a letter from my mom, and I can literally hear him stop breathing. Is this the moment where I accidentally kill my parents from utter shock? Is it considered murder if both of them suffer from heart attacks simultaneously?
All of the thin envelopes hold polite rejections from Rutgers, UCLA, San José State, Fordham, Sarah Lawrence, Kenyon College, and my obvious hard-to-reach schools like Stanford and Berkeley. Forget the Ivies and baby Ivies. When I get to my safety schools … wait, I didn’t apply to any safety schools. Rutgers was supposed to be my safety school.
“Did you … apply to any other colleges?” My dad starts turning purple-orange-blue, all the colors of a supersize pack of Tropical Skittles. “Are there any more …”
I freeze, then shake my head no.
“How could this happen?” my mom asks. “This makes no sense! You went to SAT class and we hired so many expensive tutors!”
I don’t know how to respond. I haven’t been going to my lessons.
“Does this mean she’s not going to Yale, Amy?” my dad finally asks my mom.
“Of course she’s not going to Yale,” my mom sputters. “She’s not even going to community college. Let’s face it, Jeff. Our daughter is going to be a loser.”
6
American Failure
I can’t believe my life is over.
I just didn’t think it would happen like this.
Peter’s words keep playing in my mind, like a broken iPod shuffle.
Am I really self-absorbed? What does that even mean? Mom says that if you have to ask, that means the answer is always yes. Mom is a supersmart electrical engineer who met my dad while studying in her sophomore year at City College in Manhattan. Dad was a not-so-smart mechanical engineer who dated my mom to help him pass his classes. Eventually, I think they fell in love for real when my dad guiltily confessed his intentions for dating her, and my mom said that she admired his pragmatism. While Dad cooked and cleaned and raised me, my mom earned her PhD in engineering at Johns Hopkins. Despite her penchant for math and electricity, my mom loves my dad so much that she puts up with his superstitious beliefs about the Chinese zodiac.
Unfortunately, I take after my father in the brains department. I’m not particularly gifted at anything. Shopping and spending exorbitant amounts of money don’t count.
Am I boring? Ouch. I wish I could ask Samira, but I’m currently not speaking to her.
I don’t even know what “vapid” or “narcissistic” mean. They weren’t on the SAT vocabulary lists, but then again, I didn’t really study.
I hear a loud, familiar buzzing and then I remember my iPhone is in my underwear drawer.
Ten missed calls from Samira.
Twenty-two texts from her.
Please call me! I wanted to tell you.
I’m SORRY!
The same texts but in different variations. Fake concern.
Are your parents home?
You okay?
I miss you. <3 <3 <3
But zero messages from Peter. Not a single apology text.
But what did I expect? He was the one who dumped me. If I text or call him, would that make me the pathetic one in our broken, one-sided relationship? I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what makes someone hurt and lie to a person that they supposedly care about. What makes a smiling boyfriend or bestie look you in the eyeball like you’re an adorable guinea pig while they are rolling a joint and telling you that you are literally the best thing that has happened to them besides discovering weed? Peter always said that I was just like cotton candy, while Samira compared me to a bag of assorted gourmet jelly beans. I just don’t understand! Does comparing me to a sugary treat make me less human, like it’s somehow okay to use and throw me away?
My heart stings and throbs like a three-hour visit to the dentist after the anesthetic has worn off.
Nothing can be worse than this, so I finally check my school email and there are three emails marked Urgent! Please Respond!!! from my high school guidance counselor. What could be so important? For a second, I feel giddy, light-headed. Is she telling me that I’ve been voted valedictorian? Maybe even salutatorian? Oh my god. Am I prom queen, finally? I have been exceptionally nice toward my classmates this year, and I’m always there to comfort a crying freshman or hold the door open for the school secretary.
Yes, this must be the actual good news that I so desperately need.
I click on the email eagerly.
But the news is spectacularly
bad. In fact, the WORST news of my entire weekend. Not even counting my eight-plus college rejections.
I’ve just failed Algebra II.
And AP Economics.
And World History.
And English!!!
How does one even fail English? It’s my first and only language. I thought I performed spectacularly well on all my in-class essays. To prep for AP Lit, I watched Death of a Salesman and Heart of Darkness twice on Netflix. But come to mention it, when was the last time I bothered to go to class? When was the last time I’ve even read a book? Does rigorously reading TV Guide on the toilet count?
Then there’s even worse news at the bottom of the email: the guidance counselor says that I won’t be graduating this year.
We need to talk about your options ASAP, she has written.
I can’t focus.
My vision blurs.
Like someone has rubbed suntan lotion on my eyeballs.
Please come see me.
I blink hard.
Then, to make things worse, a more recent message from my counselor, dated Friday afternoon.
I’ll be calling your parents Monday morning if I don’t hear back from you. This is serious, Iris. We really need to have a meeting.
This can’t be happening, I think.
The only good thing to come out of reading my ignored emails is that my eyelids have finally stopped twitching.
7
Chinese Banishment
“I have some news,” I announce at the dinner table.
My father looks hopeful. “Yale?” he asks.
My mom shoots him a withering stare, which she then turns on me. I frown and dig my completely chewed-through, nonexistent fingernails into my palms.
“What is it, Iris?” she says matter-of-factly. “It’s better to deal with it today than wait until it’s too late.”
Angrily, she dumps three large pork chops onto my plate and then adds a messy scoop of overcooked broccoli and mashed potatoes.
I fidget, like I’m suddenly five years old again.
An ugly, spud-size lump forms in my throat.
I force it to go away by ignoring it.
My mom glares at me.
Inwardly, I shrink. I apologize nervously.
My dad doesn’t even notice.
But I can’t bring myself to say that I won’t be graduating this year, so I finally forward the email from the guidance counselor to my parents’ email accounts. Their iPhones ding simultaneously and the noise makes me shudder. Text alerts are like recurring nightmares. I never want to read a text message again.
“Check your email,” I say slowly. My vocal cords sound strangled.
I wait for their reactions.
No one speaks.
“Just check your email,” I say again in a flatter tone.
I touch my cold, sweaty upper lip, and I can feel new three-inch hairs growing from stress. Normally, I’d be upset about the recurring distress-mustache, but I almost don’t care. My horrific Tiger curse. I guess I haven’t been cured of my weirdo problem.
I can see my parents rereading the email over and over again.
More silence. The bad, suffocating kind.
I can’t breathe.
“Dinner is over,” my mom finally says. She leaves the table abruptly, her food untouched.
I turn to my father, hopeful.
His eyes are moist.
“Iris, go to the car,” he says.
This is not a suggestion but an order. I slink to the green Volkswagen because the Mercedes is in the shop for repairs. My father has never taken that tone with me before. He has gotten aggravated, certainly, and sometimes he’ll take on the loud repeated bleating sounds of animal-like annoyance. My mom always says that he is a true Goat. But since my mom was born in the Year of the Dog, she is the noisy barking one and usually does all the disciplining.
Usually when my dad has something serious to discuss with me, like the time when he wanted to tell me about his early stage II colon cancer, we take a field trip to this discount salon in a strip mall and get pedicures. He always says he finds the public bustle calming when he wants to share shitty news.
We park and then slowly walk toward the salon entrance. It’s more like a sidestep shuffle, really. I count to one hundred and stare at the cement ground. I don’t look at him.
At the salon I choose a sad-looking lilac color, and a pretty Korean lady examines my toes. My dad soaks his feet in the bubbling tub and lets out a remorseful-sounding sigh. Another Korean lady begins to vigorously file his wide, hoof-shaped heels.
I don’t know what will happen. My heart is beating in triple time, filling my hollow chest, mouth, and head with extra-fiery heat. The technician clucks in sympathy over my calloused feet.
“I spoke to my brother this morning,” my dad announces slowly. He sounds like he has a severe toothache. “He offered to help with your situation. We are sending you to Beijing to live with him and his family.”
“What are you talking about?” I say. The way my dad is saying “situation” is almost like he is saying that I am secretly pregnant.
Although come to think of it, me getting pregnant would be so much less shameful than not getting into college on top of failing senior year. All my life, my dad has always wanted me to be “smart like Mom” and my mom has always wanted me to be “smarter than Dad.”
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, shocked and hurt and baffled. Hearing his news is like devouring a 32-gallon Slurpee and brain freeze is spreading, slow-motion, through every major organ. Is this what happens before turning into a human-size freezie? You feel every spiky, stomach-churning, chill-inducing emotion as you simply stop existing.
“Your mom and I only want you to be better than us,” my dad says, staring at his hands. “We immigrated to the US so you could have more opportunities. We wanted you to be semi-professional at one or two things. Iris, you tried synchronized swimming, country dance, and even a candle-making class. You always said it was too hard and quit.”
I don’t know how to respond. This is far too much responsibility on someone who can’t even remember to vacuum her room! How can I be better than both my parents? It’s unfair because their IQ combined functions like unlimited 5G LTE internet. Despite what my dad is saying, I still feel betrayed and hurt that I am capable of causing so much melon-size disappointment.
To their credit, the spa ladies keep paying attention to our feet.
I am suddenly even more confused. My dad’s story actually makes zero sense.
“But I thought you were an only child. You told me your parents were dead!” I protest instead.
“My half brother,” my father says, as if that answers my question. “My dad, your grandfather, had an affair, but it had to be a secret because of the shame that it brought on the entire family.”
What the hell is my dad talking about?
“We have relatives in Beijing?” I interrupt, not caring if I’m being loud or rude. I’m so done with this whole politeness-in-public thing. “I have grandparents living in China?”
No response from Dad.
More silence.
“Your grandparents are dead.”
“Does Mom have family I don’t know about too?” I finally yell-ask.
“No, her parents and brother are all in Flushing.”
“Are you sure?”
My dad says nothing again for a long time. He looks deeply uncomfortable. Like he’s just ingested an unlimited amount of dairy. Our entire family suffers from severe lactose intolerance, but it doesn’t stop us from regularly ordering ice-cream cakes from Dairy Queen. Dad looks like he’s just eaten six slices of ice-cream cake by himself.
“Your uncle and I never spoke until this year. He was the one who asked a lawyer to send me an email, and we have been talking regularly since. I have been telling him about you for two months. He thinks we can help each other.”
“Why are you sending me off to TOTAL strangers?”
&nbs
p; “He’s not a stranger. We’ve already video-chatted many, many times. Sometimes even twice a day! And he has one daughter called Renxiang. Her English name is Ruby.”
So I have a random uncle, aunt, and some girl cousin called Ruby? What is my life coming to? What else has my dad been lying about?
“You can’t stay here,” my dad continues. “Your mother is worried about talk at the country club.”
“Who cares about the country club?” I’m practically screaming now. The woman filing the dead skin off my heel has stopped filing.
“Should I come back?” she asks hesitantly.
“Yes!” I say, while my dad shouts, “No!”
The Korean nail technicians, who aren’t even pretending to scrub our feet anymore, exchange superlong meaningful glances. I wonder if they are used to witnessing family drama or if we’re the first ones to ever have embarrassing heart-to-hearts over double mall pedicures. Either they are accustomed to CW Network–style soap operas or else we’ll give them something to gossip about later on.
“Your mother cares very much about you,” my dad continues. “But all her friends are bragging about their children who are ALL going to Harvard, UPenn, Princeton, Yale …”
His voice catches and then trips over Yale. Yale has always been his Ivy League dream for himself and then me. I was six years old when he took me to visit the campus for a family vacation. I’ve never been to Disney World, but I’ve visited Yale three times.
“Can’t I just stay home and do my GED online?” I plead. “I’ll take classes at the community college!”
“Iris, we have given you everything,” he says, as if almost talking to himself. “We tried to be the best parents, but look at what happened to you. We love you, so we are sending you away.”
Inconsolable guilt overwhelms me. So much shame. So much shitty decision-making. Tears leak out of me like snot.
My dad’s expression is also a combination of horror and shame. Then he begins half crying. I don’t think he ever expected this nightmare scenario of having a failure daughter to happen. When he finally stops crying, he says, “Your uncle would like to meet you. Your uncle would like you to teach your cousin proper English. She will be a good influence on you.”