Awkward Abroad (Awkward #2) Page 2

  Anticipating the glare outside, I don my Tiffany sunglasses before I leave the room. They’re also perfect for hiding my bloodshot eyes. I need a plan. There’s no way I’m going to China – I can’t even hold a chopstick. As soon as I’ve recovered from my hangover, I’m going to find a way out of this.

  I hit the sidewalk and spot a Starbucks on the corner. My pace increases automatically as my caffeine craving re-awakens. Five minutes later, armed with my usual Grande skinny vanilla latte and two bottles of water, my spirits are already lifting. I hand over my card, grateful that the gum-cracking cashier isn’t keen on small talk.

  She swipes my card and then gives me a look of bored annoyance when it’s declined. I’ve already started on the latte.

  “Impossible,” I snap. “Try it again.”

  She does. Declined. Two different cards produce the same result. The cashier grows more tight-lipped by the second as the queue grows behind me. I scrabble in my purse for cash, but I only have five dollars.

  “I’ll just take the latte,” I say, dumping the water on the counter and handing over the crumpled bill.

  Humiliated and furious, I’m not even surprised when I walk out of Starbucks to find my father leaning against the black SUV parked across the road. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest. I drag my feet toward him. Not for nothing is my father known as the great white of the development world. Tall and barrel-chested, he oozes natural confidence and charm, but as those who have tried to cross him have learned, his bite is deadly. I fix my eyes on his chest. He’s not wearing a tie. A very bad sign. I swallow on the lump which has formed in my throat and rise onto my toes to brush a quick kiss across his jaw.

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  He takes in my wet hair, the dark glasses.

  “Take them off,” he orders. His voice is strained. I have no choice but to obey, and I wince as the sunlight stabs my eyes.

  “Christ.”

  “Dad―” I prepare to start groveling.

  “Get in the car.”

  “But Daddy―”

  “Get in the car!”

  I bolt around the SUV and leap into the passenger seat. I haven’t felt so terrified since the day he caught me smoking weed behind mom’s hydrangea bushes. He folds himself into the driver’s seat, and we pull away from the curb.

  We drive in silence for about ten minutes. It feels like a lifetime. I try to breathe out of the very corner of my mouth, so he won’t be asphyxiated by tequila fumes.

  I know the hammer will fall, but I’m not sure when. I sneak a glance across at him, but his face gives nothing away. When he finally speaks, I jump in my seat.

  “Did you have fun last night?”

  It’s not a question which I can answer honestly and live to tell the tale, so I shrug instead.

  “You reek of booze.”

  “I didn’t have that much to drink.”

  “Your credit card bill begs to differ.”

  “It was Lara’s birthday, I was buying rounds.”

  He spares me a disgusted look and shakes his head. “You’re a lousy liar, Amber.”

  Feeling like I might burst into tears, I mumble, “I’m sorry.”

  He takes a left turn, his hands perfectly positioned at ten and two.

  “Kent explained about Beijing?” he asks once he’s straightened out.

  “Dad, that’s really extreme. I know you’re mad at me, but you can’t seriously expect me to just up and go to China?”

  “I’m surprised you even know where it is.”

  He’s definitely spitting. He’s never been so cruel before.

  “I’m not an idiot.”

  “So you only act like one?”

  I slump back in my seat. “You’re blowing this completely out of proportion. Mom will never agree to this.” A few years ago, I might actually have believed it.

  “Your mother supports my decision one hundred percent.”

  What? “Well, I don’t! It’s my life, and I’m not a child. You can’t make me go.”

  He shoots me a stern look.

  “Amber, I have entertained your bad behavior for over two years. At first, I was happy to accept it as a rite of passage after college, but enough is enough. I don’t know why you have such a strong desire to sabotage yourself…” I try to interrupt, but he cuts right across me. “I have never discouraged you from experiencing life, and I was happy to foot the bill while you were studying. I even accepted your choice of degree, although you know it wasn’t what I wanted. God knows I’ve given you enough time to grow up and start taking responsibility for your behavior, but you just keep pushing.”

  We’ve pulled into my apartment lot, the gorgeous studio apartment that he paid for. He kills the engine and swivels to face me.

  “I have put my blood, sweat and tears into building this company so I could give you everything I never had. To offer you a future. And all you’ve done is take advantage. I wanted to raise an independent, strong-willed woman. Instead, I’ve raised a spoilt brat.”

  I flinch away from the hurtful words.

  “Please,” I whisper, mortification flushing my cheeks. “Please, give me another chance.” I rack my brain to think of an alternative that would appease him. “I could come and work for you? I could come and work for Saber, if that’s what you want.”

  He draws in a deep breath. It’s what he’s always wanted, but I turned my back on that path years ago.

  “What I want,” he says slowly, “is for you to lead a full and happy life. I want you to become the woman that I know you are, deep down inside. A woman who cares about more than just shoes.”

  “I do care about things!” I insist, casting a guilty look at the hideous sneakers.

  “Like what?” he shakes his head again. “Do you even know what today is?”

  “Friday?” I don’t mean to say it so flippantly, but the damage is done. His eyes grow dark, and his hands clench into fists on his lap. I sense a storm brewing.

  “It’s October thirteenth, Amber!”

  The significance of that date hits me like a bullet between the eyes. I clap a hand to my mouth. “Oh, God.”

  His mouth is a grim line and I can’t blame him. I’d completely forgotten my mother’s birthday.

  This time when he speaks, I know there is no hope.

  “You will go to Beijing, and you will turn your life around. This is your very last chance. And if I hear you’ve set one foot out of line, I will withdraw your food and accommodation allowance and let you figure it all out for yourself. I am done enabling you.”

  3

  It takes me a long time to pack. I’d begged my dad to delay my flight by a day so I could go and see my mom before I left, but he’d refused. “She’ll be at the airport to see you off,” was all he’d said.

  LAX never looked so depressing. I find them waiting for me at departures, my mom trying desperately not to cry. I go straight into her arms, tears of shame pricking at my eyes.

  “I’m so sorry, mom,” I tell her, and I mean it.

  “Let’s get you checked in,” she replies sadly, “then we’ll grab a coffee.”

  I’ve always been close with my mom. I certainly get my wilder side from her, although my father keeps hers in better check.

  “I need to make a quick call,” my dad says once we’re seated, and my mother and I share a secret smile. We both know that there’s no call – he’s just giving us a few minutes alone to say our goodbyes.

  “I’m really sorry, mom,” I say again, once he’s gone.

  “You don’t have to apologize. These things happen.” She says it as if getting drunk and passing out is something that happens to one, and not something that one brings upon oneself.

  “I don’t want to go,” I say softly. It’s my way of testing the waters, but to my dismay, her lips tighten into a grim line.

  “I hate to admit it, sweetheart, but I think your father is right.”

  “You agree with him?”

  “I do.” She f
ixes me with one of her signature glares. “And you know how hard that is for me to admit.”

  I do know. Like I said, my mother can be wild. Kent’s mom, Janine, calls her Mustang Sally for good reason. Sometimes I think they allowed Kent and I to get away with murder when we were younger because we reminded them so much of themselves.

  “Do you remember that wine tasting we went to at the country club?”

  She tries not to smile. “It’s hard to forget.”

  A couple of years ago, I’d joined my mother and Janine on a rare night out. It was for a good cause – all funds raised were donated to charity, although for the life of me I don’t remember which one. We’d arrived early, and my mother had managed to charm a complimentary bottle out of the organizers, which we’d polished off in no time. Janine coaxed a second bottle out of them, and then like a lamb, they’d sent me out amidst the wolves to hunt for more. I’d come back with a bottle under each arm and the number of a very cute waiter named Chad. By the time the event was underway, the three of us were smashed. Still, it wasn’t my idea to steal that golf cart. Oh no, that blame lay firmly on the shoulders of Mustang Sally and her trusty sidekick.

  “It was hilarious, mom. One of the best nights of my life.”

  My mother’s smile fades. “Do you remember how it ended?”

  “Of course I do.”

  My dad and Kent had had to bail us out of the security office at the Country Club, who fortunately didn’t press charges due to the fact that Peter Holland is one of their most generous benefactors. I’m still not sure who was more furious – my father, or the security guard who actually caught us removing the ‘O’ in Country Club from the sign at the main gate.

  “Amber, honey, that’s exactly what worries me.”

  “What?”

  “That night wasn’t something to be proud of. It was fun, sure, but I still cringe whenever I think about it.”

  “But mom, it was just a little innocent fun!”

  “Oh, sweetheart,” she sighs, leaning forward to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “It’s all innocent fun. Until it isn’t.”

  An hour later, I’m waiting to board. I check my ticket. Economy, go figure. I’ve never traveled economy in my life. Sandwiched between an elderly man and a sullen teen with a pair of earphones draped around her neck, I resign myself to the fact that there will be no sleeping on this flight.

  By the time we land, it feels like someone threw a bucket of gravel into my eyes. I switch on my phone to find a message from Kent: I’ve arranged a driver to collect you and take you to your apartment. Safe travels.

  I know that none of this is his fault, but I need someone to blame, and considering this nightmare started in his hotel room, he seems like a worthy recipient.

  My reply is a single emoji – the one showing the middle finger. Because I am that mature.

  I walk through the arrival terminal to find a sullen Chinese man holding a sign with my name scrawled across it in neon green ink. Or at least I assume, it’s my name. It actually reads Am Ba Hole And. Sweet Jesus. The man grabs my bag and pumps my hand in a bone-crushing handshake, but he doesn’t speak a word to me. I rub at my eyes and follow him out to the waiting car.

  The city streaks past in a blur beyond the window. There is beauty here, but it feels cold and unfriendly. When we pull up outside a high-rise apartment block, I gape up at it in alarm. It’s hideous. The raw brick has been leached of all color and paint is flaking from the metal window frames. A few rusted satellite dishes hang limply from the wall.

  “I think there’s been a mistake,” I tell the driver, but he only shakes his head and jabs his finger on his GPS device. I peer around, hoping to miraculously find a five-star hotel opposite, but there’s only another awful block and a dingy restaurant. This is really happening. I want to turn around and go straight back to the airport. To catch a flight home and throw myself at my father’s feet and my mother’s mercy.

  The driver, who still hasn’t spoken a word, dumps my suitcase on the sidewalk and hands me a key. The tag tells me I’m the lucky new tenant of apartment 43.

  “Could you…?” I start to ask the driver for assistance with my suitcase, but he’s already back in the car. As it pulls away, I fight the urge to run after it. I square my shoulders, realize I can’t pull my suitcase in that position, and stoop, admitting defeat. The lobby is empty, and the elevator takes at least four minutes to reach me. It then creaks ominously as it creeps to the fourth floor. I tremble all the way up, praying it doesn’t break.

  When the doors open, I bolt out of the elevator and onto the most hideous grass-green carpet I’ve ever seen. It hurts my eyes to look at it.

  I see no one. The whole experience is unnerving, as if I’ve stepped into a cheap Hollywood horror movie. If I get axed to death in this shithole, I’m coming back to haunt Kent. As quickly as I can, I let myself into apartment 43. It’s probably identical to every other apartment in the block and could fit into my apartment back home ten times over. I drag my bag into the tiny bedroom and give the miniscule closet a hateful look. I’m too tired to even bother unpacking. Overwhelmed and terrified, I fall onto the scratchy sheets, and try to swallow down the lump in my throat, vowing I won’t cry. The past twenty-four hours barely seems real. I am all alone, over 6,000 miles from home. And I have no idea how I am going to survive the next few minutes, let alone a whole year. I close my eyes and try to imagine that I’m back home, curled up in my own bed. I dream of satin sheets.

  I wake to a thunderous banging. It takes a few seconds to register where I am, another couple to force down the depression that follows. Stumbling to the door, I open it to find a short Chinese man grinning broadly up at me.

  “Hurro, Miss Amber! I here to take you to Engrish.”

  My first impulse is to tell him to piss off, but if there is any hope of me getting my life back, I need to at least prove to my Dad that I tried. I step aside and wave him in.

  “Mister Kent text you, yes?”

  I check, to find that yes, Mr. Kent had indeed texted me. I’ve arranged for transport to your interviews, he’ll be there at 7.

  “I’m going to change,” I say, gesturing at my rumpled clothes. He bobs his head twice, grin still firmly in place.

  I’m showered and dressed in under twenty minutes, quite possibly a record. I’ve scraped my hair back into a ponytail and slapped some tinted moisturizer on my face, but I don’t bother with any more make-up than a coat of mascara and smear of lip gloss.

  My driver is waiting exactly where I left him, teeth in full view. How anyone can smile that wide for that long, is beyond me. I can barely see his eyes, they’re so scrunched up in his face.

  “I take you to interviews now, Miss Amber. I hope your Engrish better than mine, or you fucked.”

  Whoever taught him to speak English obviously missed a few very important rules. I burst out laughing but halfway through it turns into a sob. His smile vanishes, replaced by a look of alarm.

  “Miss Amber, you okay?”

  I give a groan of despair and press my fingers into my temples to ward off the headache I can feel coming on. “I’m fine,” I mumble. “What should I call you?” He falters. “Your name,” I say slowly, pointing at his chest.

  He beams, understanding dawning. “Denri,” he says, mimicking the gesture and jabbing at his own chest. “Denri Wu.” Then, without missing a beat, “we go now, traffic bad.”

  Denri drives a compact Volkswagen. I find myself clutching the sides of my seat as he zips through downtown traffic. He wasn’t lying about it being bad. Over the honk of horns, I try to catch a glimpse of my new home. It still doesn’t look very welcoming. Every now and again, Denri mutters under his breath in Mandarin. For all his clumsy charm, he shifts the little car like a pro.

  “How long have you been a driver?” I ask.

  He flashes his teeth. “No driver. Favor for Mister Kent.”

  “How exactly do you know Kent?”

  “Mister Ken
t do work.”

  Well, that sums it up. “He works with you?”

  He shakes his head. Scrunches up his eyes in concentration. “You father?”

  “My father?” Furious head bobbing. I try to recall a single time I’ve heard of Saber doing business in China but draw a complete blank. I’m embarrassed to admit how little I know about my father’s company, especially considering that up until now it has funded my lavish lifestyle.

  Denri pulls up beside a school playground and kills the engine. “You go. I wait.”

  A few kids wave as I walk past on my way toward what I hope is the administration block. I wave back, fighting down a growing dread. I can barely communicate with Denri, what if it’s the same here? Plus, I’m still jetlagged. The whole experience feels surreal.

  Fortunately, the principal speaks remarkably good English. I answer his questions as well as I can, and the interview goes by without a hitch. My lack of teaching experience is a concern, he tells me, but my credentials are perfectly acceptable. He promises he’ll be in touch.

  The second interview is a disaster. The Dean has been called away on an unexpected emergency, so I’m interviewed by a whippet-slim British girl who has been teaching at this school for over a year. One look at her, and I know the instant dislike is mutual. She proceeds to fire a volley of questions at me, all of which feel more like an English exam than a job interview. Halfway through, I stifle a yawn and get to my feet.

  “Thank you for your time,” I say.

  “We’re not done,” she sputters.

  “Yeah, we are.”

  “It go good?” Denri asks as I slump into the passenger seat.

  “It go great!” I lie.

  The third interview is the most promising. It’s an International English school, and the Dean is a petite Chinese woman in her mid-thirties who introduces herself as Bianca and speaks with an American accent.

  “You’re American!” I gasp before I can help myself.

  “Born and raised in Chicago,” she confirms with an easy laugh. “My parents moved there before I was born. They named me Bianca and figured I’d fit right in – as if it would be that easy. As if no one would notice my last name was Chen.”