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Authors: Kirstin Chen
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which had been profiled in two local society magazines. The other side of the house, I told Frankie, was even more impressive, with floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking a vanishing-edge swimming pool, surrounded by fragrant frangipani trees and hedges of fuchsia bougainvilleas.
I was still groping in my purse for my wallet when Frankie reached over me to hand the driver a ten-dollar bill. “Thanks, uncle. Keep the change,” she said. When she caught the incredulous look on my face, she shrugged and said, “What? I spent three whole months here, you know?”
Standing at the gate, Frankie gazed up at the house and let out a low whistle, but I was too nervous to respond. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d come to a party like this without Paul. During our short trips back to Singapore, he and I had always embraced our outsider status. We gawked like tourists at my childhood friends, marveling at the insularity of their lives, taking comfort in the knowledge that we were different. In contrast, Frankie was ready to dive into her new life. Her eyes were alert, her posture erect. Even the air around her seemed to shimmer.
In front of the door, I lay a hand on Frankie’s shoulder, hoping to coax some of her positive energy up through my palm.
“Ready?” she asked.
I turned the doorknob and watched the door swing open.
Inside, the house was filled with people dressed in varying interpretations of the party’s “Roaring Twenties” theme—chosen to commemorate the end of Kat’s own roaring twenties. There were a couple of flapper dresses and Louise Brooks wigs, but the majority of the crowd was simply dressed up: girls in sequins, guys in blazers and jeans. They spilled out of the living room and onto the patio and garden surrounding the swimming pool; they clustered around the outdoor bar and the long table laden with finger foods: dumplings in bamboo steamer baskets, assorted sushi rolls, chicken satay made onsite by a hired cook—a wizened Malay man who’d brought his own mini grill and pandan-leaf fan. All around us, people laughed and hugged and talked in frenzied voices over the ambient trance music streaming from surround-sound speakers.
“I’m way underdressed,” Frankie said, anxiety shading her face for the first time. She smoothed her black tank top over the waistband of her jeans and undid her ponytail.
“You look fine,” I said, pleased that at the last minute I’d abandoned trying to look like I didn’t care, and changed into a silk top that hung from the thinnest of spaghetti straps.
Frankie didn’t need to be told to kick off her sandals and nudge them next to the other pairs lined up by the door, as I did with my heels. Stalling for time, I paused before the hallway mirror to check for mascara smudges. Frankie joined me, combing her fingers through her hair, and the sight of our reflections gave me another jolt. All at once, my cheeks seemed too full, my jaw-line too prominent, everything about me too short and squat.
I turned away from the mirror. “Shall we?”
“I guess,” she said, tugging again at the hem of her top.
My envy faded. “You look great,” I said.
She nodded but seemed unconvinced.
At the far end of the living room, the birthday girl stood by the bar in a sparkly tiara and a dress made from tiers of silver fringe. In one opera-gloved hand she carried a long cigarette holder with an unlit cigarette; in the other, an enormous bouquet of orange tulips. I’d been so focused on myself, I’d forgotten to bring a gift.
“ Zar boh, ” Kat cried when she spotted me. She thrust the tulips at her husband Ming and hurried over. “Where the hell have you been? Why haven’t you returned my calls? My own mother had to tell me you were back in town.” She scanned the length of Frankie’s new body before refocusing on me. “You’re lucky there are too many people around for me to wring your neck.”
I tried to laugh away her words. “It’s great to see
I was still groping in my purse for my wallet when Frankie reached over me to hand the driver a ten-dollar bill. “Thanks, uncle. Keep the change,” she said. When she caught the incredulous look on my face, she shrugged and said, “What? I spent three whole months here, you know?”
Standing at the gate, Frankie gazed up at the house and let out a low whistle, but I was too nervous to respond. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d come to a party like this without Paul. During our short trips back to Singapore, he and I had always embraced our outsider status. We gawked like tourists at my childhood friends, marveling at the insularity of their lives, taking comfort in the knowledge that we were different. In contrast, Frankie was ready to dive into her new life. Her eyes were alert, her posture erect. Even the air around her seemed to shimmer.
In front of the door, I lay a hand on Frankie’s shoulder, hoping to coax some of her positive energy up through my palm.
“Ready?” she asked.
I turned the doorknob and watched the door swing open.
Inside, the house was filled with people dressed in varying interpretations of the party’s “Roaring Twenties” theme—chosen to commemorate the end of Kat’s own roaring twenties. There were a couple of flapper dresses and Louise Brooks wigs, but the majority of the crowd was simply dressed up: girls in sequins, guys in blazers and jeans. They spilled out of the living room and onto the patio and garden surrounding the swimming pool; they clustered around the outdoor bar and the long table laden with finger foods: dumplings in bamboo steamer baskets, assorted sushi rolls, chicken satay made onsite by a hired cook—a wizened Malay man who’d brought his own mini grill and pandan-leaf fan. All around us, people laughed and hugged and talked in frenzied voices over the ambient trance music streaming from surround-sound speakers.
“I’m way underdressed,” Frankie said, anxiety shading her face for the first time. She smoothed her black tank top over the waistband of her jeans and undid her ponytail.
“You look fine,” I said, pleased that at the last minute I’d abandoned trying to look like I didn’t care, and changed into a silk top that hung from the thinnest of spaghetti straps.
Frankie didn’t need to be told to kick off her sandals and nudge them next to the other pairs lined up by the door, as I did with my heels. Stalling for time, I paused before the hallway mirror to check for mascara smudges. Frankie joined me, combing her fingers through her hair, and the sight of our reflections gave me another jolt. All at once, my cheeks seemed too full, my jaw-line too prominent, everything about me too short and squat.
I turned away from the mirror. “Shall we?”
“I guess,” she said, tugging again at the hem of her top.
My envy faded. “You look great,” I said.
She nodded but seemed unconvinced.
At the far end of the living room, the birthday girl stood by the bar in a sparkly tiara and a dress made from tiers of silver fringe. In one opera-gloved hand she carried a long cigarette holder with an unlit cigarette; in the other, an enormous bouquet of orange tulips. I’d been so focused on myself, I’d forgotten to bring a gift.
“ Zar boh, ” Kat cried when she spotted me. She thrust the tulips at her husband Ming and hurried over. “Where the hell have you been? Why haven’t you returned my calls? My own mother had to tell me you were back in town.” She scanned the length of Frankie’s new body before refocusing on me. “You’re lucky there are too many people around for me to wring your neck.”
I tried to laugh away her words. “It’s great to see
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