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Second Aunt’s smile lights up her entire face. She’s practically glowing like a light bulb. “Okay, boleh,” she says, and grins down at her teacup, clearly blushing.
Staphanie and I exchange knowing glances before she says, “And last but not least, Third Uncle is our MC.”
“Ooh, nice.” Again, I don’t have to fake the admiration in my voice. The master of ceremonies is one of the most stressful jobs at Chinese-Indonesian weddings. They’re basically the wedding organizer’s mouthpiece, the one who herds the thousands of wedding guests along and gathers them into appropriate groups for photos, the one who provides entertainment whenever there’s a lull, and the one who hosts the reception.MCs need to be loud and personable and shameless and charming and energetic, and I don’t know how anyone does it.
“You can just call me Francis. I’m too young to be an uncle,” he says.
“No!” Big Aunt booms, loud enough to make us all jump. “No such thing as calling your elder by first name.”
I look helplessly at Staphanie’s Third Uncle and say, “How about Ko Francis?” Koko means “older brother” in Indonesian.
“That’ll do. You two need to tell me how you met and everything. I bet you have a juicy love story that I can compile into the best speech ever.”
Ha. It’s too bad our love story doesn’t involve saving baby otters, but rather getting away with literal murder.
The longer lunch goes on, the more I realize that I really, really like Staphanie and her family. How can I not? They’re clearly just as bonkers as mine. As expected, her photos are wonderful—slightly overexposed like mine are. She captures the brightness of her weddings with soft pastel colors.
“Which camera do you use?” I can’t stop admiring her gallery. The colors scream of film photography, something I’ve always wanted to try but never had the guts to.
“Same as yours, the 5D Mark III.”
“Really? Wow. I could never get my pictures to have these pastel shades. I would’ve guessed the 1D.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Staphanie laughs. “You’re so kind. No, these are not taken by the 1D.”
“Well, I’m impressed. You’ll have to teach me how to get the backgrounds so smooth on the 5D.”
“Mm-hmm, for sure!” She grabs a pork rib and places it on my plate.
If I don’t reciprocate—or rather, retaliate—Ma would tellme off later for being rude. “Stop doing that. You’re making me look bad.” I put down the tablet and take a har gow for her.
Staphanie grins. “How else can I show everyone that my Ama has raised me well? Also, I really just wanted more food, and if I take food for myself, Ama will tell me I’ve brought shame to the family.”
I laugh, relating to every sentence she just said. “Okay, you tell me which dishes you want and I’ll tell you which ones I want.”
“Deal.”
As our two families chat with each other, Staphanie and I pile all sorts of dumplings on each other’s plates. By the time lunch is over, I know that against all odds, Ma and my aunts have actually done something right and picked the perfect vendors for my wedding.
3
Five Months Later
“Oh my god, what do you have in here, Fourth Aunt?” I grunt, struggling with the giant suitcase.
“A body. Ha ha, just kidding,” she adds when I don’t laugh. She grabs her carry-on—a matching brown suitcase with the letters LV printed all over it.
“Aduh, Meddy, be careful with that, please. It’s Louis Vuitton!”
I give her a look. The family business has flourished for the past year, and technically, they can afford Louis Vuitton anything, but I know my family well enough to know they wouldn’t spend tens of thousands of dollars on the real stuff. “Is itreallyLouis Vuitton, Fourth Aunt?”
She tuts. “It’s a Class One bag, it’s just as good as the real stuff! Cost me two thousand dollars, okay? You can take it to Paris and they won’t be able to tell it’s fake.”
In Indonesia, fakes are sorted into different classes. Most Class One stuff is from South Korea and uses real leather sewn by actual leatherworkers. Class Two comes mostly from China, and Class Threes are made in Southeast Asia—Indonesia, Bangladesh, Vietnam, and so on. Class Threes will set you back a few dollars at the most, but then you’re dealing with pleather and wonky logos that say Prata and Bluberry. Class Ones cost about a quarter of the real stuff. Still expensive, but more affordable, and they’re next to impossible to tell apart from the real ones. They even come with certificates of authenticity.
Ma gives a snort of derision at Fourth Aunt’s bags. “This why you can never get rich, because you waste your money on silly thing like this. Big sis teach us more better than this; she teach us to save money.”
Here we go again. I steel myself for some sort of snide retort from Fourth Aunt, but it doesn’t come. Instead, she just smirks at Ma and sashays off to find a trolley.