Graduates in Wonderland (5 page)

This made me tear up, maybe too much for the occasion. That's what I'm figuring out about depression; it's two steps forward and one step back.

Granted, it was 4 
A.M.
and bitterly cold, but I had this moment—­remember when we were all so young—­again, I know we're young now (but not
as
young)—­and being in New York seemed so glamorous? At least it did to me.

Sometimes I wish I were in China too. And that is saying something, because I
really
don't want to live in China. It'd be easier if you were here in New York with me. Come back at some point in the next few years—­it would make me really sad never to see you again except in passing.

To tempt you, let me remind you that New York has amazing movie theaters—­I'm being sucked into spending all of my money and free time at Film Forum discovering a love for bleak Swedish films. And the MoMA! That is something I
know
China doesn't have, because I walked past it yesterday and it's still here.

Does it frighten you that Santa is relying on YOU to teach fifty thousand children about being naughty or nice? That's a lot of pressure.

Are you still in love with Maxwell?

Loooooooooooooove,

Rachel

P.S. I've started writing fiction again. What do you think about a story about a girl who works at a gallery but then falls into the Gowanus Canal and dies....No, wait, I lost it. Too real. More later.

OCTOBER 24

Jess to Rachel

Although I think you'd look great with a mullet (you really have the bone structure for it), I just don't think Bill Broadwick is the right guy for you. You definitely need someone who has an emotional range that goes beyond neutral. He is a cold, beautiful statue, and he's not the kind of guy who is going to comfort you or listen to your feelings. However, he is such a hot statue and I know that if I had been on a date with him, I would have said all the wrong things and just blurted out weird opinions that aren't even mine to fill the silence. Hot and smart men are unnerving. I would have wrapped my arms around him and squeezed, like, wayyyy too early and made it awkward for everyone. I probably would have also shouted something weird like, “Hug time!” to try to stop the oncoming awkwardness.

Something I keep remembering: Isn't he also pretentious? He would go to the “naked parties” the hippies would throw on campus but keep all of his clothes on and just write about what the naked people were doing. (Comparing penises? To his own? I don't know. I've never been. To the naked parties, or Bill Broadwick's penis. But if I did, it would be awkward. “Penis time!”) But in any case, I do approve of your proactive approach to life and hugging.

A French hairstylist named Jerome told me it was time for bangs. I don't know how he knew this, but I trusted him. Yes, I have full-­blown bangs now. So there you go. Long, blunt, and in my eyes.

I didn't tell Astrid about it beforehand, and her reaction when she saw me was that I look like a haughty Chinese girl, which, incidentally, might have been the look I was going for. With these bangs, I now look nearly 75 percent Chinese, not just half like I actually am.

So I was feeling okay about my bangs, when I walked into my favorite hole-­in-­the-­wall serving steaming-­hot noodle soup (this stuff is amazing. I could and do eat it every day) and I saw my doppelgänger. Same bangs. Same black coat. Same black jeans. She was even a halfie like me, except she had a nose ring. She looked exactly like me but only if I had an amazing magazine job and a boyfriend who sings in a band. She just looked like she had her shit together. The kind of girl who doesn't give a fuck about what anyone thinks about her. It was like walking in on a cooler version of me.

Then I saw her flirting with the noodle guy that
I
always flirt with. No! It was actually really awkward. I'm sure she noticed the bangs and the coat likeness. I had to leave. I backed out slowly. So she won.

But I was fatter, so HA—­got her there! (I seem to only eat noodles, buns, and rice here. I don't know how Chinese women are so thin. It's one of the greatest mysteries of the universe.)

I had dinner with Maxwell after my haircut. He told me he hates bangs. That's okay. I'm okay with that now. To answer your question: No, I no longer love him. I'm realizing that he's one of those rare characters who enchants everyone he meets. Every time he steps out, he draws in new friends and he literally cannot accommodate everyone who wants to hang out with him. I just made the mistake of thinking that our connection was special, when in fact, everyone feels connected to Maxwell.

So, yes, he's charming and if you met him, you would briefly love Beard Brother too. Astrid's grown tired of sharing him with all of his fans, and he seems to have moved on to pursuing someone else a little less intense. I used to care about his love life, but I no longer do. I'm just glad I don't feel like I'm competing with Astrid anymore, although we still haven't acknowledged that we both liked him.

I still feel like we're changing, though. As you know, she and I have always had such an intense friendship—­I've probably said more words to Astrid than I have to anyone else in my entire life (and not just because we are both incredibly fast talkers). Four years of sleeping in the same dorm room, of traveling together, of having all the same friends. I'm thinking about moving out of our apartment. I hinted at it a few times, but Astrid hasn't taken the bait.

I want to branch out. I only just got here, so why have I spent so much of my time fixating on these two people, who are distracting me from things like my future career and the other 1.3 billion people who live in China?

I'm finally realizing that I'm so glad I came here. I'll wander along to the fruit market downstairs and haggle in Mandarin with the market stall owners, observe the old ladies sitting in a row fanning their faces, wave hello to my noodle-­shop boy, and buy a green-­bean-­flavored popsicle (sounds gross but is very refreshing). Then I'll hop on my bike—­a used one Jason gave me—­and cycle to class singing at the top of my lungs because no one can hear me over the deafening roar of the construction sites and traffic horns.

These beautiful moments are a nice distraction from the stagnation of my career. (Is it stagnation if it hasn't begun?) For some reason, I thought it would all fall into place as soon as I got here. Astrid got a job, and it's freaking me out. First of all, it's a great job. She's working for some Chinese advertising agency that needed a German copywriter. You know how Astrid is fluent in about ten different languages. When both of us were just hanging out all the time, it felt like a totally normal and acceptable lifestyle. Now while she leaves the apartment so early every morning, I lie in bed and just have this sense of overwhelming, urgent panic before I have to get ready for class.

I need to stop going out all the time, but it's so hard to focus here with the constant traffic of new and exciting people at the party. But I can't continue to wait for the perfect job to fall into my lap.

I haven't been able to find journalism jobs that don't require fluent Mandarin, so I've arranged two interviews at PR agencies (one of them Ogilvy) and they are both for positions editing PR documents. I met a guy who had one of these jobs a few months ago. He said it's pretty thankless and I would learn nothing and never move up. I don't know what to do. How do I go into an interview already hating the job? Plus, I hate wearing blazers. Bulky, ugly. Dilemma. I think I'm being cornered into editing Chinglish and I don't know how I'm going to escape this.

Important question about interview attire:

I know it's cold, but do you think it is okay to wear a long skirt (hits calves) with bare legs instead of wearing opaque stockings that look weird with heels? Or would bare legs look slutty?

And, if the skirt is black, can I wear a blazer that is black with gray stripes, or should it all match perfectly? Please respond soon—­my interview is at 10 
A.M.
tomorrow!

OH GOD, WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE?

Love,

No-­One-­Told-­Me-­What-­Blazer-­to-­Wear Jess

P.S. You better write back. At least two lines.

OCTOBER 25

Rachel to Jess

JUST WEAR THE STRIPED BLAZER
AND
THE TIGHTS.

This is my two-­line e-mail. I write three cover letters a night.

NOVEMBER 10

Rachel to Jess

Jess—­I did it. I quit my art gallery job.

My mom once told me that you know you're an adult when you can stick your hand down the garbage disposal and deal with all of the shit that's down there. I am maybe not enough of an adult for this, but the idea's the same—­it really is the first time that I've had to do something really unpleasant on my own. Well, with you on the other end of the...what, the Internet? The ethernet cable? The other side of my computer screen? I feel all comfortable and calm when I read your e-mails, and then I shut the computer and I gradually start to get fearful and anxious again—­until eventually my arms and legs are numb.

I was so terrified about how Vince would react. I got to work an hour early and sat in Central Park listening to Madonna's “The Power of Good-­Bye” on repeat to feel empowered. So...that happened. And I took some Xanax. But these are not the same thing as courage.

And then I went in and had to be all, “Vince? Can I talk to you...alone?” It's like breaking up with somebody. The second you say it, you both know what's going to happen, but then you're caught in this script that you have to play out.

We went into his office and I shut the door behind me. I was trembling. Had to stick my hands in my pockets. Now, normally, you know how I am about quitting things. When I quit the job at the library that summer, I just stopped going. It scares me.

So I told him why I'm leaving. The nice version, that doesn't involve him punching walls. I mumbled something about his temper. He just stared at me, told me I was neurotic and that they needed me for two more weeks. It wasn't as bad as Madonna and I thought it would be. It never is, I guess.

I don't know if my next job will save me from the kind of despair I've been feeling, but I know I want to work somewhere more pleasant and relaxed. Prestige is so much less important than I ever thought.

I can't believe I'm turning twenty-­three this month. One year closer to death. This is the novel year. I have to write it. My therapist says that this is not a healthy attitude toward either my career or death; we shall see.

I'm so glad I'm almost done with this job.

I want to call you, but you gave your American phone to your mom. And what would I say to her?

Love,

Rachel, Who Is No Longer a Slave to the Gallerist from Hell

NOVEMBER 17

Jess to Rachel

Congratulations! Did you punch him in the face? Did you swipe all of his mail onto the floor? Did you slide a piece of paper across the table that said, “This is all your fault”?

By your mother's definition, I will also never be an adult.

You'll have to tell me all the devastating details, and you
can
call my American phone—­because I'm home in Amarillo for Thanksgiving. I flew in last night. I'm in America, land of drip coffee and reality TV!

I'm trying to distract myself here, because I'm still unemployed. I did not get the PR jobs. I blame the blazer. My bank account is still slowly dwindling.

I've realized since I've been home that I like being away from Astrid. It's a relief not having to invite her everywhere I go or having to plan my day around her. This isn't healthy. I'm going to have to move out of our joint apartment, and I just have to figure out how I'm going to tell her.

So I've been secretly perusing the ads for new apartments. I think I'm going to try to break the news to her as soon as I'm back in China. She's the longest relationship I've ever had. Advice? You're the only person who knows her like I do.

Anyway, it feels like I never left—­Amarillo is still full of white people, flat plain lands, and mom jeans. In Beijing, I'm usually the whitest person on the street. In Amarillo, I'm the Chinese girl. In high school, whenever I would go into department stores with my mom, the saleswomen always thought I was a random Asian girl asking a white lady for things.

Maybe you'll go through this strange feeling as well when you go home for the holidays. You will wake up in your childhood bedroom and think, “Was it all a dream? When am I going back to Brown? Or am I still in high school? Omigod—­did I even get into college yet?” And then you'll blink a few times, reach for your glasses (because you're old), and realize the truth.

I always regress to my seventeen-­year-­old self when I visit home. My childhood best friend, Paige, is back in town as well, and we're doing the same nonsense we always did: driving around aimlessly, staking out various coffee shops for old acquaintances to see who is balding and who got fat and who has babies, and raiding our parents' refrigerators just because we can. Whenever I run into my old boyfriends, they are inevitably still driving the same pickup trucks that I made out with them in six years ago. (Forget this information, immediately.)

I'm back to living with my parents, which feels strange. For example: In Beijing I cycle home alone at 3 
A.M
. I eat almost exclusively street food from vendors who have no qualms about spitting on the ground as they hand me my food, in a country where food safety standards are shoddy at best. On the other hand, here, my mother is telling me to please be extra careful when driving to Paige's house (which is three blocks away) and to hold a hot baking sheet with
both hands
. Little does she know that I drank three shots of questionable alcohol the night before I flew here from a country that doesn't seem to know about the seat belt.