The sewing machine hums under my hands as I make another outfit for a weekend with my friends. August brings Maia and Ainsley back from their overseas vacations, jet lagged and longing for American luxuries like air conditioning and decent fast food. They return with big appetites, and dare I say, bigger wallets.
I can’t keep up with their constant shopping sprees and restaurant dinners. It’s not enough to go to Saks or the other department stores on Fifth Avenue. The small strip of shops in SoHo, ordinarily dazzling to the average high schooler, does nothing for their bottomless greed. But I already know this. I’m not going to try to win a losing game.
I pace myself. I’m one week away from saving up the money I need for a new phone. I don’t pick up all of my friends’ calls, learning to say ‘no’ enough to preserve my sanity. I rely on fabric stores and online catalogs to recreate outfits trendy enough to divert suspicions about my fashion sense. I buy cheap but high-quality fakes to paint the full illusion of a wealthy girl.
Rich Yan thrives under my creative direction. She doesn’t wear ostentatious labels like Maia or rigid silhouettes like Ainsley. She’s demure, wearing soft, feminine colors and floral patterns, blending in by not standing out. One look at her makes her the envy of every passing stranger.
Poor Yan is at peace. She’s settled into her summer routine, baking cookies in the morning, sitting in prep classes in the afternoon, and making dresses at night. She wears old t-shirts that she’s had for years and buys cheap dimsum in plastic containers with her summer school classmates. She likes working hard and seeing the fruits of her labor.
For once, I’m not sure which Yan I would rather be.
I hold up the new dress I made, examining the clean, machine-made stitches. I prefer the clothing that comes from my hands, noticing that the quality is higher than any of the designer pieces I see in boutiques. It’s not easy, but somehow the fabric bends to my will, becoming beautiful in a matter of hours. Ming and Rui hate me for staying up so late to make my clothes, losing sleep over the sound of the sewing machine. To appease them, I hand stitch once the sun goes down, doing most of the heavy work in the afternoon when I’m out of class.
I embroider in the lamplight. Rolls of pink thread morph into cherry blossoms on a skirt. Little hearts and leaves spring from the point of my needle.
I fall asleep in the middle of threading a string through the eye and wake to the gray pre-dawn light. I quickly work through the finishing touches before tying the apron around my waist again and going to my family’s bakery.
My hands knead the dough, shaping it into whatever I wish. Loaves of bread, trays of cookies, and other assorted pastries rose in the oven. I make yellow almond cookies, red bean buns, curry beef turnovers, pineapple buns, and baos filled with pork and sweet fruity syrups. My mother prepares dim sum in the back, steaming the shāomai, xiā jiǎo, and niúchang that were popular with the early risers. Part-timers my family hired fill the coffee and hot water machines.
The doors of the bakery open and the morning passes in a blur. I cram infinite takeout orders into brown paper bags, stuffing in buns, dim sum, coffee, milk tea, and napkins. Behind my mother’s back, I slip in small treats for kids and give extra napkins to families.
After the lunch rush, I take off my apron. My mother gives me a wad of cash in an envelope. Back in my room, I count a mix of singles, fives, and twenties that add up to fifty dollars. It’s half of my pay. The other half my mother will give me when I come back to clean up in the evening. I stow it in my faux Chanel bag before transforming into rich Yan.
I wash the flour off my hands and spray a generous amount of floral perfume over my clothes and on the heat spots of my body. I didn’t dare shower for the fear of my father giving me yet another lecture about wasting water in the apartment. I slip into the dress I made last night and briefly ping pong between the fake Goyard and the imitation Gucci bags.
My hands rest decisively on the Goyard, noting the way the painted pattern matches the embroidery on my dress. Then, I leave for a park on the Upper East Side, where Ainsley’s chauffeur would pick me up for the girls’ day. It was her solution for my chronic lateness, her downright Scandinavian sense of punctuality stretching its arms to my life and Maia’s.
“You’re on time,” she says appreciatively as I slide into the passenger seat next to Maia.
“I try to be. You know how hard it is not having a phone.”
“That must be torture,” Maia remarks. “I wouldn’t know what I would do if I couldn’t refresh my feed or make a post. Life would be so boring.”
“You don’t have to be on your phone all the time,” Ainsley sneers. “Sometimes you don’t even talk like a normal person because you’re online so much. But Yan, it’s crazy that you still don’t have a phone. Your parents must not have enough money.”
I laugh off her words, pretending like a jolt of fear didn’t shoot down my spine.
“My parents are so strict. You know that. They want me to do a digital detox over the summer. It’s some weird trend. They think having a phone will ruin my life.”
Maia gives me a horrified look. “Gosh, I am so glad I don’t have your parents. Your family sounds insane, no offense.”
Ainsley went on, undeterred. “Why don’t you just buy a phone behind their back and hide it somewhere?”
“Can’t. I’m on the family phone plan.”
“Ugh. At least they gave you your allowance back. I like the new look. Where is that dress from?”
Ainsley and Maia turn to me in the car, eyes inspecting every inch of my outfit. I endure their scrutiny, calmly explaining that most of what I wore was a gift from relatives in China.
“I’m upset for you,” Maia moans. “You look so good today and you can’t even take photo to post it. Thank god I have my phone.”
We go through the usual routine of our hangout. Shopping, lunch, and dessert all follow in rapid succession, written in Ainsley’s planner with clean Muji pen. It’s when we sit for ice cream that she shares some news with us.
“I’ve discovered the name of one of the scholarship kids,” she says with glee.
My heart stops in my chest. It can’t be.
Maia leans forward. “Who? You can’t possibly know if I don’t know. My source is right on the inside.”
“Well, my source says differently. This isn’t just school gossip. Maybe I’ll just keep my lips sealed,” she teases.
“No way. You have to tell us. You can’t just say you know and not say a word.”
“What she said,” I offer mildly. “Or maybe you’re just lying to us and you don’t even know one of the names.”
“You won’t believe me if I tell you. But a lot of people hate her so someone was bound to find out,” Ainsley says matter-of-factly.
It couldn’t be me. Most people in our class barely knew who I was.
“Spill it,” Maia demands. “Or maybe Yan is right and you’re lying.”
“I would, but one of us here is a blabbermouth. I want to be the one to tell the student body when we get back to school.” She gives a pointed look to Maia.
“Hey, I can keep a secret. Back me up on this, Yan.”
I shrug noncommittally. “You don’t have to tell us at all. I like surprises. It’s probably nothing.” I give a knowing look to Maia.
“Yeah,” she joins in, innocently adding to my ploy of reverse psychology. “You probably don’t have a real name. My source will tell me later anyway.”
“Fine. Since you both really want to know, it’s Natalie. Little Miss Number Three in the school rankings.” She smirks in satisfaction, watching the stunned looks on our faces.
“No way. Her? Isn’t her father some big finance guy? That can’t be true.”
“Her father was a big finance guy. But my brother told me that he messed up recently and his company fired him. Natalie is poor now. How do you think she’s paying to go to Two Bridges?”
I digest the information silently, rendered speechless by the news. Was that why she was pulled out of school? Suddenly, it made so much sense why Mikael was helping her study after school.
“You can tell everyone,” Maia concedes. “They definitely won’t believe it if I share the news.” Ainsley smiles triumphantly.
My former friend had no idea what was coming for her when we went back to school.
80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFgf2WguPvR
and then Add to home screen.