Page 7 of Well, That Was Unexpected

Uncle Qing Li frowns at her, and as smoothly as anything, Mama switches to Indonesian and says something about…something. Why’s she speaking so fast? Or has she always spoken Indonesian extra slow for my benefit? I stand there feeling very lost and very alone and with a sudden urge to burst into tears.

Then Uncle Qing Li looks at me and smiles. I smile back at him. My whole body is just one giant heartbeat. This man is related to me! He says something in Indonesian, and when I stare blankly back at him, Mama tells him to speak slower because my Indonesian is terrible.

“Ah, okay! Welcome…home…Sharlot!”

I have to actually bite my tongue to keep from blurting out “This isn’t my home, bruh.” Instead, I say, “Thanks, Uncle.”

He laughs like I’ve said something hilarious. “Waduh, you are so bule, ya?”Wow, you are so white, huh?

My cheeks must be tomato red by now. I shouldn’t be taken aback; I know that Asian aunties and uncles have no filter and they rarely mean any harm when they say things like that. I also know that, being half white, half Asian, I’m always an other. I guess I just didn’t expect it to be said so explicitly to my face.

Mama flaps her hand at him and tuts dismissively, then tells me to call him Li Jiujiu, which apparently means “maternal uncle Li” in Mandarin.

With the introductions over, Li Jiujiu grabs both of our bags without asking and wheels them outside, where a huge minivan is waiting for us. A chauffeur climbs out of the car when he spots us and takes our bags from Li Jiujiu.

“Thank you, Roni,” Li Jiujiu says.

“Um, yeah, thanks,” I say.

The chauffeur gives a small Geralt-of-Rivia grunt in reply and lifts the bags into the car like they weigh nothing.

We duck inside and I exhale, savoring the air-conditioned coolness on my melting skin. This is the fanciest minivan I’ve ever been in. The seats are a luxurious leather, the interior is ridiculously spacious, and when the chauffeur starts the car, it says something in Japanese. Mama and Li Jiujiu start speaking rapidly in Indonesian, so I tune them out and gaze out the window as we leave the airport.

Jakarta. Mama’s hometown. When I was little, I was obsessed with finding out more about the place. I’d ask Mama a million questions about her country, about her family, about her past. But at the time, she’d only tell me little boring details like “It’s a tropical country” or “It’s very hot.” Each nonanswer she gave was a cut, and as I got older, the pain turned into resentment. I decided to get back at her by going in the other direction. Give her a taste of her own medicine. Every time she brings up anything about Indonesia, I shut down the conversation. Spiteful, I know, but after so many years of her shutting me down when Iask, I had to get used to not being curious about Indonesia. Plus, she doesn’t get to decide when to reopen the subject, not after rejecting my queries all this time.

The area around the airport is as I expected—rural greenery, not much to look at. I check the time on my phone. Three in the afternoon, local time. My head feels heavy and muzzy. After our twenty-hour flight, I feel utterly defeated, but my mind is too scrambled for me to take a nap. Instead, I glance out the window. The sky is a murky gray-blue, but not because it’s cloudy. It’s haze from the air pollution. Great. I take out my drawing tablet and start sketching, knowing the act will kill two birds with one stone—it’ll soothe my frayed nerves (yay) and irritate Mama (double yay).

Li Jiujiu glances over and laughs indulgently. “Wah, have we got a little artist here? Just like you, Qing Pei!”

What? I turn my head toward Mama sharply. She scowls at Li Jiujiu. “It was just a hobby. A useless one, at that.”

I grip my stylus hard and press so heavily on the tablet that my strokes end up a lot thicker than I wanted and I have to undo them. “A useless hobby.” That’s how she views my dream job. My teeth grind until my jaw hurts, and I force myself to take long, slow breaths. Focus on nothing but the art. Before long, my hand moves in even strokes and I lose myself in the lines of my sketch.

About twenty minutes into the car ride, Li Jiujiu nudges me and says, “There’s the city.”

Sure enough, there it is. My eyes widen. What in the…

I thought Los Angeles is a big city. But there, everything isspaced so widely apart and most buildings are short—not many skyscrapers outside downtown LA. Jakarta is the exact opposite. We’re surrounded by skyscraper after skyscraper, and in between them are houses and shops and everything bunched in together in a never-ending metropolitan sprawl. It’s both incredible and intimidating, and oh my god, how have I gotten it so wrong this whole time? My insides squirm as I recall all the awful things I’ve said to Mama. Like when she says Jakarta is a huge, modern city, I roll my eyes or snort and say, “Okay, Ma,” in a horrible, condescending way. The dozens of little jabs where I thought I was stating facts but I wasn’t. I was just being an asshole. A misinformed, ignorant little asshole.

I turn away from the window and look down at my tablet instead, struggling to calm myself down. I don’t care if Jakarta’s a modern city after all. It’s still not home. I know what it’s like to feel out of place. And I have never felt it more than right now.

The car ride takes forever. Literally. Once we get to the heart of the city, we run into traffic that would put LA’s to shame. We’re stuck for so long that I grow tired of drawing and pack up my tablet, taking out my phone instead. Thank god I’ve got my spare battery with me. We’re fourteen hours ahead of LA, so it’s now almost two a.m. there. I aim the camera out the window and take a photo, then post it on Insta Stories with the caption “Loving the big city!” It only makes me feel worse. But it’s not like I’m going to post it and say “Stuck in purgatory for the rest of the summer yay #fml.” That wouldn’t be cool. Instagram is for toxic positivity only. Twitter, on the other hand…

Nah. Not in the mood for that hellscape. Instead, I text Michie, telling her I miss her, which is true, at least. Then I open my text thread with Bradley. The last few texts have all been fromhim.

Bradley [07:34PM]:Hey, I know u broke up with me and stuff, but like…r u ok? No one’s heard from u

Bradley [07:34PM]:I’m so worried, I hope ur mom hasn’t done anything bad

Bradley [08:11PM]:Text me when u get this

And so on and so forth. My thumbs hover over the keys for an eternity, my heart thumping wildly. I should reply to him. The poor guy deserves better. I mean, is there another human as decent as him out there? I literally dumped him, and here he is, concerned about my well-being. I hadn’t even told him that I’m being kidnapped to Indonesia.

But every time I think of Bradley, I think of me falling apart in front of him like a complete idiot. I think of him seeing me unmasked, without the layer of acidity I always wear, and the thought is like an ice pick stabbing straight through my brain. I shake my head a little and shove my phone back in my pocket. Texting Bradley is definitely something that needs to be done, but not after a twenty-hour journey with my mother.

Eons later, as I’m nodding off, Li Jiujiu announces, “Here we are!” in the type of voice that makes me think he really needs us to see the entrance to the driveway. I jerk awake and—okay, it actually is worth seeing. Apparently, Li Jiujiu lives in an actual mansion.

“Ah, the old house.” Mama sighs happily.

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