Page 1 of Never Thought I'd End Up Here
The last thing I want is to make a dramatic entrance at my cousin’s wedding.
Actually, the last thing I want is toattendthis wedding. It’s not that I have anything against my cousin Xiyue; she’s seemed like a lovely person from the brief times we’ve spoken, even if most of those conversations consisted of me communicating via elaborate gestures instead of Mandarin while she stared in faint confusion.
But that’s exactly what I’m dreading.
Once she says her vows, the event will become an intensive, three-hour-long version of those awkward exchanges, with all our relatives and family friends and strangers grouped together in one hotel ballroom. There’ll be small talk. Jokes. Questions—none of which I’ll be able to answer without slipping into English. And while I’d been clinging to the possibility that I could keep a low profile and slide in and out without anybody noticing, those hopes have now been left to rot somewhere on the road behind us.
“We’re going to be late,” I warn, leaning as far forward in the back seat as my seat belt will allow.
“Nonsense,” my mom says. She takes one hand off the steering wheel to point at the massive white-domed building ahead of us, rising elegantly above the rows of palm trees and picket fences. “You can already see the hotel.”
“We’ve been able to see it for the past ten minutes,” I say. When she ignores my very valid observation, I catch my dad’s eye in the rearview mirror.Help, I mouth.
He clears his throat and adjusts his glasses, though they immediately slip down his long nose again. “We could afford to go just a little faster,” he says in the gentlest tone possible.
Three cars rush past us as he speaks. Someone honks.
“I’m going very fast already,” my mom snaps. To be fair, for someone who generally seems to be on a mission to prove that walking is more efficient than driving, she is. At least we’re not so far below the speed limit that we’re at risk of being fined, like last time.
“You’ve made a convincing case,” my dad says at once. “There’s no rush. No rush at all.” He shoots me a helpless look over his shoulder, which I return with a sigh. This is about as close as either of us will ever get to arguing with my mom. He adores her too much to ever accuse her of doing anything wrong, and I simply don’t like to invest energy into battles I know I’ll lose.
Besides, I’ve upset her enough in the past week.
So I lock my jaw shut, will away the slow churning sensation in my gut, and refresh my makeup for the third time since lunch. No matter what products I use, they tend to melt off my face within an hour, and it’s always worse when the air is as hot and humid as it is today. Every makeup artist I’ve worked with has pointed this out. That, and the “lack of real estate” around my eyelids, and the sallowness of my complexion, and the thinness of my lips.
Not that it’s an issue anymore, I remind myself, feeling a pang behind my sternum. It’s another reason why I don’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to myself at the wedding, but there’s no way I’m avoiding my fate now.
We’re running half an hour late by the time my mom pulls into the crowded parking lot. I yank open the door and jump out onto the pavement in my stilettos, then smooth my dress out over my knees, ready to bolt into the hotel—
Except Mom pauses on her way to the front steps, scrutinizing me with her hand on her hip, her mouth pursed. I’ve never seen her in court before, but I imagine this is how she appears before her clients. Focused, serious, and slightly frightening. “You look pretty,” she says.
I release an internal sigh of relief. It doesn’t matter how often I hear it—I still want the confirmation that I can be beautiful. Crave it, chase it, like an adrenaline junkie seeking their next high. If too much time passes without gettingsomekind of positive feedback about my appearance, I imagine myself shriveling away, all the work I’ve put into my face and my body gone to waste. “Thanks,” I tell her. “That’s very nice—”
“It’s not meant to be nice. Why are you so put together?” she demands. “You’re going to upstage your cousin.”
“I’m not trying to upstage anyone.” And I’m really not. My goal is never to look better than other people—it’s just about making sure that I don’t look bad. Still, I tug the bottom of my dress even farther down. It’s a fairly straightforward navy piece, with a modest collar and basic lace design on the side. A model scout once told me in passing that darker tones suit me better, and I haven’t worn anything else since.
“Maybe tie your hair up,” she suggests.
“Fine.” I attempt to follow her advice, scraping my hair back with my nails. “Is the ponytail better? I mean, well, worse?”
My mom pulls my dad over onto the sidewalk. “What do you think? Does she look uglier?” she asks hopefully.
“Our daughter is perfect. She could never be ugly, no matter what,” my dad says, which is both really moving and unhelpful.
“She’s certainly suited for modeling,” my mom says, then catches herself. Remembers once again. It’s hard to describe the emotion on her face. Disappointment? Anger? Resentment? I feel all of it in my throat, and more, an ache I can’t get rid of.
“Let’s just go inside,” I say, walking well ahead of them before either can continue. I could run in five-inch heels, if I wanted to. Every now and then, at my high school friends’ gatherings, they’d ask me to demonstrate it as a party trick, and the response would be overwhelming.
I pick up my pace, my heart beating in sync with the sharp, satisfyingclackof my shoes against the marble floor when I step inside.
Even though I’d much rather not be here, I do have to appreciate the venue. Lilies and violet orchids bloom in vivid clusters all the way down the wide corridor, and a six-foot-tall poster of my cousin and her fiancé is perched before the entrance. In the photo, they’re gazing at each other on a balcony, both beaming, their skin near perfect thanks to some combination of the golden-hour light and professional airbrushing. There’s a sign too but it’s written in Chinese characters—the only one I recognize is theZhangfrom my own family name.
Judging from the sounds of tinkling laughter and shuffling footsteps and rumbling voices, the wedding must be well underway by now. My heart rate spikes the way it always does before I’m about to enter a crowded room, and I have to consciously steady my breathing. It’s an old trick, picked up and perfected two years ago at two different schools, when the simple act of grabbing a salad from the cafeteria or finding my seat in class was something I had to brace myself for.
Breathe in for four.
Hold.
