Then a shocking thought occurs to me: What if I’m not even Chinese? I could be Korean, Malaysian, or even Thai royalty!
What if I was kidnapped at birth and my actual parents are still scouring the globe for me? The thought of my real mom and dad missing me brings actual tears to my eyes. I begin sniffing from the fact that I could be bringing deep, authentic pain to the people who birthed me.
Hearing my messy, snot-waterfalling sniffles, my dad makes some kind of barn animal grunt in return, but he still doesn’t speak or look at me. I wipe my nose and stare closely at his features to see if there is any resemblance.
Rain starts splashing nonstop across the windshield. The suburbs look small and depressing as usual, but with another pang, this time across my chest, I realize that I suddenly don’t want to leave New Jersey. I’ve always said that I wanted to leave my gray neighborhood of matching McMansions, but I’ve never traveled out of the country by myself. I was supposed to spend the summer gallivanting around Europe with my boyfriend. We were supposed to live off true love, perfectly rolled blunts, and music festivals. I was not supposed to be exiled to a strange country that I know nothing about.
Self-pity hurts more than lactose intolerance, pink-eye, and tooth decay combined.
Don’t be pathetic, Iris, I tell myself. You caused this mess. Now you have to fix it. You just need to find your real parents.
When we finally reach our house with the missing garage door, my fake dad suddenly slams on the brakes. I lurch forward in surprise and nearly bash my head on the dashboard. Luckily, I pull backward before any real damage is done.
“Who are you, Iris Wang?” he asks. “Who are you and where is my daughter?”
“Are you even my real dad?” I shout back, and he looks so shocked by my outburst. I’ve never used such a harsh tone with him so many times in one night. I’m honestly surprised by it myself.
I pause, as if choking on my own tongue.
“What if I’m not actually made for Yale? What if I’m not made for college?” I continue.
My words are like stomping on his American dream with my imaginary five-inch $3,000 Jimmy Choo stilettos. The most expensive, glittery pair that I dream of owning one day. For seventeen years, I’ve been his only life purpose. But how do you tell your dad that his sole reason for living is a friendless, hopeless mess with massive credit card debt?!
Suddenly, my dad’s face crumples like a red-and-purple balloon. Both of his eyelids start winking at triple speed. Mine start imitating him on automatic. Soon it’s like an Olympic ping-pong competition between my right and left eye.
Which eyelid is winning?
And in an epic staring contest against my father, would I win?
Frustrated, I leap out of the passenger seat. I’m so upset that I barely notice the shiny white BMW parked beside us. There’s a sharp ferocious scraping sound of metal digging into metal as my door screeches across the other car. It sounds irreparable. It sounds expensive. Two wrecked luxury cars in less than seventy-two hours. Shit. Why am I never careful around motor vehicles?
“Iris Weijun Wang!” my dad exclaims. He also runs out of the car to examine the damage. “Whose car is it?”
“Does it matter?” I yell. “Are you going to send it to China too?”
I’m way too afraid to look at the damage, so I run inside to the kitchen and nearly collide with my mom, who is making a fresh pot of coffee.
“I don’t know how to fix it,” I wail at my mom, almost too distressed to notice the coffee and that she’s wearing her third-best cashmere cardigan and matching pearls on a Sunday night.
All I can focus on are my head and heart aching with the horrible, churning news that she wants to send me away. I thought that being unwillingly sent abroad for cultural immersion only happened to adolescents in old-fashioned, pre-internet days. In medieval times, disappointing young people were sacrificed to find new lands and win world wars. But in the twenty-first century, isn’t it just cheaper and safer to learn about one’s ancestry through a home DNA testing kit?
“I’m sorry for everything,” I blurt out. “I’m so sorry!”
Instead of commiserating or apologizing in return, my mom shushes me. But her face softens, like cream cheese at room temperature. She looks genuinely taken aback by my tears and reaction. She looks like she’s struggling with what to say: confusion, heartbreak, regret, sadness, and terror flash across her features like a three-episode miniseries. Can she forgive me and just let me stay in New Jersey?
“What are you doing home so early?” she whisper-yells instead. “Samira and her parents are here. They have very big college news to share.”
9
Selfie!
For a moment, I can’t think. I can’t breathe. Is it possible for my head to combust from stress, shock, and fatigue? I can see the headlines on social media: 17-Year-Old Girl’s Brain Explodes from Bad News. Too Much Stress Caused a Nuclear Reaction. Government Passes Law in New Jersey that Bans College Season.
I heard that small children can die of fright, so why can’t teenagers drop dead from an overload of shitty, tragic news?
After all, our brains and bodies are still developing too.
“Why is Samira here?” I manage to whisper. “Couldn’t they have called instead?”
“Bragging is always better in person,” my mother replies, rolling her eyes. “Chinese people invented the sport.”
“Fantastic,” I grumble.
My voice catches in the back of my throat, like a bug in a chemical trap. I don’t remember how to talk or properly breathe. Then I hear my dad’s voice calling loudly. “Amy! Amy! Iris thinks we don’t love her anymore! Also, you need to see this! Our daughter dented someone’s BMW parked in our driveway.”
Quickly, my mom shushes him. “Jeff! Samira’s parents are here to share the wonderful news about Samira’s college acceptances.”
My dad shoots me a look of raw, actual panic. College season is bragging season with my mom’s friends at the country club. Everyone has to compare and contrast college acceptances, like they’re showing off end-of-season purchases from the big designer outlet Woodbury Premium Outlets. It’s what Samira and I used to mockingly call Asian Brag-and-Tell. It’s more holy and prestigious than Lunar New Year.
Not only do parents post thousands of photos of their children’s college acceptances online, but they like to take family selfies, of everyone holding the acceptance letter.
The letter is then framed and hung in the living room for the purpose of showing guests.
Rejection letters are shredded and never shared with anyone, even if no one outside the extended family and friend group actually cares.
“This can’t be good,” my father moans. “What do we do?!”
“Iris, hide!” my mom finally hisses. “We don’t want anyone to know about your situation!”
I spiral into panic mode.
It’s way too late to run upstairs to my bedroom or charge into the basement or lock myself in the hallway bathroom. Our living room is in a prime entertainment location. That’s why my parents bought our house and renovated it: for the sole purpose of showing off to their friends.
I hear Samira’s familiar high-pitched laugh. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but I hear my name being mentioned once or twice.