Page 6 of Next Time Will Be Our Turn
“You just do. Anyway, stay out of my way and we’ll be fine.”
“Fine.”
We spent the rest of the drive in silence. I didn’t care what Iris said, I knew she hated me. I didn’t know why though. And maybe I hated her too, just a little. And I didn’t really know why either.
Mama and Papa had rented a two-bedroom apartment in a large apartment complex in San Gabriel. They said it was a good area to live in because it was close to a whole bunch of Asian supermarkets. Up until then, the only things I’d seen about America were beautiful suburbs or cities like New York or Hollywood, all of them filled with nothing but white people. But when we exited the freeway for San Gabriel, all I saw were store signs in Chinese. Back in Indonesia, I’d attended a Singaporean school, so I spoke pretty good Mandarin, and I read the signs as we passed them: Dim sum. Taiwanese beef noodles. Hair salon.
“Yeah, Mom and Dad put us in the most Asian place ever,” Iris said.
“Mom and Dad?”
“Okay.” She gave a long-suffering sigh. “Some advice: Don’t let anyone hear you calling them Mama and Papa. They’re Mom and Dad from now on, okay?”
“Why?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions. And while we’re on the subject, don’t call me Cici.”
“What?” I’d only ever called Iris Cici, which was Indonesian for “big sister.” “What should I call you?”
“My name,” Iris said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like it wasn’t a hugely disrespectful thing for me to be calling my big sister by her name, without the honorific title.
I gaped at her.
“Try it.”
Her name lodged in my throat like a fish bone. I swear it literally hurt coming out. It took a couple of tries before I managed to choke out, “I-Iris.” It felt so wrong that I immediately added, “Cici.”
Iris snorted. “You’ll get used to it, Mei—Magnolia.”
My skin prickled unpleasantly at the sound of her calling me by my name instead of Meimei—“little sister.” Even my parents called me Meimei, unless they were angry. In Indonesia, it was a form of both respect and affection to call family members by their honorific titles. Having Iris call me Magnolia felt like she’d stripped me of my place in the family.
“Trust me on this,” she said.
I didn’t know why I would trust Iris on anything, and even less on matters like these, but it wasn’t like I had a choice.
“And another piece of advice: If you want to fit in, start slanging.”
“Slanging” meant to speak with a fake American accent, to pretend to be American even though you’re not. Back at my high school, we made fun of kids who slanged, calling them try-hards, fakes, wannabes. And now I was supposed to join their ranks.
“There’s no other way to learn the American accent,” Iris said in her rich, lush American voice. “You just gotta go for it. It’s going to be cringey at first, and you’ll make a ton of mistakes and sound fake as shit, but over time, it’ll come naturally.”
I nodded. As much as I hated to admit it, this sounded like actual good advice.
“Last thing: Don’t tell people you’re sixteen.”
“Why?”
“Again with the stupid questions,” she groaned. “You’re going to be at a community college. Everyone there is at least eighteen years old. They’re gonna think you’re a fucking kid.”
I was quiet.
“Worse, they’ll think you’re some nerd who graduated high school early. An Asian nerd from Asia. Great look.”
“But I didn’t graduate high school early.” My school back in Indonesia followed the Singaporean system, which meant we graduated high school at sixteen and then went on to junior college for two years before going to a normal college. Since Iris had finished high school in America, she’d graduated at eighteen. It always struck me as intensely weird that my older sister and I would both be freshmen at community college.
“I know that. But you try explaining that to a bunch of American kids. They’re not going to understand jack shit about the education system back home. All they’ll remember is you’re a nerd.”
“What do I do when people ask how old I am?”
