Page 27 of Four Aunties and a Wedding

Fourth Aunt (06:53AM): Typical. Of course she had to make a dramatic exit.

Second Aunt (06:53AM): Eh, Nat say she exidentelly leave. U add her back can or not?

Fourth Aunt (06:54AM): Sorry, don’t know how to.

Big Aunt (06:55AM): Meddy can you add your mama back or not ah?

Second Aunt (06:56AM): Yes Meddy will kno how. Meddy U wake up now okay Meddy.

Big Aunt (06:57AM): Meddy hello pls wake up good morning hello.

It goes on for a while, all of them incessantly sending messages to wake me up even though I’ve obviously turned my phone to silent mode. I slam the phone face down on the bed, the butterflies in my stomach mutating into killer wasps. Mafia. Shit.

The events of last night rush back, and suddenly I feel ill, all that cheap alcohol bubbling up in my stomach. I make it to the bathroom before I start to dry heave into the sink. Oh god. How could I have forgotten? Staphanie and her family arefamily. Like the fucking Sopranos. My wedding photographer, the person I’d thought was a friend, someone I trusted on a personal level, is a literal gangster. I feel so violated at the realization that while I thought of her as a real friend, she’d been working me as a job.

I splash freezing cold water onto my face and gargle mouthwash. In the bright light of day, without the blurring effects of alcohol, I realize that that was one question I had failed to ask Staphanie. It seems like too big of a coincidence. The knot in my stomach tightens. There’s only one possibility: that it wasn’t a coincidence. They must have sought us out, gotten hold of Ma or the aunties and then wooed us into hiring them. I glare at the mirror, hating myself for falling for their trick. How could I have been such a terrible judge of people? After Ah Guan, I thought I was more careful, I thought I’d developed some sort of radar for baddies. But nope, here I am, as naive as ever.

And now my wedding is going to be an event where a target—literally another human being—is taken out. “Taken out” sounds so flippant when I put it that way, as if I’m talking about a date rather than someone getting killed.

Oh god. I didn’t even think about how they’d do it. Shoot the person in the head? My breath shudders out of me and I squeeze my eyes shut. I see it all the time on TV and never bat an eyelid, but now the thought of it sickens me. Or maybe they’d stab the person? Or break their neck? I try to think of Staphanie twisting someone else’s head to the point of breaking and find, to my horror, that I can very easily imagine her doing it. I see her in my mind’s eye, face resolute, coming up behind some unsuspecting man while he mingles and eats canapés during cocktail hour. I imagine her sliding a little knife out and bringing her arm up smoothly until the blade is at his throat. She drags it swiftly across his throat. Blood spurts, people scream—

Shit.

I breathe out shakily. No. Don’t think like that. We’ll be there to stop her and her family. Whatever happens, we will stop them. I quickly finish washing up, shrug on a pair of jeans and a shirt, and make my way to the lobby. Outside, I catch a cab to Christ Church College, where we’ve been provided a room specifically to get ready for the wedding. Staphanie’s already arranged to have all of our dresses steam-ironed and hung inside the Christ Church room. I grimace at the thought of Staphanie running all these errands. So helpful. So deceitful.

Ma opens the door and noise spills out, my aunts squawking as usual, but this time, a man’s voice is also mixed into the chaos, just as squawky as theirs. “Meddy! Aiya, you sleep so late.”

For a second, all I can do is stop and stare. Ma is in full-on Chinese-Indo hair and makeup—everything big, everything larger than life. Her face is caked with powder—her skin ultra-white, her eyelids heavy with fake lashes, her eyebrows extra dark and thick. Her hair, normally embiggened by meticulously applied rollers, is now so huge it looks like she’s wearing a cloud. And on top of the pouf of hair is the dreaded Komodo dragon fascinator sipping its tea.

“What you think?” Ma asks nervously, patting her hair gently. “Too pale? More blush?”

“Uh...”

Ma doesn’t wait for me to reply before turning around and walking back inside the room. The dragon’s tail nearly takes my eye out. I hurry after her, grimacing as I take in the chaotic scene.

At the dressing table, Second Uncle is clipping wads of fake hair onto Big Aunt’s head, his teeth gritted with obvious annoyance as Second Aunt looks over his shoulder. As he inserts alarge pin into Big Aunt’s hair to secure her fascinator, Big Aunt yelps. “Aduh, you pinch scalp!”

“Need to make sure the dragon very secure,” Second Uncle mutters, stabbing another pin into her huge hairdo.

“You do it wrong!” Second Aunt snaps. “You see, this what happen when no-good gangster think you can do highly skill profession like hair and makeup artist! You see? YOU SEE?”

Oh god. Please tell me not even my family is crazy enough to speak like this to THE ACTUAL MAFIA.

Who am I kidding? Of course they are.

Big Aunt is watching her reflection with quiet displeasure and pressing her temple with one finger. Now and again, her gaze flicks upward to shoot Second Uncle a cold glare, but her lips are kept firmly shut.

Fourth Aunt is lounging back on the sofa, applying her own makeup. “No offense, Mister, but I’m not going to trust some fake makeup artist with this masterpiece,” she mutters as she slathers on foundation with expert ease.

And now I realize that Second Uncle probably knows nothing about hair and makeup. It feels like a large rock is crushing my chest. All those beautiful images they’d shown us at dim sum, all the hair and makeup examples and the bouquets and everything, they must’ve just been stolen off the Internet. I recall, now, how Second Aunt had recognized one of the images. Of course. They must’ve just saved photos from Pinterest and put them in their portfolio.

Rage boils through my veins. In addition to being ruthless criminals, my wedding vendors are alsoplagiarizers. Ugh!

“You even know how to use curler? Hanh? You know or not? I think you not know!” Second Aunt nags. “You think so easy is it? Just because you big man, so gangster, you think you know how to use lipstick wand?”

Second Uncle doesn’t reply to the onslaught, but from the way hetch-es under his breath and how knotted his forehead is, it can’t be long before he snaps and—I don’t know—does whatever it is that mafia members do when they snap. Maybe pull out a machete from his back pocket and start hacking away at us there and then? That’s gotta be a possibility. Right?

I hurry over, giving him a small nod. I should be nice to him, given the worrying possibility of a machete attack, but I can’t quite bring myself to smile at him, knowing who he really is. “Hey, Second Uncle.”

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