Chapter 4 Magnolia
MAGNOLIA
The first thing I noticed about our apartment was how silent it was.
Back in Jakarta, we usually had the fan or the AC on, so there was always a hum in the background.
A hum I never noticed until I stepped inside our LA apartment.
Every sound we made seemed magnified in the silence.
Iris tossing her keys onto the kitchen counter.
Iris kicking off her shoes. Me slipping mine off. Our socked feet on the carpet.
“I took the master bedroom,” Iris said, as she strode down the hallway.
The second thing I noticed about the apartment was how much it smelled of her.
It was the late nineties, which meant every teenage girl in the world had coated herself with some version of Victoria’s Secret body spray.
Iris’s favorite was something spicy—I think it was literally called Spicy, and it hung thickly in the air like a giant fume ball.
When I swallowed, I could practically taste it.
The third thing I noticed was that we had carpeted floors, which to me symbolized America.
Indonesia was a tropical country, which meant the weather was hot and humid, which meant the only places that had carpets were hotels and restaurants and maybe homeowners who would come to regret their life choices.
I dug my toes into the carpet and it hit me then, how far away I was from home.
My cheeks got hot. Shit, I was about to cry.
“That’s your bathroom,” Iris said. “Stay out of mine.” She glanced over her shoulder at me and paused. I waited for her to tell me to stop being a baby. She sighed. “It’s not so bad. You’re lucky you’re not staying at a group home. Those bitches were brutal.”
I sniffed and swiped an arm across my eyes. “Really?” To be fair, I thought Iris was pretty freaking brutal. But it wasn’t like I could say that to her.
“Yeah. They kept telling me to go back to India.”
“But you’re not Indian.”
“No shit, Sherlock. Try telling them that.” Iris leaned against the doorway and appraised me. “You’ll be okay. You brought normal clothes, right?”
“What do you mean?” I shifted from one foot to the other, looking down at my outfit. Normal jeans. Normal shirt. Normal jacket.
“Clothes that don’t make you look like a FOB?”
“A FOB?”
“Fresh off the boat.”
I wrinkled my nose. “That’s silly, I didn’t come off a boat.”
Iris rolled her eyes. “Spoken like a true FOB. Take a shower. Nap. Whatever. When you feel better, we can get you some new clothes.”
In some ways, Iris’s kindness was worse than her cruelty. Because she gave so little of it that on the rare occasion she was actually nice to me, it cracked my heart right open. Now there was no hope of holding the tears back.
“Fuck’s sake,” she muttered when I started bawling. Then she walked into her room and shut the door on me.
See what I mean about her kindness being worse than her cruelty?
· · ·
Neither Iris nor I knew how to cook; in Jakarta, we had a helper who cooked and cleaned for us, and I only realized how utterly useless I was in the kitchen when, my stomach rumbling, I went in search of dinner on Saturday evening. Iris was there, eating noodles out of a Tupperware container.
“Tonight’s menu is mie goreng,” she said, pushing the container toward me.
I grabbed a pair of chopsticks and sat across from her. “Did you order this?” The fried noodles were greasy and addictive. Or maybe I was just famished.
“No. Mom signed us up for a daily catering service. One of her friends’ friend’s sister, or whatever, runs a small catering company. She’s Indo, so all the food is Indo. It’s pretty good.”
That was how it was with the Chinese-Indonesian community.
Everybody knew everybody. Business was often done through word of mouth.
I was just relieved to be able to have Indo food in LA.
One less thing to be homesick for. I wondered what we’d do the rest of the night.
I didn’t have to wait long. Iris shoveled two more bites of noodles into her mouth, then she stood up and went back inside her room.
When she came out, she was dressed in a glittery backless top and tight jeans.
“Don’t wait up” was all she said before she strode out of the apartment.
Much later that night, she came back at three in the morning, and she must have been really drunk because she was stumbling everywhere.
I stayed in bed and listened to the crashes and bangs from the kitchen and the living room.
I didn’t dare go out of my room. Then the music turned on.
Not loud enough for the neighbors to complain about, but loud enough that I could just about hear snatches of it from my room, which was somehow worse than if it had been loud enough for me to hear all the way.
Because with the snippets of music, my mind automatically tried to grab hold of it, to follow the tune and the lyrics before I lost it again, and it drove me crazy.
She listened to music until the sky lightened and weak daylight streamed in through the blinds in my room.
Then she finally turned it off. She only arose from her bedroom at half past twelve, after which she made good on her promise and took me out to buy some new clothes.
Thanks to Iris, I was basically sleepless at night.
But I couldn’t be too mad at her, because thanks to her, I also had four new tops, a new pair of jeans, a new skirt, new shoes, two new jackets, and the most American thing of all—a hoodie that said Dodgers.
I thought the Dodgers were a basketball team, which made Iris pinch the bridge of her nose and say, “Can you please just…not?” Then I figured they were a soccer team.
Monday morning, I woke up at five, my stomach alternating between being full of snakes and fireworks.
After showering, I put on my new jeans, which sat way lower on my hips than I was used to, but Iris swore this was the only way to wear jeans.
Then I slipped on one of my new tops, which had a scoop neckline.
I looked in the mirror. Oof. My cheeks immediately started burning.
If I wore this ensemble back in Jakarta, my friends would be scandalized.
I took off the top and picked out a different one, but somehow it looked just as sexual.
But maybe I should look more sexual? I mean, I wanted to look sexy.
But it felt so wrong on me, so inauthentic, like a little girl playing dress-up with her mother’s clothes.
In the end, I went for a top I’d brought with me from back home—long sleeves with a beaded poodle on the front and a plaid pattern on the back.
I went back to the mirror and appraised my outfit.
It looked more like me. Aside from the low-rise jeans.
I shrugged on one of the jackets I’d bought with Iris yesterday. Then it was time for makeup.
I had no freaking clue how to put on makeup.
Back at my old school, makeup was strictly not allowed.
In fact, every classroom had a bottle of makeup remover in case any student was suspected of wearing any.
But Mama had given me a Shiseido kit as one of my graduation gifts.
At the airport, she’d tweaked my chin and said, “Use the makeup set I gave you. Remember what I said about finding a husband with potential.”
Now, I took out the makeup set with as much reverence and trepidation as one might hold a Fabergé egg.
The bag contained a palette with eye shadow and blush, eyeliner, powder, and two different shades of lipstick.
Swallowing, I opened each one and sniffed.
They smelled so sophisticated. If being grown-up had a smell, it would be the scent of Shiseido’s Invisible Silk Pressed Powder in Cashmere.
It went on smoothly, making my pores disappear with one swipe as though by magic.
I took in my newly flawless skin, and it was as though a whole new world had opened itself up to me.
Next was eye shadow—purple to match my top, followed by bright pink lipstick and blush.
I smiled at my reflection. Very American.
“Hi, my name is Magnolia.” Hmm, I still sounded so Indo.
I closed my eyes for a moment and conjured up an image of Iris.
The way she stood, the way she talked. The way her lips moved to form words that sounded exactly like how people sounded on TV.
I shifted my weight to one leg and let my head tilt a bit to one side.
Okay, this pose definitely looked more Iris.
I tried again. “Hi, my name is Magnolia.” Almost. Except what would Iris say?
I frowned at my reflection, then relaxed my facial muscles so I looked slightly bored. “Hey. I’m Magnolia.”
My hands flew to my mouth. Whoa. I sounded so American it gave me goose bumps.
A high-pitched giggle bubbled out of me.
I couldn’t possibly speak like that in public.
Oh my god. I narrowed my eyes at the mirror.
Yes, you can, and you will. Because you’re not a FOB.
Well, you are. But you don’t want people knowing that.
Why not though? What’s so bad about being a FOB? So what if I did just come here from Indonesia? Didn’t that make me more interesting?
Except the way Iris said “FOB” made it painfully clear it wasn’t something I wanted to be known as, and Iris seemed like she had it all figured out, so…
I stared at the mirror and said, “Sup. I’m Magnolia.” You know what? I was good at this slanging thing. I totally sounded like one of the characters from Friends. Maybe Phoebe.