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Like a terrified puppy, I approach slowly. Eleanor bounces in, oozing glee.

“Oh, my poor darling Eleanor Roosevelt.” Eighth Aunt is also one of the few people who’s taken Eleanor’s demand to use her full name seriously. “Come here.” Eleanor does so with unabashed affection and practically flings herself onto Eighth Aunt’s lap, very nearly knocking Eighth Aunt’s huge hairdo askew. Eighth Aunt has a professional hairdresser come to her house every other day to wash and style her hair. Eleanor tells me that Eighth Aunt sleeps sitting up so she doesn’t squash her hairdo, and I honestly can’t tell if she’s kidding. The rest of Eighth Aunt looks just as over-the-top as her hair—today, she’s wearing full Dior, everything from the full-length tulle skirt to the thick leather belt to the blazer is emblazoned with the CD logo, and I have no doubt that even her flawless makeup is Dior. It’s the kind of attention to detail that Eighth Aunt applies to every aspect of her life, which is partly why she’s such a successful matriarch. I perch gingerly on the edge of the couch, as far away from them as possible.

“Poor, poor baby,” Eighth Aunt says, stroking Eleanor’s hair.

“Oh, it was so freaky,” Eleanor wails.

Seriously?

I have to resist the urge to glare at Eleanor. I swear my entire head is a ball of flame right now. “I can explain—”

“No need,” Eighth Aunt says, waving me off. “I understand. It’s what happens when you don’t have a mother figure. I have failed you, George.” And she looks so completely heartbroken that I squirm uncomfortably, unsure what to do. “I have heard of this trend, you know,” she says in a conspiratorial tone.

“What trend?” God, I bet she thinks masturbation is a trend.

She winces and lowers her voice. “This trend of—ah—abusing yourself to cartoon animals.”

Papa shudders, letting out a low moan of horror.

“I wasn’t!” My voice comes out so high and fast that only dogs can hear it. I clear my throat. “Eighth Aunt, I really wasn’t—”

She raises her hand to cut me off. “It’s okay, George. I understand that you have strayed a little from the right path. Your papa and I will think of how to resolve this. In the meantime, he and I have agreed that you shouldn’t have access to your phone or computer.”

My mouth drops open with horror. “No, please—”

Eighth Aunt’s expression switches, just like that, from sad to wrathful goddess. “George Clooney, you are going to be the face of our latest product.”

The latest product she’s talking about is OneLiner, an app we’re launching in about a month’s time that’s aimed at teen boys. It’s one of our do-good-for-the-human-race apps—we’ve got a handful of those under our belts, and they always do wonders for our corporation’s image. OneLiner is supposed to be a fun way of teaching teenage boys how to behave appropriately and treat girls with respect. As Eighth Aunt says, it’s sad that we have to teach my kind how to treat girls with respect, but since we do, might as well turn it into good publicity for the company. I’m actually kind of proud of the app. It had been my idea, and I didn’t think they’d go for it. When the family was informed that it was time for another do-good app, there had been a barrage of suggestions from all my cousins, because traditionally we’ve always used one of my cousins to be the face of these kinds of apps.My cousins, their mettles forged in the fires of private schools and/or overseas schooling, make very good mascots. I would’ve been happy to let any of them be the face of OneLiner, but unfortunately, because it’s aimed at boys and the clan was cursed with me as the only boy in my generation, I’ve become the face that no one wanted to have on the app.

“Listen, I understand that teenagers do—ah, teenage things,” Eighth Aunt says with a grimace. “But we live in a conservative country. I know it’s, ah, healthy, but the spokesperson of OneLiner cannot be caught doing anything like this.”

“It wasn’t anything deviant, I swear!” I cry, my voice breaking a little.

She holds her hand up. “It doesn’t matter, George. Everything, no matter how innocent, can be taken way out of context here. Remember what happened to Millisent.”

Two months ago, while exiting a karaoke lounge, cousin Millisent (as far as misspellings go, hers isn’t too awful, I think) threw her arms around her two best friends and planted kisses on their cheeks. A journalist waiting outside had captured the kisses. An innocent gesture, but because their high-fashion outfits revealed a bit more skin than people here are used to seeing, the gossip sites blew up and accused her of having had some wild threesome at the karaoke lounge. The lounge was vandalized by hard-line groups, and Millisent and her friends quickly took off to Singapore to escape the outcry for a while. The family company stocks had taken a dip for two whole days until the media frenzy moved on to another scandal.

“We just need to play it very, very safe, you understand? Norisks.” She takes a deep breath, then says, “No electronics for you until after OneLiner has been launched properly, titik.” Period. Eighth Aunt is used to having the last word.

“And you too, Eleanor,” Papa rumbles in Indonesian.

Eleanor’s head whips up so fast the back of her skull smashes into Eighth Aunt’s chin. “Ouch!” they both yelp. I bite my lip to keep from smiling. I know it’s petty as hell, but seriously.

“What, Papa?” Eleanor says, rubbing the back of her head.

“No phone for you.”

Eleanor looks affronted. “Why not? We were just about to go to PP to get me an iPhone!”

“I don’t feel safe about you having one. Just look at what happened to your brother.”

“That’s gege! I’m different, Pa, you know I am. Pleaaaase.”

But for once, Papa is unmoved by Eleanor’s charms. “No. There are too many weirdos out there. We’ll wait another year, then we can discuss it again.”

The look on my pesky little sister’s face is almost worth enduring the whole unfortunate incident. Almost.

The moon is shining silver bright, so clear that I can practically see every crater and hill on its surface. Beneath it is a blanket of clouds, reflecting the moonlight like a silvery sea. As our plane slips through the night sky, I imagine it parting the sea of clouds, breaking the soft cotton apart as it leaves the only home I’ve ever known. It’s a breathtaking sight, but I’m not in the mood to have my breath taken. Instead, I slam the plastic window shade shut and turn to face Mama, who’s reading one of the in-flight magazines.