Page 8 of Next Time Will Be Our Turn
Monday morning, I woke up at five, my stomach alternating between being full of snakes and fireworks. After showering, I put on my new jeans, which sat way lower on my hips than I was used to, but Iris swore this was the only way to wear jeans. Then I slipped on one of my new tops, which had a scoop neckline. Ilooked in the mirror. Oof. My cheeks immediately started burning. If I wore this ensemble back in Jakarta, my friends would be scandalized. I took off the top and picked out a different one, but somehow it looked just as sexual.
But maybe I should look more sexual? I mean, I wanted to look sexy. But it felt so wrong on me, so inauthentic, like a little girl playing dress-up with her mother’s clothes. In the end, I went for a top I’d brought with me from back home—long sleeves with a beaded poodle on the front and a plaid pattern on the back. I went back to the mirror and appraised my outfit. It looked more like me. Aside from the low-rise jeans. I shrugged on one of the jackets I’d bought with Iris yesterday. Then it was time for makeup.
I had no freaking clue how to put on makeup. Back at my old school, makeup was strictly not allowed. In fact, every classroom had a bottle of makeup remover in case any student was suspected of wearing any. But Mama had given me a Shiseido kit as one of my graduation gifts. At the airport, she’d tweaked my chin and said, “Use the makeup set I gave you. Remember what I said about finding a husband with potential.”
Now, I took out the makeup set with as much reverence and trepidation as one might hold a Fabergé egg. The bag contained a palette with eye shadow and blush, eyeliner, powder, and two different shades of lipstick. Swallowing, I opened each one and sniffed. They smelled so sophisticated. If being grown-up had a smell, it would be the scent of Shiseido’s Invisible Silk Pressed Powder in Cashmere. It went on smoothly, making my pores disappear with one swipe as though by magic. I took in my newly flawless skin, and it was as though a whole new world hadopened itself up to me. Next was eye shadow—purple to match my top, followed by bright pink lipstick and blush. I smiled at my reflection. Very American.
“Hi, my name is Magnolia.” Hmm, I still sounded so Indo. I closed my eyes for a moment and conjured up an image of Iris. The way she stood, the way she talked. The way her lips moved to form words that sounded exactly like how people sounded on TV. I shifted my weight to one leg and let my head tilt a bit to one side. Okay, this pose definitely looked more Iris. I tried again. “Hi, my name is Magnolia.” Almost. Except what would Iris say? I frowned at my reflection, then relaxed my facial muscles so I looked slightly bored. “Hey. I’m Magnolia.”
My hands flew to my mouth. Whoa. I sounded so American it gave me goose bumps. A high-pitched giggle bubbled out of me. I couldn’t possibly speak like that in public. Oh my god. I narrowed my eyes at the mirror.Yes, you can, and you will. Because you’re not a FOB. Well, you are. But you don’t want people knowing that.
Why not though? What’s so bad about being a FOB? So what if I did just come here from Indonesia? Didn’t that make me more interesting?
Except the way Iris said “FOB” made it painfully clear it wasn’t something I wanted to be known as, and Iris seemed like she had it all figured out, so…
I stared at the mirror and said, “Sup. I’m Magnolia.” You know what? I was good at this slanging thing. I totally sounded like one of the characters fromFriends. Maybe Phoebe.
By the time Iris came out of her room, her hair still mussed up, dressed in jeans and a hoodie but with a fresh face of makeupon, I’d been waiting in the living room for over an hour. I didn’t mind, I’d spent the hour muttering different phrases in my new accent and fussing over everything, checking and rechecking my backpack to make sure I hadn’t forgotten my wallet or my magical Shiseido kit. Iris slouched down the hallway, yawning, and stopped short when she caught sight of me perched on the sofa.
I said, “Morning, Ci—uh.” Nope, I couldn’t bring myself to call her by her name. “Morning.”
“What the fuck happened to your face?”
My smile froze. “Um. I put on some makeup?”
“No. Not some. You look like you put on all the makeup you found at CVS. Jesus, Magnolia. You look like a goddamn clown.”
My nose started itching, a sure sign I was about to cry, and I pinched the back of my thigh as subtly as I could to stop the tears from coming.
“Wash it off. I am not going to be seen on campus with”—she gestured at me—“this.”
I nodded and jumped up, eager to get away so she wouldn’t see me cry again.
“And what the hell are you wearing? What happened to the shirts we bought?”
“I…” I had no idea what I was supposed to say to that. The tops we bought were too sexy? I felt like a fraud wearing them?
“You know what? Never mind. We don’t have time. Just go wash the crap off your face.”
This time, when I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see an American teen. I saw myself for what I really was. A kid trying to pass herself off as a woman. I washed it all off. Iris and I didn’t say another word to each other the entire drive to school.
• • •
If you don’t know what a community college is, well, neither did I. Community colleges aren’t colleges, not like the kinds you see on TV. They’re more like a stepping stone between high school and a real college, and the best thing about them is that just about anyone can enroll. That’s why, at age sixteen, I could go to one, no questions asked. I had my GCE O-Level exam results, and they were enough to get me in. You couldn’t do that at a normal college; you’d need to sit for the A-Levels to get in.
Anyway, the school I was about to attend was called Pasadena City College. I had no idea what to expect. I think mostly I was expecting a stereotypical American high school, but of course it wasn’t like that at all. It was more like a university, but tiny. Well, I say “tiny,” but it was actually pretty huge. Multiple buildings spread across an entire city block. City blocks in LA are huge and sprawled out, not like ones in Jakarta.
Once Iris parked and we got out of the car, she said, “Okay. Listen to me.”
I resisted the urge to flinch.
Iris took a piece of paper out of her bag. “This is a map of the school. You got your timetable?”
I nodded.
“Good. Buy your textbooks at the store. Don’t talk to me while we’re at school. I’ll see you back here at three. I’m not waiting around, so don’t be late.”
With that, she turned and stalked off, her hips swaying in a way that mine never could. I looked down at the map she’d given me. Coming from Iris, handing me a map was a surprisingly caring gesture. I tried not to dwell on how enormous thecampus seemed to me. Easily five times the size of my high school. Okay, according to this, the bookstore was in building B.
