Page 4 of Well, That Was Unexpected

“An extra-large, juicy eggplant,” Eleanor reads out in an excruciatingly clear—and of course, loud—voice.

“The animals give you crops if you do quests for them. Don’t make it sound like a weird thing!” I’m getting shrill and I know it, but I can’t stop myself. “Pa, I swear I was watching normal porn. Like, it was totally vanilla porn, super boring and respectful! Look, I’ll show you my browsing history!”

But Papa and the rest of his family aren’t known for keeping calm. They’re more of the flap-a-lot-and-wail type. It’s during these situations that I really wish Mama were still around to calm him down. I stand there helplessly as Papa rushes out of the room and away from me, leaving me alone with Eleanor and her smirk.

“Oh god,” I moan, covering my face with both hands. “I swear I wasn’t— It’s not like that.”

Eleanor gives a dramatic sigh. She’s definitely got the Tanuwijaya family gene. All drama and flair, go big or go home. “Duh, I knew that.”

My head whips up. “You knew?”

She rolls her eyes and sits on the edge of my bed. “Oh, George Clooney. I’m thirteen, I’m not stupid. I’ve seen the stuff you watch. Like you said, super boring.”

“How— What? Wait. What?” I’m so shocked by this revelation I don’t remind her to call me gege—Mandarin for “older brother.”

“Your computer password is Mama’s name,” she says withanother aggressive roll of her eyes. “Took me about two minutes to figure out.”

“So you were snooping in here?” Jesus, I don’t know how to feel. Violated, for one.

“Only when I’m bored. It’s all your fault.”

“What? How is it at all my fault?”

“Uh, you’re supposed to help me persuade Pa to buy me a smartphone, remember? Just think of how much of my time a phone will take up. I won’t have to resort to snooping in everyone’s rooms to occupy myself.” She raises her eyebrows at me like she’s pointing out something really obvious. Which, in a way, I guess she is.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. There is so much here to parse through, not least the fact that Pa is still out there, probably wailing through the rest of the house. Lucky that Nainai—my grandmother—is hard of hearing. He’d have to wail extra hard for her to hear, and she probably won’t understand what he’s saying.

Okay. I need to focus. One thing at a time. Change my computer password. Yeah. I pointedly ignore Eleanor and start typing. New password. Hmmm. Mama’s birth—

“I bet you’re changing your password to Mama’s birthday,” Eleanor mutters with derision.

My head snaps up and I try to not look as surprised as I feel.

“So predictable,” she mutters again.

Argh. I can’t deal with this now. I look around and then type in the first thing I can think of: mousepad. Right. I’ll change that later, when I’ve put out all the flames around me. I straighten upand point an authoritative finger at Eleanor. “Don’t ever snoop in my room again, you hear me, Eleanor?”

“Are you forgetting something?”

I grit my teeth and manage to grind out, “Eleanor Roosevelt.” So yeah, my parents have a thing about names. It’s a Chinese Indonesian thing. They either hopelessly butcher Western names or join two perfectly innocent names together in a Renesmee situation, or they go for famous white people. I, a perfectly normal person, am embarrassed that my full name is George Clooney Tanuwijaya. Eleanor, on the other hand, adores that she’s named Eleanor Roosevelt and has spent the whole of last year reminding everyone to please call her by her first and middle name. I speak in the lowest, most threatening tone of voice I can muster: “Do not EVER snoop in my room again.”

Eleanor’s mouth drops open in an affronted way, and she’s no doubt about to give a snarky retort, when we hear voices from downstairs. My heart, previously recovering from its bout of shock, suddenly stutters back to a jumpy canter. Even one floor up and at least three rooms away, there is no mistaking that voice.

We turn to each other and say,“Eighth Aunt.”

I race out of my room, Eleanor scampering behind me.

Despite being the youngest of eight siblings, Eighth Aunt is the matriarch of the Tanuwijaya clan, and it’s not just because she owns the largest share of the family corporation, but because she’s charming and wily and the only one of eight siblings who is able to keep her cool in any situation and figure out the best solution. I shudder to think of what solution she’d come upwith if Papa were to tell her that he caught me jerking off to a badger. And Papa will definitely tell, because Eighth Aunt will sniff it on him, like some sickly perfume, and start to pry, and when Eighth Aunt pries, she does so with all of the cunning and eloquence of a CIA agent. There is no chance in hell that Papa—the earnest, lumbering big brother of the family—will be able to keep it from her. There are no secrets in our clan, especially from Eighth Aunt. Not even things that normal people would consider private. She knows everything, even information like the exact dates my cousins had their first periods. Nothing is safe from Eighth Aunt. Nothing.

God, run faster, feet! Why is our house so freaking huge? How much space does a family of four really need?

By the time I’ve rushed down the grand winding staircase, past the foyer, past the formal living room and then the formal dining room and then the casual dining room and into the less formal living room, which is meant for close family, I’m out of breath. I smash my shoulder into the huge double doors, and Eighth Aunt and Papa look up, their mouths falling open. Irah, the head housekeeper, is just taking the last plate of crudités from the silver tray. Oh thank god: if Irah is still here, that means Papa hasn’t told Eighth Aunt. They wouldn’t say anything that could tarnish the family name with her around.

But my relief is short-lived. Even as I stand there, Eighth Aunt mutters in Mandarin, “Mm, I understand, yes. Very tricky matter.”

Mandarin. Nooo! Sometimes I hate that most ChineseIndonesian families speak three languages—Indonesian, Mandarin, and English. This means that Papa and Eighth Aunt would’ve been able to speak freely without Irah understanding what they’re saying. Then Eighth Aunt turns her head and looks at me in a new way, a way that says: “How did generations of good, careful breeding turn out with you? How did genetics fail us so badly?” Usually, she looks at me the same way, but there’s also an undercurrent of “Aww, look at little George Clooney. He’s not much, but he’s the only boy in his generation of the Tanuwijaya clan, so I suppose we should all cherish him and pinch his cheeks and make him eat his vegetables.” Now that loving undercurrent is gone. Papa has definitely spilled the beans. Hell, he’s spilled the entire casserole. It might seem strange, sharing that you caught your son masturbating, but my family has zero boundaries. I once overheard Fourth Aunt asking Third Aunt if my newlywed cousin Kimberli and her husband were expecting yet, and when Third Aunt said no, Fourth Aunt called the couple and gave the poor guy actual play-by-play advice on the best positions to increase chances of conception. I couldn’t meet Fourth Aunt’s eye the rest of the day.

“Aduh, George. Sit down here and explain yourself,” Eighth Aunt says, her eyebrows scrunching together as she pats the seat next to her. Out of my dad’s siblings, she’s the only one who’s comfortable speaking English, though she does pepper her sentences with bits of Indonesian.

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