Page 8 of Well, That Was Unexpected

I stare at her. “What do you mean, ‘the old house’? This is where you grew up?”

“Yes, this is Ah Gong and Ah Ma’s house. Was,” Mama adds, her expression turning sad for a moment.

“But we’ve remodeled it, obviously,” Li Jiujiu says.

I have to tell myself not to gape as the ornate front gate swings open and we go into the driveway. Dang, Mama’s family is loaded. How come I never knew? I mean, in LA we’ve always been comfortable in a very firmly middle class way. “Are we Crazy Rich Asians?” I blurt out.

They both throw back their heads and laugh. “No,” Ma cries between peals of laughter.

“Of course not!” Li Jiujiu says. “We are just average Chinese family. Qing Pei, you not teach her about Chinese Indonesian history?”

Mama sniffs, and I grind my teeth, biting back yet another acidic retort.

“Ooh, okay, Li Jiujiu tell you later. Come, now we go inside and you have shower, everything, then later dinner.”

As soon as I get out of the car, I go to the back to get my luggage, but Li Jiujiu tells me not to bother and ushers me inside the mansion. The interior of the house can only be described as a rococo explosion. Everything is exceptionally ornamental and theatrical—the pillars drip with bouquets of flowers and birds carved painstakingly out of stone, the walls have layers and layers of curved molding, and the furniture is all curved with dainty legs and bursts of intricate engraving. There are huge, elaborate chandeliers in every room—the foyer, the living room, the dining room. I feel as though I’ve just stepped into an opera house. It all feels a bit ornamental, though, like a stage set.

“Ah, Qing Pei!” a woman calls out from the other end of the house. She hurries over with a big smile and outstretched hands.

Mama’s smile is a bit less open. “Sao sao, you look very healthy,” she says. I estimate thatsao saomeans something along the lines of “older brother’s wife.” Chinese family titles are painfully specific, and I have no idea what I should call my maternal uncle’s wife. Maybe I can just call her Auntie.

“Aduh, no need to call me that, just call me by my name.” The woman air-kisses Mama and then turns to look at me. When she speaks to me, she does so in English. “You must be Sharlot. How lovely to finally meet you. I’m your auntie Janice.” Whoa. Her English is flawless, with a vague British accent. I mean, it’s better than Mama’s, and Mama has spent half her life in America. I sneak a glance at Ma, and sure enough, she’s noticed how much better Auntie Janice’s English is. I can tell by that tiny pinch in one corner of her mouth. I try to feel smug about it—hey, it was Mama’s idea to come all the way here—but I can’t. Instead, I’m almost overcome by an urge to pat Mama’s shoulder. We’re not really the hugging type. With some effort, I squash the urge and give Auntie Janice a smile big enough to rival hers.

“Hi, Auntie Janice. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Gosh, aren’t you pretty?” she says, pinching my cheek like I’m all of five years old. “Oh, there’s Kiki. Kiki, come. KIKI. KIKI.”

I turn, expecting a Pomeranian, the way Auntie Janice is calling, but it’s a girl around my age.

“This is my youngest, Kristabella,” Auntie Janice says, pulling Kristabella and positioning her in front of me like some mannequin. “Kiki, this is your American cousin, Sharlot.”

Kiki gives me a once-over and I have to stop myself fromquailing under the scrutiny. It’s weird: in America, Asians from Asia are called FOB—Fresh Off the Boat. It’s a disparaging term, but everyone in school uses it, especially the Asian Americans. And right now I feel like the out-of-place FOB. Which I guess, technically, since I literally just got off a plane, I am? I really did not see this plot twist coming.

Kiki isn’t gorgeous, but she’s the kind of cool that would make people stop mid-sentence and stare as she walks by. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s her clothes—she’s just wearing a button-down and slacks, but somehow they fit her so well they look tailored, clinging to her silhouette without being tight. Maybe it’s her asymmetric bob that falls elegantly over one side of her face. Maybe it’s her flawless skin. Whatever it is, she oozes effortless perfection, and I am seriously regretting my choice of fashion. The ripped jeans I thought would symbolize defiance and coolness now make me feel totally dumb. And my shirt, after my long-ass journey, is not faring well at all. Rumpled, stained, probably has an intense stink too.

“Hi,” I manage to finally say. It comes out as a squeak. “I’m Shar.”

“Kiki. Come, I’ll show you to your room.” Like her mother’s, Kiki’s English is perfect, with a slight British accent.

I look back at Mama, for once seeking a bit of comfort from my mother, and find her thin-lipped. She gives me a little nod.Go.I’m not sure what comes over me, but I reach out and give her arm a squeeze before I follow Kiki.

We go up the richly carpeted stairs, and Kiki points at the first door. “This is you. I’m next door, and my parents’ room is atthe end of the hallway. Your mum’s room is that one.” She points at the door across from mine. Mum. I’ve never heard anyone call their mom “mum” outside of a Netflix show.

The inside of the guest room is just as lavish as the outside. There’s even a four-poster bed. And, of course, another chandelier. Do they sell these things at every street corner or something? I mean, there was one above the landing of the stairs and there’s another out in the hallway.

Kiki catches me gaping up at the chandelier and scoffs. “They’re Chinese-made, so they’re dirt cheap. The wiring isn’t great. We need to change the bulbs, like, once a month. Everything in here’s like that. Looks great but is actually a cheap copy.”

“Oh, okay.” I’m not really sure what to say to that. I look around and see with a start that my luggage has been placed here. I wonder if Kiki’s going to go so I can unpack and then go shower the smell of airplane travel off me and—I don’t know—probably have a good cry or something. Instead, she crosses the room and plops onto a sofa right next to the picture window.

“So, what’s your story, Shar? Is that short for Charmaine? Charlene?”

“Sharlot.”

Kiki nods. “Did she spell it correctly?”

I bite my lower lip.

“Because there’s a Michael in my class,” Kiki says with a grin.

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