Read Online Soy Sauce for Beginners by Kirstin Chen - Free Book Online
Authors: Kirstin Chen
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known all my life, the children of my parents’ friends who, like me, had gone abroad to England and the US for college and graduate school. Unlike me, however, they’d returned home to become lawyers, investment bankers, and entrepreneurs, to marry secondary-school sweethearts and live in downtown condos purchased by parents as wedding gifts. By now they all knew about my separation, my mother’s kidney failure, my cousin’s disaster. If ever my loneliness got the better of me, imagining their solemn faces and voices thick with concern reminded me to keep my distance. It felt good to be able to say all this. Even though seven months had passed since Frankie and I had last seen each other—I’d been busy trying to save my marriage, she’d been busy searching for a new job—I knew she understood.
“You have me now, so you can stop moping around,” she said, laughing to show she meant well. “You’re going to be so sick of me by the time you go back to school.”
Frankie suggested a quieter activity, something just the two of us. “Maybe we could go to the movies,” she offered, but her disappointment was palpable.
“Absolutely not,” I said. I told her I was taking her to a party, and not just any party, but Kat Tan’s thirtieth birthday party, held at her parents’ District 10 mansion, despite the fact that she and her husband had long since moved out. I’d never replied to Kat’s email—I hadn’t even spoken to my old friend since my return—and up until the moment I extended the invitation to Frankie, I’d gone back and forth on whether to attend.
Frankie was talking so loudly I had to hold the phone away from my ear. As always, her energy was infectious. Soon I was digging through the suitcase I hadn’t bothered to unpack for my makeup bag, scanning my closet, now partly filled with Ma’s unused cocktail dresses, for something to wear. I told Frankie I’d come by to pick her up.
That evening, I flagged a taxi and headed to Frankie’s new apartment on Coronation Road, a mid-rise, avant-garde monstrosity of rose-colored tiles that resembled a 1970s-style bathroom. The taxi idled at the curb. I was inspecting my lipstick in a pocket-sized mirror when a fist rapped on the window.
The mirror flew into my lap. I pushed open the door with such force I almost knocked her over. Frankie had mentioned she’d lost some weight over the past couple of months, but she had to be a good fifty pounds lighter.
“How could you not tell me?” I asked.
Frankie ducked her head but she was smiling. “It’s not like it happened all at once.”
I could not stop staring. Undulating curves and soft, rounded edges had given way to sharp angles, steep planes. Frankie’s hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail that highlighted the diagonal slope of her cheekbones, the long unbroken line of her clavicles. Most surprising of all were the child-sized wrists I held in each hand. Prior to this moment, I would never have believed that someone who had been so large could have such tiny bones.
The taxi driver honked the horn. “’Scue me, miss,” he called. “This loading zone, hor. Cannot just wait here.”
Frankie elbowed me in the ribs. “Escue me,” she whispered in Singlish.
“Don’t,” I warned, but I was already cracking up.
In the backseat of the taxi, Frankie told me about her flight and her new sublet. Each time I glanced over, her appearance shocked me once again.
The taxi turned down a narrow, tree-lined street flanked by overgrown houses that strained the limits of their respective plots. In a country so dense that eighty percent of the population lived in government-built high-rises, no amount of money could buy space that simply didn’t exist.
Kat’s house was different. Even with its high steel gate and phalanx of imported palm trees, its elegance was evident from the street. The Tan family had flown in a famous Beverly Hills architect to design the sleek, two-story, all-white cube,
“You have me now, so you can stop moping around,” she said, laughing to show she meant well. “You’re going to be so sick of me by the time you go back to school.”
Frankie suggested a quieter activity, something just the two of us. “Maybe we could go to the movies,” she offered, but her disappointment was palpable.
“Absolutely not,” I said. I told her I was taking her to a party, and not just any party, but Kat Tan’s thirtieth birthday party, held at her parents’ District 10 mansion, despite the fact that she and her husband had long since moved out. I’d never replied to Kat’s email—I hadn’t even spoken to my old friend since my return—and up until the moment I extended the invitation to Frankie, I’d gone back and forth on whether to attend.
Frankie was talking so loudly I had to hold the phone away from my ear. As always, her energy was infectious. Soon I was digging through the suitcase I hadn’t bothered to unpack for my makeup bag, scanning my closet, now partly filled with Ma’s unused cocktail dresses, for something to wear. I told Frankie I’d come by to pick her up.
That evening, I flagged a taxi and headed to Frankie’s new apartment on Coronation Road, a mid-rise, avant-garde monstrosity of rose-colored tiles that resembled a 1970s-style bathroom. The taxi idled at the curb. I was inspecting my lipstick in a pocket-sized mirror when a fist rapped on the window.
The mirror flew into my lap. I pushed open the door with such force I almost knocked her over. Frankie had mentioned she’d lost some weight over the past couple of months, but she had to be a good fifty pounds lighter.
“How could you not tell me?” I asked.
Frankie ducked her head but she was smiling. “It’s not like it happened all at once.”
I could not stop staring. Undulating curves and soft, rounded edges had given way to sharp angles, steep planes. Frankie’s hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail that highlighted the diagonal slope of her cheekbones, the long unbroken line of her clavicles. Most surprising of all were the child-sized wrists I held in each hand. Prior to this moment, I would never have believed that someone who had been so large could have such tiny bones.
The taxi driver honked the horn. “’Scue me, miss,” he called. “This loading zone, hor. Cannot just wait here.”
Frankie elbowed me in the ribs. “Escue me,” she whispered in Singlish.
“Don’t,” I warned, but I was already cracking up.
In the backseat of the taxi, Frankie told me about her flight and her new sublet. Each time I glanced over, her appearance shocked me once again.
The taxi turned down a narrow, tree-lined street flanked by overgrown houses that strained the limits of their respective plots. In a country so dense that eighty percent of the population lived in government-built high-rises, no amount of money could buy space that simply didn’t exist.
Kat’s house was different. Even with its high steel gate and phalanx of imported palm trees, its elegance was evident from the street. The Tan family had flown in a famous Beverly Hills architect to design the sleek, two-story, all-white cube,
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