Rent a Boyfriend - Gloria Chao Page 0,18

more lucid than I’d seen in a long time. Unlike my mother, she spoke directly to Esther, in Mandarin. “If you love him, you would offer your fertile sister to him in your place. But since you are selfish and refuse, now I have to resort to praying for your death.”

Holy shit, did we just time travel a hundred years back?

The strained smile vanished from Esther’s face, and she bit her lip. I couldn’t tell if it was to keep from crying or to keep from yelling obscenities. Hell, I was about to start yelling.

I wanted to reach out to Esther, maybe stand in front of her as a human shield, but my traitorous feet were rooted to the ground.

Xing’s eyes were dark and cold as he pulled his fiancée out of the line of fire. “Do not ever speak to her like that again,” he said directly to Nǎinai. I instinctively tensed as if I were the one being scolded.

Nǎinai stumbled, throwing herself onto the walker, which creaked under her full weight. When Yilong’s arms reached out to support her, Nǎinai let go and slumped to the floor.

Yilong screeched, high and piercing, not caring that we were in public. “Look what you’ve done to her!”

Both my parents rushed over, the excess of arms entangling such that Nǎinai remained on the floor as everyone fought over who would help.

Xing used the mess to escape with Esther. He gave me one last look, and there was so much that transpired between us in that second, but I didn’t know how to interpret it. I opened my mouth to say something, but . . . there was nothing. Not that it mattered. He was gone before anything could have come out.

I’m sorry, I eventually mouthed to no one. But sorry for what, I couldn’t put my finger on. I wasn’t on my parents’ side, right? I mean, what had come out of Nǎinai’s mouth was so fucked up there were no words for it . . . yet by remaining behind, I had chosen a side.

Once Nǎinai was back in her seat, my mother hissed, “This is what happens when you disrespect us, Mei.”

I knew all too well. All Xing had done was fall in love with a reproductively challenged woman.

The ride home was silent except for the 1950s Chinese music blasting from the speakers—the same songs that had played in my tone-deaf father’s car for the last ten years. The lyrics I normally found humorous now seemed to be mocking me. Zhè ba nítu no longer just meant this handful of dirt—it meant you’re trapped; you aren’t a part of this culture; you aren’t a part of anything. Then they morphed into accusations that I was betraying myself, my true self. Jiarú wo shì yígè yuèliàng was not just if I were a moon—it taunted me, saying, You’re a coward; You can’t be anything you want, only what others want.

At home everyone made a beeline for the makeshift altar, which comprised a folding table covered in gold cloth. A photo of Yéye sat in the middle, unsmiling—the same portrait that usually hung at the head of our dining room table, eerie and omnipotent. Around his picture sat bananas, peanuts, and Kit Kat bars—his favorite foods. As a child I’d had a hard time imagining this austere stranger loving Kit Kats—better known to my family as Yéye táng, or grandfather candy.

We always honored him around this time of year, the anniversary of his death. Nǎinai paid her respects first, as always, and completed her version of worship while seated, refusing to give her late husband more. I suspected Nǎinai kowtowed only to stay in the ancestors’ good graces.

After Nǎinai, my parents took their places a few feet apart, facing the portrait. They stared at Yéye as they clasped their hands together and raised and lowered them once. Then they kneeled and kowtowed three times, craning their necks to look at the photo between each bow. One final clasped arm raise on their knees finished the ritual.

Worshipping was serious business. No smiling, no laughing, no talking—which of course meant it had taken all my strength to suppress my giggles as a kid.

After Yilong took her turn, I stepped forward. When I was little, this ritual had been a necessity to honor my ancestors (and on Chinese New Year, to get my hóngbāo with a crisp twenty-dollar bill inside). Now it had morphed into just what you do, like how you brush your teeth