Page 27 of Never Thought I'd End Up Here
“I’m so glad,” my mom says. “It might be just what you need.”
I push myself up from the pillows. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you don’t have any friends who are from a similar background. Not that Cate and your other friends aren’t wonderful young women,” she adds quickly. “But the more friends, the better—and you know, you might find that the people you meet on this trip have a lot in common with you.”
Her words are still running in a loop inside my head after we hang up.
I scroll through my phone to find a bunch of new photos posted by Cate: her and the other girls from my class tanning at the beach, their skin smooth and shiny as seals fresh out of the water, books with the same cheerful hot-pink cover placed on the sand next to them; holding up cocktail glasses with the sun setting in the background; mirror selfies at the mall; blurry, zoomed-in shots of them posing in the parking lot. Maybe I should feel left out, but I can imagine what it’d be like if I were with them right now—forcing myself to laugh at a joke I don’t find funny, pretending to be invested in the gossip about some famous British actor I don’t particularly like, swallowing down the expensive champagne when all I really want is a grape soda. I guess wedon’thave that much in common, which would matter less if she cared more, but she hasn’t messaged me even once since I left LA.
I click away from her page, only to end up overwhelmed by an onslaught of posts from my modeling friends—or ex-friends, since I’ve barely spoken to any of them in weeks. Or maybe we were never really friends to begin with, but forced together by circumstance, in way over our heads and clinging to one another to stop from sinking. As soon as the circumstances changed, those ties dissolved.
I pull my bedcovers up higher, propping myself up on one elbow, and silently flick through the pictures. Magazine covers, glossy double-spreads, a huge brand deal, a new campaign, a special invitation to the fashion show of their dreams. Captions about theirwhirlwind of a weekend, how theyhad the absolute best time, how they’reso grateful for the experience, so excited, so thrilled, so happy. A dry, bitter taste creeps onto my tongue, and I know I should stop, leave it alone, yet it’s like prodding at the roots of a rotten tooth. When I first quit, I’d been afraid that the other models would be gleeful, that they would whisper to one another in lavender-candle-scented bathrooms, between quick flicks of mascara and spritzes of perfume, about how I had failed. But the reality is so much worse: They simply don’t care.
It should be proof, if nothing else, that I made the right choice to leave, and I should be searching for something new by now. Another purpose, another dream, something just for myself. But I’ve only ever known how to want what other people want.
I let my phone fall onto the pillow and hug the blanket to my chest. The hotel room is quiet, save for the sound of distant traffic and the water running in the bathroom. Being in Shanghai feels a little like slipping into an alternate reality, but I can no longer tell where real life is: here, in this glittering city, or what I’ve left back in LA.
***
When I caught the wordshoppingon our travel itinerary, my mind immediately lit up with images of multistory malls; banner ads for designer handbags hanging from the ceiling; groups of friends sipping milk tea and swinging their new purchases while riding the glass elevator up to the next level of clothing stores.
It’s not until we’re walking into the thick of the market—no designer handbags in sight, but plenty of floral shopping caddies—that I realize the shopping in question pertains to groceries. If I were the kind of person with a passion for buying fresh produce, this would probably be my favorite place in the world. The market is so massive that it takes up three whole blocks on its own, its shelves spilling over with natural colors: tangerines and dragon fruit and lychees and about ten different types of apples. It would probably also be the best place in the world to get trapped inside; even with the shoppers streaming through the stalls and haggling over carrots, there’s so much food stocked here that I’m sure it would last all of us well into next year.
“You’ll each get two hundred yuan to spend,” Wang Laoshi shouts at us, which is the most threatening way someone has ever offered me money before. He raises his voice further, straining to be heard over the vendors advertising their newly imported coconuts from Sanya. “I’ve forwarded a grocery list to everyone via the WeChat group—you can check it now. We’ve already paid for all the items at their full price, but for the purpose of this competition, we want you to put your Chinese skills into practice through the art of bargaining. Whoever manages to buy the most items with the allotted money wins this round, and you have one hour before we all meet back here. Donotwaste the money on anything outside the list. Yes, I’m looking at you, Oliver.”
I feel myself light up as I pull out my phone. The list goes on for two whole pages, and it’s written only in Chinese, making it a little hard to identify what we’re meant to be buying. But it is, ultimately, a shopping competition. If this were offered as an elective at school, I might get to experience for the first time what it’s like to be at the top of my class.
“We should target different sections at a time so we don’t have to run around the market in circles,” Cyrus says, reading over the list on his phone. “I saw someone selling lettuce from his cart just now—”
“Okay, okay, let’s go,” I tell him, eager to get started. Out of the corner of my eye, I can already see Lydia dragging her teammate to the closest radish stall, her expression so fierce I wonder if her haggling tactics involve intimidation.
We split from the rest of the group and turn left, making a beeline for the lettuce cart.
The person manning it is more a boy than a grown-up, old enough to have graduated from high school but definitely not college. He’s playing on his phone when we approach him, and glances lazily up at us without pausing the game.
“How much for two heads of lettuce?” Cyrus asks, straight to the point. A bittoostraight to the point.
I attempt to smother my frown, but Cyrus sees it anyway.
“What?” he mutters.
“That’s a horrible way to start a negotiation,” I mutter back to him. “Why would you pose it as an open-ended question? You’re basically asking for a higher price.”
He stares at me. “Howelsewould you ask for the price of lettuce?”
“I’d ask him if it was one yuan or two yuan. He’d pick two yuan, of course, and then we’d go from there.” My gaze flickers to the boy, who’s already returned to his game. “Just try it.”
“Fine,” Cyrus says with a heavy air of skepticism. He clears his throat. “Are these one or two—”
“Two,” the boy says.
I don’t need a mirror to know that the smile on my face screamsI told you so.
“All right,” Cyrus says in Chinese, actively avoiding my smile, and begins to reach for his wallet. “Then we’ll have—”
I elbow him, hard.
“Whatnow?” he says, spinning around.
