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While Chinese people in ChinaandNative Indonesians in Indonesia date as per Western standards now, we Chinese-Indonesians are still stuck with chaperones. You will often hear of two consenting adults going on “dates” accompanied by various family members—aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings, parents, etc. The chaperones will judge the date and often, if they don’t approve (i.e., if the other party isn’t as rich as they’d hoped), the couple’s parents are told and the couple will be pressured to split up. If they don’t, the families pull all sorts of telenovela-worthy stunts to convince them. The stunts vary from “You will bring shame and make us all lose face!” to “I will literally DIE if you don’t do as I say. LITERALLY.”

“Yes, we need to show everyone that you are a proper gentleman, courting Sharlot in a proper manner,” Eighth Aunt says. “Let’s go over the rules: Hold her hand whenever you can, but do not touch her anywhere else, you hear me?”

“Oh my god,” I mutter.

“Kissing: forehead and cheek only. No mouths. And definitely no tongue. And nowhere else on the body, obviously.”

“Please stop.”

She goes on for a while, giving me an entire list of rules. Although I’m already aware of all these rules, hearing her list them aloud is overwhelming. By the time she’s done, I feel ready to burrow back into bed and sleep away the whole day.

“One last thing, George,” she says.

“There’s more?” I groan.

“You need to make Sharlot fall in love with you.”

I stop grimacing and stare at her. Everything else she’s said up to this point has been bad enough. But this feels like crossing a line.

“These reporters, they’re seasoned experts. If they see that Shi Jun is about to dump you, imagine how terrible that would look,” Nainai says. “Aiya, my only grandson getting dumped! Why anyone would want to do that is beyond me. You are perfect.”

My heart hammers so hard I feel it pounding in my head. “This feels really wrong. Sharlot is a person, for god’s sake, not a trophy—”

“You’re a good kid, George,” Eighth Aunt says. “I know the circumstances behind your meeting aren’t great…” She narrows her eyes at Papa, who shrinks back guiltily. “But that doesn’t matter as much. Focus on the here and now. Treat her well, be kind to her, and trust that she’ll like you for who you are.”

“Oh, Ming Fa, she’ll love you,” Nainai says, reaching over with a wobbly hand and pinching my cheek. “How can she not?Look at my little George Clooney. You look exactly like him, you know. But more handsome because you’re Chinese.”

I pretend not to hear Eleanor’s snort. I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. Inside, I stare at the mirror for a long time, wondering what the hell I’m going to do.

The day starts off way too early for civility, but of course, Kiki’s already dressed in an extremely Instagrammable outfit. Or maybe I should say a ShareIt-able outfit, since we are in Indonesia after all. Locally sourced cream-colored cotton pants that show off the curve of her butt, check. Pristine white shirt knotted round the waist that shows off her flat belly, check. Floppy sunhat, check. Fierce sunglasses, check.

“Come on, get your arse out of bed or we’re going to be late.”

I blink blearily at the bright sunlight streaming in through our floor-to-ceiling window and groan. After being told by Fauzi last night that we’re going to have Rina following us around today, I’d stayed up way too late last night drawing on my trusty tablet to help calm myself down at the thought of today’s “date” with George. The last thing I want to do is spend the day with my fake boyfriend while being tailed by a reporter, but I suppose I don’t really have a choice.

While I brush my teeth, Kiki patters back and forth from theroom to the bathroom and then tells me she’s laid out an outfit for me in the walk-in closet.

This morning, Kiki has chosen to dress me in a mauve sundress with a yellow-parrot print. It’s an off-shoulder piece that ends just above my knees and makes me look sweet and ultra-feminine.

“Wow,” I mumble, dragging a brush through the tangled mess atop my head that calls itself hair. “I never would’ve picked this dress, but it actually works.”

“I know, I’m talented like that,” Kiki says. “Here, I’ve made you some decaf.”

“Decaf?” I groan, taking a sip of the tepid espresso anyway.

“Bali has got some of the best coffee Indonesia has to offer. We’re not going to amp ourselves up on shitty coffee. We have to make a pit stop at a proper café, hence the decaf for now.”

God, she’s really thought of everything.

“Stop whatever you think you’re doing,” Kiki orders. She plucks the hair brush out of my hands, spritzes something that smells of oranges into my hair, and runs her fingers through the mess. Somehow, she manages to finger-comb my hair into a manageable tousle before pulling it into an intricate side braid. Then she slaps some BB cream onto my face, dabs some lip stain on my mouth and cheeks, and when I next look in the mirror at the two of us, side by side, it’s near impossible to look away. We look like we’ve just walked out of a photo shoot.

“I hate to say it, but you really are talented.”

Kiki smirks, and we make our way out of the bedroom andinto the shared living room. Immediately my chest tightens at the anticipation of seeing Mama again after our barbed words yesterday. But the living room’s empty.

“I think she’s still sleeping,” Kiki says, reading my mind. “I heard her come back pretty late last night.”

I nod without saying a word, still feeling the guilt lancing through my stomach. Why can’t Mama and I, for once, just have a conversation where neither one of us is trying to hurt the other? And hold up, she came back late last night? The thought of her dating George’s dad once again worms through my gut. Surely not. That would just be way too weird for the both of us, right? Right. Still, I resolve to have a talk with Mama as soon as I come back this evening.