Page 17 of Never Thought I'd End Up Here
Even on days when I’m not adjusting to a new country, there’s something comforting about doing my own makeup. It’s familiar. Requires just enough focus to keep me preoccupied without turning my mind all the way on. There’s a rhythm to it too: the tap of the brush, the slow squeeze of the eyelash curler, a quick swipe of glitter here and there. And it’seffective. I’ve devoted what must be hundreds of hours to figuring out the best shade of eye shadow for my skin, the most effective contouring techniques for my jaw and nose, little magic tricks for me to hide my many shortcomings and highlight my nicer features.
I’m dabbing blush onto my cheeks when I catch Daisy staring in the mirror. Her entire shower took less time than my skin prep routine, and she’s already changed into a faded pink cotton shirt and sweatpants, her hair tied into a loose braid that trails over her shoulder.
“Do you always do this before you go out?” she asks me. “Like, the whole—” She gestures to her own bare face.
“Pretty much, yeah,” I say with a faint stab of self-consciousness. She probably thinks I’m super vain, or that I’m one of those girls who can’t leave the house makeup-free—which is exactly what I am. I don’t think anyone at my current school has ever seen my face without some kind of product plastered on it. Even on the plane ride here, I had my perfectly glued lashes and trusted black eyeliner for support.
“But … doesn’t it take a long time?” Daisy asks in a tone of wonder, watching as I apply my favorite cherry-colored tint next. I smudge the line on my upper lip to make it look fuller, before layering a darker red shade onto the bottom, all of it done with a surgeon’s precision.
“About an hour,” I confirm, reaching for my lip gloss for the final touch. The sweet, artificial smell of strawberries drifts up to my nose as I swipe it on. “Sometimes two, if I want to also style my hair and look extra good.”
“Two hours?” Daisy repeats, looking aghast. “What if you have school?”
“I just wake up earlier,” I say, unsure if this conversation is headed toward some kind of damning judgment about how I choose to distribute my time. “Usually around five in the morning.”
“Wow,” Daisy says, though she doesn’t sound critical. More bewildered by my dedication and unsure about the necessity of going through such motions, the same way someone might react if you told them your morning ritual involves hiking up a mountain at dawn every day to pluck fresh berries. “And you don’t get exhausted?”
“No. Not at all,” I lie. Countless times, I’ve wished I could be naturally, effortlessly pretty, the sort of pretty that doesn’t require time or sacrifice. But since that isn’t an option, my only choices are to be high-maintenance pretty and liked as a result, or unpopular the way I was before.
Daisy looks like she’s about to ask something else, but she snaps her mouth shut and grabs her tote bag from the table.
“I’m almost ready,” I tell her. I scrutinize my reflection one last time, then set my lip gloss back onto the counter.
I feel more like myself when I head down the glass elevator with Daisy five minutes later, my face powdered smooth, my hair flowing soft over my shoulders, my black dress fitting snug around my waist and thighs. I always feel better when I look better.
“Wow,” Oliver says appreciatively the second he spots me across the lobby. “And I was so sure thatIwas the most attractive one here.”
There was a time, just after I turned pretty, when getting any kind of male attention was still a novelty to me, where I’d take Oliver’s words far too seriously and fantasize aboutwhat it could all mean. Would he fall in love with me? Did he want to start something? What would we name our future children?
Now I’ve learned that the most it could mean is that he wants to kiss you, and chances are Oliver’s used the same line a dozen times in the past week. So out of politeness, all I do is smile at him, which he returns at double the wattage.
In my peripheral vision, I notice Cyrus standing a few feet from the others. He’s showered as well and changed out of his clothes into a plain black button-down. He stares at me for a second, his face impassive, then abruptly turns to the abstract art on the wall. I’m not sure what philosophical meaning he could be uncovering in those two splotches of orange, but he keeps his eyes pinned on the painting.
“Took you all long enough,” Wang Laoshi barks, raising his blue flag over his head in a somewhat menacing manner. “We’re running two-and-a-half minutes behind schedule. Remember, this isnota family trip; you can’t just choose to show up whenever.”
“No, because if this were a family trip, my dad would have disappeared into the casino, and I’d already be drunk,” Oliver says, loud enough for the whole group to hear. “Just kidding,” he amends hastily when Wang Laoshi shoots him a stern look. “Not kidding in the slightest,” he whispers to me out of the corner of his mouth as we push through the revolving doors.
The smile that twitches at my lips is a little more genuine this time.
The temperature seems to have dropped a whole season within the span of an afternoon, the cool air fanning my bare arms. The city itself is transformed by the darkness. Shanghai during the day was bright, bustling, vibrant, polished; Shanghai at night is glittering, expansive, everything dialed up and eager to show itself off, like any fashion icon swapping her blazer and sunglasses for a bold red lip and shimmering dress when the sun goes down.
We walk past vendors selling roasted sweet potatoes from the back of their carts, placed strategically at the entrance of a subway station, their honeyed fragrance chasing us for yards down the busy street. There are tea shops and cafés on every block: lanterns swaying over the patios; hand-painted ceramic cups molded into the shape of cats and ducks; glass displays of butter cookies and strawberry cakes; fishbowls sitting on mahogany counters; translucent tents set up on neat blocks of grass like giant versions of the fishbowls, happy couples huddled up inside them.
Then it’s a steep climb up the overpass.Tianqiao, Wang Laoshi says, translated literally to “sky bridge,” and I can’t help thinking about how pretty the name is, how fitting, because it really feels like we’re crossing through the dark sky itself. An old woman sits by the railings, tiny hair clips and sparkling trinkets stretched out on a faded mat, the traffic rushing beneath her.
Everything starts to become recognizable once we reach the Bund—not from memory, but from photos and posters. Thousands of white and gold lights glint off the waterfront like stars, the reflection of the ferry swimming over the river. We board one at a time, with Cyrus and me falling to the end of the line.
“Lukewarm warning: Be careful of your foot,”I read out in bemusement from the sign nailed to the pier. The questionable English translation is printed right under the Chinese characters.
“That sounds like what you’d say when you’re extremely reluctant to help someone,” Cyrus remarks just over my shoulder. I startle. I hadn’t realized he was standing so close behind me. “Like if your enemy was approaching a cliff.”
I can’t muster a reply at once; the gap between the swaying ferry and the edge of the pier is severely testing my ability to move around in high heels. I manage to put one foot over, wishing there was a railing I could cling to for support. But then I think of something even better. “A lukewarm warning,” I say, struggling a little more visibly than I really need to, “that if I don’t hold on to something right now, I’m going to slip and take you down with me.” And that’s the only excuse I offer before I grab tight on to Cyrus’s arm, using him to steady myself before I can tumble through the gap into the Huangpu River.
I can sense Cyrus’s surprise, feel the way his muscles bunch and his body stiffens. But he doesn’t pull away until I’ve finished crossing over onto the ferry and both my feet are firmly planted to the deck.
“A lukewarm warning to you,” Cyrus says, jumping aboard easily after me, “that as flattering as the dress is, you should consider bringing a jacket next time. It’s going to be windy.”
It’s already windy, the dark waters rippling below us. I have to keep patting my bangs to keep them in place. “If you can survive an entire plane ride without a blanket, I think I can survive a cruise without a jacket. But thanks,” I add, flashing him a quick, subdued smile that makes my insides turn, but—my nausea aside—has the effect I’m going for.
