“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.”
“How old is my cousin?” I ask.
He ignores my question.
“Too much partying, too American,” he finally says, staring at me with such heavy-hearted disappointment. “You will go to Beijing next week. You will think about your mistakes. End of discussion.”
“I’ve never been to Beijing! I don’t even speak Chinese!” I protest, even though my dad knows all this about me. My voice seems shrill and tinny-sounding.
“You’ll learn to be Chinese,” my dad says matter-of-factly.
My dad has never spoken so forcefully before. I don’t recognize his tone. What the hell does “learn to be Chinese” even mean?
“How long do I have to stay there?” I whimper.
No response.
“When can I come home?” I say again.
Zero response.
“I can come home, right?” I’m practically yelping now. I sound just like my mother when she freaks, exactly like an oversize Chihuahua.
True, desperate panic eclipses me, like I’m about to fall off a roaster coaster ready to derail. How can this even be possible? How can my dad be kicking me out of my home and sending me to live in a strange country with strange people???!!
I have so many questions, but my dad has picked up a random magazine and he’s flipping through last month’s Teen Cosmopolitan, as if he’s fascinated by the articles and glossy photos. I don’t think he’s even reading about eyeliner or summer beach bronzer, but he won’t look up.
Zodiac Goats are not supposed to have secretive personalities. They can be stubborn, but they are usually gentle, docile farm creatures. So how can my dad have kept his entire Beijing family a secret? Who exactly is my dad? And who is this uncle I’ve never heard of?
Most importantly, what will happen to me?
8
Who Am I?
“Don’t you love me anymore?” I ask my dad in the nearly empty parking lot of the strip mall.
He looks a little bit taken aback. It should only take a few seconds for him to respond in the affirmative. After all, I’m his only child. That I know of.
“Answer my question!” I shout like a malfunctioning surround-sound speaker. Due to the tragic absurdity of the past seventy-two hours, it could actually be that I’m a contraption made out of metal, lip gloss, and wires. I don’t know who or what I am anymore.
“Don’t you love me??!” my dad bleats back in the strip-mall parking lot, his eyes twitching agitatedly.
At least I know where my involuntary eyelid spasm comes from. I must have learned this truly shitty habit from my dad.
“You answer my question first!” I yell. How hard is it for him to say YES??!!
In automatic response, my right eye suddenly winks excitedly back at him. Like I’ve told a very funny, parent-inappropriate joke. I’m horrified and devastated that my dad can’t answer this simple question.
A car driving out of the parking lot honks its horn angrily. Someone sticks their head out the window and shouts at us. Apparently, we are blocking the entrance of the parking lot. We quickly move to the side, and a Ford Buick nearly backs into us. If one of us were to get hit by a car, would Beijing still be a possibility?
“Why are you winking at me?” my dad asks as we stand safely beside our Volkswagen. “Is it because you don’t love your mommy and daddy?”
“Why are you winking at me?” I shoot back. “You started it!”
“I did no such thing!” my dad exclaims.
He looks as if I’ve just insulted his favorite baseball team, the New York Yankees. He pauses. Both of his eyes blink enthusiastically this time, like they’re having a nonstop dance marathon. Is that what I look like? No wonder Samira ran away. No wonder Peter looked so scared of me.
No wonder no one loves me, including my own father.
Finally, my dad says, “Iris, just get in the car! We are going home NOW.”
“Fine,” I say, “but to be clear, are you sending me to Beijing because you don’t love me anymore?”
Silence.
“Get in the car, Iris.”
I need to figure out how to change my dad’s mind about Beijing. Is blackmail an authentic possibility? Tears and guilt-tripping don’t seem to be working. Jumping into the passenger side, I slam the door. I start sniffling again and passive-aggressively blow my nose into my father’s extra jacket, which is lying on the floor at my feet.
As we drive through the suburbs, I sneak a quick sideways peek at my dad. He looks both shocked and red-faced at the same time. He’s gripping the steering wheel and driving a little bit too recklessly. Normally, he’d be anxious about running a four-way stop, but I don’t think this is the time to mention it.
In reflex, I check my reflection in the passenger mirror and gasp. I don’t even recognize myself. I look blotchy and Shrek green. My dad and I both seem to be exceptionally ugly criers. We’re never cried in tandem before! But at least our hands and feet look amazing for a discount combo mani-pedi of $24.99 each. I can’t help admiring my new lilac-colored nails. Maybe I should have gone with Fresh Minty Green to match my new permanent complexion.
My dad’s left eye twitches, and I’m suddenly furious at him again.
If he loved me, how could he have not told me about my China relations?
If he loved me, I wonder how many other times he would have lied to me in the past seventeen years?
Eyes, nose, and mouth watering, as if I’ve ingested an entire jar of chili peppers, I side-stare angry-intently at my dad. His knuckles grab the wheel tighter and tighter, and his face is pale and scrunched up like a Shar-Pei’s neck. And that’s when I realize that it all makes sense now. I must not even be his biological daughter!
Both my parents are tall and freakishly hairless, while I am somewhat petite and excessively hairy, particularly under times of duress.
All my life, I knew that I was supposed to be born to rich, famous, jet-setter parents. I’ve always known that my real mom must be a socialite or a renowned beauty queen. And my dad must be a famous actor or an aristocrat of a small to medium-size country.