Next Time Will Be Our Turn

Chapter 1

IZZY

Here's the thing about the Chen clan. There are a lot of things we don't seem to know how to do. We don't know how to keep secrets. We don't know how to handle conflict without resorting to passive aggression or emotional blackmail. And we don't know how to tackle situations without first blowing them out of proportion.

But one thing we do know is how to make an entrance. And the annual Chen family Chinese New Year celebration is the perfect time for spectacular entrances. Everyone is trying to one-up their rivals, and in my family, everybody has a rival.

Everybody, that is, except me.

Now don't get me wrong, it's not because I'm above all the strife and struggle that come with having to prove you're at the top of the family hierarchy. It's actually the opposite. I'm the misfit. The black sheep. And everybody knows it. There is no glory to be made by proving yourself better than me. To have a rivalry with me is akin to having a rivalry with a stink bug, or the lint on your clothes-what's the point?

I know my place. At the bottom. In the farthest corner. And this particular family gathering is no different. As always, while every member of my incredibly huge and loud family makes their entrance in the hugest and loudest possible way, I skitter in unnoticed-my head bowed low and my shoulders rounded-and head directly for the darkest section of the restaurant.

We don't do things by half measures, so for tonight's celebrations, we've booked an entire Michelin-starred restaurant-the first Chinese restaurant in Jakarta to receive a star-just for our family. The staff, dressed in qipaos, glide around with trays of Chinese New Year-themed cocktails and hors d'oeuvres, but I ignore even them, steadfastly burying my nose in my book. Not that I'm absorbing a single word; I've read the same paragraph three times in the last five minutes, and I still couldn't tell you what it's about. Every few minutes or so, there's a chorus of oohs and aahs, and I know that yet another cousin or aunt or uncle has arrived, looking even more fabulous than usual. I don't think my family knows how to look anything aside from fabulous, though that gene has unfortunately not expressed itself in my DNA. Not that I'm bitter or anything.

"Izzy," someone hisses.

The sound of my mother's voice makes my jaw clench instinctively. I keep my eyes set on the pages in front of me.

"Izzy, you're being rude," Mama says.

What else is new? I want to say to her. But the thing about being a spineless coward in a family of boisterous extroverts is you rarely say what you really want to. While my family has perfected the art of passive aggression (or in some cases aggressive aggression), my speed is more passive . . . passivity?

So I round my shoulders even more and let my head droop even lower. Maybe if I make myself as small as humanly possible, my mother might forget that I exist. Be distracted by something shiny. Like my cousin Florie, who looks like a human disco ball. I'm not saying that to be catty, by the way. She is literally wearing a disco ball, and you know what? She looks fucking fantastic. I utter a short prayer for Florie to strut over here so she can dazzle Mama. Or irritate Mama into whispering about her. I would be okay with either option.

"You're sixteen, not five. Can you please be normal and wish your elders Happy New Year?" Mama says.

This time, I do manage a comeback. "You shouldn't say stuff like 'be normal,'" I mumble. I'm doing Mama a favor. Our family company is expressly built on not saying stuff like "be normal." Nainai, my grandmother, hates it whenever Mama says things like that. Apparently, they used to be close when Mama was little, but over the years they drifted apart, and nowadays they butt heads more often than not.

Mama's mouth squeezes into a thin line. "You know what I mean, Izzy. Look at your brother."

I look. Troy is wearing a suit the color of "crushed burgundy," whatever that means. I'd said, "I don't think you can crush burgundy. It's not crushable. Do you mean crushed rose petals, maybe?" And he'd sighed and said, "Lil' Sis, you'll get it one day." Then he'd given me a very pointed once-over and added, "Maybe."

Right now, he's chatting with his usual easy charm to Uncle Thomas and a couple in their forties who I don't recognize. Probably Uncle Thomas's friends that he invited to show off our lavish celebration. The Chen clan's Chinese New Year dinners are known in our circles for being the celebration to earn an invite to. Everyone has brought friends and friends of friends. There are over a hundred guests here tonight, each of them dressed to the nines, and if this isn't hell, I don't know what is. It doesn't help that this year is the year of the green wood pig. I was born sixteen years ago, which makes me a white metal monkey. Incompatible in every way with this year. It's going to be a very unlucky year for me, I just know it.

"Why can't you be more like Troy?" Mama sighs.

"You really shouldn't say that," I say. Mumble mumble. I bet she can't even hear me above the din. She really should know better. We pride ourselves on being the premier family-oriented mental health facility in the country, and all the stuff Mama is saying to me is very much not sanctioned by the company's philosophy. Not that she gives a crap. Or maybe she's just desperate, because she and Papa have tried all the methods our certified therapists swear by, and none of them have worked on me. I am method-proof. So she's had to revert to good old Asian parenting. Guilt trips. Humiliation. Comparison. According to Mama, these are tried-and-true methods every Chinese parent is familiar with.

I hope I'm not coming across as a bratty teen. I mean, I'm sixteen, and that is a hideous age to be, but I'm not awful. Or at least, I don't want to be. I don't mean to be a rebel; I think to be a rebel, you need to believe in a cause. But I don't believe in any causes. Is that a terrible thing to admit? I know I'm supposed to be filled with a righteous flame. I should be hungry to make a difference in the world. My classmates are always passionate about something. Climate change, human rights, women's rights. I think they're all important, but I just can't summon up the passion for anything, aside from wanting to be left alone. Because the thing is, I am ashamed of who I am. I'm not even sure what it is I am, exactly, but I know beyond all doubt that there isn't a place for me here.

Mama doesn't reply, and at first, I assume it's because she hasn't heard me. It's not an uncommon occurrence for my voice to go unheard in my family. Everyone else is so loud, and I am so mousy that, more often than not, I could mutter some nonsensical answer and they'd nod, their gazes somewhere over my shoulder, and go, "Uh-huh, okay, great talk," before brushing past me. On the rare occasion that my relatives notice my existence, they're more likely to talk about me ("Can we not enroll her in one of our mental health programs? There are over seventeen different ones, for god's sake!") than to me.

And when I finally lift my eyes from the mocktail I'm clutching, I realize Mama is no longer looking at me. She's staring into the distance, but the expression on her face gives me pause, because when she wears that expression of distaste, it's usually directed at me. It's about now that I realize that the entire room has fallen silent. I follow Mama's gaze to the entrance, where Nainai, the undisputed matriarch of the Chen family, has finally deigned to make an appearance.

At seventy-three years of age, Nainai still cuts a formidable figure. Her posture would bring supermodels to shame, and she exudes the confidence of every mediocre white male who has managed to fail upward in life. Her hair and makeup are flawless, and her taste in clothes and accessories is exquisite. Tonight, she is wearing a figure-hugging qipao in red. Not an off-red, not "crushed burgundy" or maroon or whatever other muted, apologetic version of red there is, but a true red. The kind that appears in nature as a sign of ripeness. Or of danger. The kind of red that makes you stop and stare. Embroidered around the qipao is a showstopping silken phoenix, its head at the bosom, its body curling around the torso, its tail cascading down in a glimmering waterfall. Nainai's expertly painted lips match her qipao, and on her arm is a golden Kelly handbag. She is a sight to behold.

But everyone knows what my grandmother looks like. We're used to her impeccable appearance, her outlandish outfits. So as impressive as they are, the qipao and the makeup and the bag are not the reason everyone is shocked. No, the reason why Mama and the rest of the family are openly aghast, and why I feel as though the world has tilted, like all of the molecules in the air suddenly decided to spin the other way, is because Nainai's other arm-the one without a stunning Kelly bag-is linked to the arm of a woman.

A striking Caucasian woman with icy silver hair. From this distance, I can't quite make out the color of her eyes, but I get the sense that they're pale, maybe blue or gray. She wears a beautiful emerald-green pantsuit and towers over Nainai, and there's something about the way they're standing, the way their bodies are ever so slightly angled toward each other, and the way this stranger is gazing at Nainai-like she's the only person worth looking at-that leaves no room for interpretation.

In Indonesia, casual physical contact between friends and family isn't really a thing. We don't go for hugs much, especially with the opposite sex. With one exception-girls are often touchy-feely with one another. Especially straight girls. They're always linking arms or holding hands or looping a casual arm around each other's shoulders. Laughing so hard they fall easily into each other's embrace. Crying so hard they bury their heads in each other's shoulders. And nobody bats an eyelid. It's just something straight girls do here. And so when people see two girls walking hand in hand' it's easy to brush it off as: "Oh, they're besties!" Straight girls must have it so easy.

But something about the way Nainai and this woman are standing screams, We are not just friends! I can't quite put a finger on it. And as I take this impossible sight in, an icy finger trails down my spine, electrifying my entire body. It's as though I've been wrenched from a slow-moving dreamworld and plunged into an ice bath. I cannot tear my eyes away from them.

"What does she think she's doing?" Mama whispers, her voice a mix of horror and shock and disgust and rage and probably all sorts of other emotions that someone with a stake in a mental health company shouldn't be feeling.

A few paces away from me, I hear Auntie Lily hiss, "What the fuck? What would Papa say?"

Uncle Thomas replies, "I don't understand. What's going on? She's still in love with Papa."

"She talks to him for hours every day!" someone else says.

The murmurs continue rising, a disquieting susurration like a cold breeze going through the trees. Everyone is practically squirming with discomfort, nobody wanting to be the first to acknowledge Nainai's surprise guest.

"She's going to destroy the family name," Mama says. I have no idea if she's still talking to me, or to someone else or just to the universe in general.

One corner of Nainai's bright red lips quirks up into a mischievous smile, and somehow, though I know it's next to impossible in the dim restaurant, with so many people around her, I swear that for a moment, her gaze locks with mine. There's that sensation again of being shaken awake, whether I want to remain asleep or not. Nainai winks. My mouth turns dry. Then, as we all watch, she turns to the woman, lifts her chin, stands on tiptoe' and gives her a romantic Hollywood kiss straight on the lips.

Chapter 2

IZZY

Mama is incandescent with rage the whole drive home from the restaurant. Papa is silent, which is somehow worse. His silences are sharp, a cruel slice scything through the air, killing all conversation. But since Mama and Papa are both angry about the same thing, his silence doesn't bother her. She rails nonstop during the twenty-minute journey.

"Why would she do this tonight? Right now? At Chinese New Year?" Mama hisses, her hands balling into fists. "What was she thinking? There were business partners there. Clients! Investors!"

I stare out of the car window as we pass by skyscraper after skyscraper, not really taking in any of the scenery. To be honest, I pretty much have the same questions that Mama is asking, though perhaps without the rage. Next to me, Troy is busy typing on his phone. I glance at the screen and see that he's on the cousins' group chat. I slide my phone out of my pocket and open up the chat group. As expected, everyone is basically echoing Mama's tirade. I tuck the phone back into my pocket. I don't have anything to say to my cousins. I rarely do.

When Papa finally speaks, his voice is quiet, almost a whisper. "It might be time for us to call for a board meeting to discuss succession."

Mama stops mid-sentence. There's a pregnant pause. She takes in a sharp breath. "I . . ."

"Her behavior is becoming erratic. And for a company like ours, that isn't a good look."

My stomach twists at Papa's words. Words I have grown up hearing over and over. For a company like ours . . . You must think about the family name . . . You can't behave like this . . .

For years, I'd wished that Troy or one of my cousins would misbehave. Plenty of them went through their own rebellious phases, but they did so in more socially acceptable ways. The kind of rebellion that my aunts and uncles could laugh about and be secretly proud of. "He got caught smoking at school!" "She led a whole protest!" They were reprimanded once or twice, but my generation on the whole is well adjusted. With the exception of myself.