Page 15

Fifteen

MILLIE

Millie is good at looking good; it’s one of the few things she’s good at, actually. A long time ago—feels like a lifetime ago, in fact—Mother had given her a crash course on hair and makeup and choosing the right outfits. The kind of thing any loving mom would do when their daughter comes of age, really. Except maybe Mother’s lessons had been more…pointed.

A straight brow , she had said, while shaping Millie’s eyebrows, makes you look youthful and vulnerable. Men like that.

Okay, so maybe not quite the kind of thing a loving mom would do for their daughters.

Millie pushes the traitorous thought from her head. She doesn’t like having unkind thoughts about Mother and Father, especially after everything they’ve done for her. She owes them so much, and even if she worked three whole lifetimes, she would never be able to repay her debt to them. But she tries her best.

Today, for example, she takes care to pick her outfit. She goes for jeans and a dark green top, which makes her look even paler but brings out the peach undertones of her skin. Most American men prefer tanned skin, but there is a certain kind of man that is drawn to pale, vulnerable-looking women, and these are the men Mother and Father have advised Millie to look for. Men who want to protect her. It’s good advice, Millie reminds herself as she swipes tinted sunscreen on her face. It’s advice that caring parents would give to their daughters.

Her makeup is kept simple; Mother said that too much makeup would age you, and society as a whole much prefers young women to older ones. “Young and vulnerable,” Mother had said, a mantra that has accompanied Millie for as long as she can remember. Just a layer of mascara, a light brown eyeliner, some blush, and a thin layer of lip tint. Millie steps back and studies her reflection. She looks so young, so much younger than her twenty-seven years. She looks like she could be a high school student. Exactly how Mother and Father said she should look.

She checks the time on her watch and grabs her purse. But when she opens the door, she startles, a gasp jumping out of her mouth. Father is standing right in front of her. How long has he been there? Was he listening to her getting ready this whole time? A hundred questions crowd through her head. Had she made any noises? Given herself away somehow? Does he know? What does he know? Is he angry? Is she about to be punished?

“Where are you off to?” Father says. Like Mother, Father is an immigrant, but you wouldn’t know it from his English. It’s completely unaccented, like a news anchor. Mother’s English is like that too. They’d taught Millie much the same, making her watch hundreds of hours of news channels and scrubbing her original accent completely. In her dreams, the people talk in newspeak, without accents or emotions of any kind.

Now, Millie tries her best not to squirm under Father’s gaze. “I’m meeting a—a date.” The moment she says “date,” she kicks herself inwardly. Oh god, why had she said that? She knows he would pry, of course he would, but she couldn’t say “friend.” He wouldn’t believe her. She should’ve said she was…was what? Nothing she does goes unnoticed by Father and Mother. That is the price she has to pay for everything they have done for her.

“A date?” Father says, his eyebrows rising ever so slightly. “Tell me about him.” Father’s tone is kind, but Millie knows him well enough by now to know that it can switch very easily, going from Santa Claus to Old Testament god within a split second.

Tread carefully , she tells herself. Not that she needed the reminder. “He’s nice. Very nice.”

“Good. Nice is good. What does he do for a living?”

“He is a writer.”

The faint edges of a frown appear on Father’s face, and Millie’s insides shrivel up. “A successful writer?” he says silkily.

Millie gives a vigorous nod.

“His name?”

She doesn’t want to give his name. It is a betrayal to give his name to Father. She tries hard not to even think it, in case Father senses it somehow.

“Millie,” Father says, and now the edge has reached his voice.

“Oliver,” she says. “Oliver Chen.” She didn’t put up a fight after all. She never does. Millie has been raised to be a good kid, the kind who never talks back or has secrets from her parents.

“And how did you meet him?”

“The usual way.” A lie. Millie trains her gaze to focus on Father’s chin instead of his eyes. She wills her pores not to start sweating. Father stares at her for an interminably long time, and she swears he can look straight through her skull and read every guilty thought skittering through her brain. She can’t stand it. She’s going to burst. She’s going to blurt out the truth to him. She—

“Okay. Well, have fun.”

It takes all of Millie’s willpower not to jump in surprise and squeak, “Really?” Instead, she nods and says, “See you, Father,” then ducks her head and squeezes past him. He doesn’t bother stepping back to let her past. Occupying a large space is something Father is very good at and something Millie is really bad at.

Millie brisk-walks out of the complex and doesn’t stop until she’s all the way down the block. The whole time, she thinks she can feel Father’s eyes lasering her back. He would’ve told Mother by now. They work so well as a team, Father and Mother. Their friends probably envy their marriage.

By the time she gets to the bus stop, she is out of breath. She feels slightly lightheaded too, which is probably a sign that her breakfast hadn’t been big enough. But Mother is very strict about food allowance, and Millie is on a 1,200-calorie meal plan to—of course—keep her looking young and vulnerable. Every week, Mother makes Millie do a weigh-in, and god help her should her weight fluctuate by more than three pounds in either direction. When the bus arrives, Millie is glad to find an empty seat. She rests her head against the window, watching the scenery change as the bus trundles into the city. San Francisco is probably the prettiest city she’s ever been to. Not that she’s been to that many cities, but Millie can’t imagine a lovelier place than this one. It looks like something out of a storybook. Millie loves looking at the houses on the hills, making up stories about the people who live inside them.

She spots Oliver from a distance, and despite everything, her heart rate spikes. Something about Oliver feels different from the other guys she’s gone out with. She smiles wide as she steps off the bus, and he gives her a friendly but nonsuggestive hug.

“Hey, how’s it going?” he says.

“Good,” Millie says, and she means it. It really is good seeing him.

“It was a nice surprise, getting your text,” Oliver says.

Millie blushes. Mother would hate that Millie was the one who made the first move, but there’s just something about Oliver that had captured her the first time they met. There is a note of poignancy in the way Oliver carries himself, and Millie recognizes it as the sign of a fellow dreamer. Though what Oliver could possibly dream about, she has no idea. Surely he has everything he could wish for.

“Yeah,” she says, “I’m glad you agreed to come out and see me.”

“Of course.” Oliver grins. “I haven’t been to this part of the city in a while.”

They’re at Alamo Square, right next to the Painted Ladies, an iconic row of Victorian houses that Millie loves but very rarely gets to see. They start strolling down the street.

“My god, it’s so beautiful here. I wish I could take my little sister out here. She’d flip out.”

“Aww, I didn’t know you had a little sister. How old is she?”

That gives Millie pause. “Eleven.” So young. She thinks back to what she was like at eleven and her chest tightens.

“Wow, quite an age gap between you two.”

Millie elbows him. “Are you calling me old?”

“God, no. If you’re old, I’m a pile of ash waiting to be blown into the wind.” Oliver snorts. “What’s your lil sis like?”

Millie sighs. “Honestly, I don’t know much about her. We’re not that close. But I’d like to get closer to her. I feel protective over her.”

“Pretty hard getting close to preteens. I was…well, let’s just say I was not the most approachable kid when I was eleven.”

It’s hard for Millie to think of Oliver as anything but approachable. Maybe he’s just trying to make her feel better. Time to change the subject. “This is truly my favorite part of the city,” she says, gazing at the colorful homes wistfully.

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

She shrugs. “Before I came to America, I don’t know why, but I had it in my mind that all the houses in this country would look like this. I thought I would live in one of these houses.” She laughs, and it comes out slightly more bitter than she expected. “That’s probably really stupid, huh?”

Oliver nudges her with his elbow. “Well, if we’re going to compare stupid childhood beliefs, I believed that a giant built the Golden Gate Bridge out of Lego bricks.”

Millie laughs. “Aww, that’s cute!”

“Not really, not when I believed it up until I was around twelve.”

“What? How is that possible?”

“My dad told us the story, and I just didn’t think to question it.” Oliver gives her a look. “Do not tell me you’re judging me right now, after what you just told me.”

Millie raises her hands. “No judgment here.”

“Whatever. I can sense the judgment oozing out of you.”

“Are you saying I smell?”

“Only of judginess.”

“Not a word from me.”

“Oof, more judgment.”

She laughs again and marvels at how easy it is to be with Oliver. Moments like these, Millie lets herself forget who she is and what she’s done. She allows herself to leave Father and Mother behind and pretend she’s just a normal person, a carefree young woman spending time with a cute guy she met who seems nice. Wholesome, the picture of the American Dream. Oh, Millie knows the American Dream is usually one filled with great wealth and power, but hers was never that. Her dream had always included a simple stroll down a pretty street much like this one with a guy who laughs at her jokes, and a golden retriever walking alongside them.

Then the truth catches up with her, and Millie feels almost winded at the reminder of it. She’s the opposite of wholesome. Thomas is proof of that. And she doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing here with Oliver, especially given his ties to Vera. Millie has the sense to know that Vera is not someone you want to be messing with. Vera is not someone whose friends and family you want to be messing with, so what is Millie doing right now?

“You okay? You got real quiet all of a sudden,” Oliver says.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she says quickly, trying to shake off the darkness. She deserves a slice of happiness, just for a while. For now, she can pretend everything is fine and they’re a normal couple and she’s not about to do what she always does. She looks up at Oliver and smiles, and she wonders if he can sense the sadness behind the smile. “Wanna get a boba?”

···

It’s so easy, spending time with Oliver. Except he hasn’t tried to hold her hand or anything, even after two dates. A week later, Millie is in her room, staring up at the ceiling, wondering what she’s doing wrong with him. That first date of theirs, they’d ended up spending half the day together, laughing and chatting about nothing in particular, and then he’d given her a quick hug before she got on the bus to go back. Three days after that, they’d gone to Fisherman’s Wharf and shared a lobster bisque in a bread bowl before walking aimlessly around the wharf and playing overpriced carnival games. They’d laughed so much that Millie noticed her cheeks hurting later that night. They were really good dates. A+, no notes. She can sense that he likes her. He can hardly keep his eyes off her. So why hasn’t Oliver made a move on her?

She takes out her phone and considers sending him a text. But maybe that would seem desperate? Girls should never make the first move! Mother’s voice booms in her head. Mother knows everything there is to know about dating. Millie opens up the text thread she has with Oliver and scrolls through their messages. Over text, Oliver is himself. Open, friendly, but showing very few signals of romantic interest.

“Ugh,” Millie groans. She isn’t used to being the one who’s more into the other person. What a mindfuck it is, being in this position. It’s even got her questioning her straight brows, for goodness’ sake. She lets her arms flop back down onto the bed, but just as she does so, her phone buzzes with a text. She whips her arms back up like a striking snake.

It’s a text from Vera. Millie swallows her disappointment, a split second before she perks up because, hey, it’s a text from Vera! Maybe there’s something about Thomas?

Millie, you come to my place now. Wear something nice. Or not, is okay. Aimes will bring something nice for you. Okay, see you. Kind regards, Auntie Vera.

Millie frowns. Wear something nice? She taps out a reply. You mean something nice for dinner with everyone?

Then she waits with bated breath for Vera’s reply. When it finally comes, it offers no clarity. Something nice that you young people wear. Kind regards, Auntie Vera.

Great. Very helpful. Thank you, Vera. Millie sighs, getting up from the bed and walking over to her wardrobe. Despite her drab living conditions, Millie has a surprisingly good choice of outfits to choose from, thanks to Mother. Mother is always giving her new clothes, and Millie likes to think that it’s one of the ways that Mother shows Millie she cares. It’s the kind of thing loving mothers do, right? Millie sifts through the selection, muttering to herself. What to wear? She reminds herself that she can’t look too nice walking out of here, because it might pique Mother’s and Father’s attention, and what would she say if they were to ask who she’s seeing? Maybe she can tell them she’s on her way to see Oliver? But then what happens when that fizzles out to nothing? They’d be so disappointed, and Millie hates disappointing them.

In the end, she chooses a pair of figure-hugging black pants and a lavender-colored top. She definitely looks nice enough for a date. She puts on the usual light makeup and slips out of her room as quietly as a cat. For once, her luck holds. She doesn’t see Father or Mother around, though that doesn’t really mean anything. They’re probably watching her through one of the many security cameras strewn about the place. They’re very protective parents. She scurries out of the building, jumping at the slightest noise, and doesn’t stop until she gets to the bus stop.

While waiting for the bus, Millie checks her phone, and dread bubbles up at the sight of a text from Mother.

Where are you going?

I have a date.

We need to talk about this guy when you come home.

Millie nods to no one in particular and stuffs the phone back in her purse. She licks her dry lips. She can’t keep lying to them about having dates, especially when the ones she’s had with Oliver are going nowhere. What if they find out about Vera and how Millie got involved with her in the first place? Millie takes out her phone once more and opens up a matchmaking app. Unlike Tinder, it’s an app geared toward people who are looking for serious relationships and not one-night stands. Millie swipes right without really looking at the profiles. By the time the bus arrives, she’s swiped right on eight profiles and gotten two matches. She spends the bus ride to Vera’s messaging back and forth with the matches. She feels so tired. By now, they all sound the same to her. Hey, how are you, how’s it going, what do you do for a living, for fun, where do you live, etcetera? She answers by rote. Mother’s voice tromps through her mind: young and vulnerable. She should turn that into a show tune or something; she certainly says the phrase enough.

She’s in a foul mood when she alights in Chinatown. She trudges down the block, her steps heavy, and takes a deep breath before entering Vera Wang’s World-Famous Teahouse.

The bell tinkles, and Vera calls out from behind the counter. “Ah, Millie, there you are! Just in time for tea. I make with jujubes and goji berries and white fungus, they are very refreshing and will give you energy.”

“Hi, Ver—Auntie Vera,” Millie says. She inhales the fragrance in the tea shop, her tense muscles unknotting slightly. There’s just something about this place that takes Millie’s guard down, for better or worse. She spots Aimes sitting at one of the tables and tenses back up. “Hi,” she says.

Aimes lifts her chin at Millie. “How’s it going? You look nice.”

“Thanks, so do you.” That’s an understatement. Aimes looks gorgeous. More so than before, actually. She looks like the kind of girls Millie looks at on Instagram, the ones with thick, beautifully separated lashes, poreless skin, and full pouty lips. The ones with entire wardrobes that cost more than a luxury car. The ones whose lives look way too good to be true.

Aimes seems to notice Millie staring and says, sheepishly, “The clothes are secondhand. There’s this really amazing vintage shop in Little Italy I can take you to one day. I’m pretty sure the stuff there are mostly knockoffs, but you really can’t tell. Come here, I’ll do your makeup.”

“Oh, you don’t have to,” Millie says, blushing.

“Yes, she has to,” Vera calls out. “You have to fit in, Millie.”

“Fit in to what?”

“Ah,” Vera says slyly.

“No, really, that wasn’t a rhetorical question,” Millie says. “I actually would like an answer.”

“A party,” Vera says. She pours out the tea with intense focus and totters out from behind the counter.

Millie wants to ask, What party? but she’s sitting down in front of Aimes now, and Aimes is studying her face closely, and Millie doesn’t want to say a word in case her breath smells bad. Aimes takes out a huge makeup bag, and when she opens it, Millie openly gapes. Aimes has an amazing range of makeup.

“These are mostly gifts from brands that want me to post about them,” Aimes says. She picks out a bottle of foundation and holds it up against Millie’s face, then rejects it for a different bottle. She pours out a dollop onto the back of her hand and uses a brush to swipe it all over Millie’s face. “I know this is a little thicker than you’re used to, but it’s going to give your skin that porcelain effect everybody’s into right now.”

“Wah, Aimes, you are very good at this,” Vera says, placing a tray on the table. She beams at Millie. “Aimes do my makeup too. I look fabulous, yes?”

Millie looks at Vera without moving her face and realizes that, yes, actually, Vera does look fabulous. Thanks to Aimes, Vera’s skin is glowing and her lips have been painted a bright fuchsia, which should look garish but ends up making Vera look bold and devastatingly fashionable. “Yeah, you look amazing.”

Twenty minutes later, Aimes sits back and surveys Millie. Vera peers at Millie’s face. “This is not making me feel at all self-conscious,” Millie says with a nervous laugh.

“What do you think, Vera?” Aimes says.

Vera nods. “Very good work, Aimes. She look not at all like herself. So glamorous.”

“Gee, thanks,” Millie says, but then Aimes holds up a mirror, and all of Millie’s sarcastic remarks fly out of her head. The person in the mirror can’t possibly be her, can it? She no longer looks young or vulnerable; she looks like the kind of woman who turns heads and breaks hearts with no remorse.

“Do you like it?” Aimes says.

Millie can only nod, not trusting herself to speak.

“Okay, enough staring,” Vera says. “Now you get dress and we have to go.”

Millie stands, still in a bit of a daze, and accepts the shimmery dress that Aimes hands her. Vera ushers Millie upstairs, and when Millie is done changing, she stares at the mirror in Vera’s bedroom. This is what a woman looks like , she thinks. Not a girl. She is in her twenties, after all, and very much no longer a girl, but she hasn’t felt like a woman in…ever, actually. Millie swallows, shuddering a little. Father and Mother would definitely not approve of this. She takes her phone out of her purse. No messages from them. What they don’t know can’t hurt them.

“Millie, ah, Uber is here!” Vera calls from downstairs.

Millie switches the phone to Silent mode and walks out of the room. Apparently she is off to a party.

Millie has been to several parties here in America. The guys she had gone out with had taken her to house parties, mostly housewarming or anniversary or birthday parties—celebrations that are confined to close friends and their plus-ones, where she spent the night trying to make small talk with the other plus-ones.

This party is nothing like those. First of all, it’s in a mansion at Bernal Heights. Millie can’t believe how lavish the house is when they first arrive, a five-story monstrosity that makes the Painted Ladies look like baby houses. She looks at Vera. The old woman must’ve made a mistake coming here. But Vera only pauses for a moment before saying, “I hope they have dumpling.” Then she tightens her hold on her stack of metal food containers, squares her shoulders, and says, “Okay, come with me, ladies. And hold your containers properly. If you drop them, you will be in big trouble.”

“I don’t know about this,” Aimes says. “I’ve never turned up at a party with so much food. Not even a Thanksgiving party.”

“Aiya, why you got no manners?” Vera tuts. “Of course you turn up to party, you have to bring enough food to feed everyone, otherwise people go home hungry, then how?”

Millie purses her lips. She’s got a feeling that Aimes is right about this being weird, but at the same time, nothing could make Millie go against Vera. And so Millie tightens her hold on the intense weight of the Tiffin tower and takes a deep breath before following Vera and Aimes up the steps and into what will no doubt be the wildest night of their lives.