Graduates in Wonderland (3 page)

Finally, she was so fed up with the situation that she abandoned it for the moment. In typical Astrid fashion, she said, “Screw this. Let's just go get massages. We deserve them.” Astrid's the best person for escapism, as I'm sure you remember. I think that's part of the problem, though. Every idea she has seems like a good one, and then suddenly days go by with her in one blink and you don't know what happened to your old life. Being with her is intoxicating but exhausting. It used to be easier, because we always wanted the same things, but it's not that simple anymore. I want my own life, and she still wants me to be the sidekick to hers.

Let's just say the Maxwell situation isn't helping.

What's confusing is that most of the time Maxwell, his friends, Astrid, and I really
are
having so much fun, more fun than I've had in a long time. We stay out late most nights, either dancing or exploring, and when we return to our neighborhood around 3 
A.M.
, we congregate outside of our apartment building in the balmy night air.

We wander through a jungle gym to reach a handful of stone tables, which are usually covered with trash, cigarette butts, and sunflower seeds—­it's all very dilapidated. Maxwell calls the table closest to the street “the best table in town,” and that's where we always sit. We drink bottles of beer and peel the lychees we've just bought off the street vendors and talk loudly and inevitably the Chinese neighbors get mad at us for waking them up. Sometimes Astrid is there, and sometimes she's not. I love both versions of these nights—­because I love being silly with Astrid, making her laugh and being around someone who knows me so well. But I also love the nights alone with Maxwell, because he's the one who makes
me
laugh too.

Shouldn't it be illegal for a guy to look at you like you're the only girl in the world when he's clearly in love with someone else? I think the real betrayal is this: When you make a guy laugh and they maintain eye contact with you while they're laughing. Please stop staring deep into my soul, Maxwell. There's an unspoken code that if you aren't romantically interested in someone, you look away from them when you're laughing—­otherwise it just feels too intimate. I've spent entire first dates looking at the floor.

So there's always that weird subtext with Maxwell when we're alone: “I know you want Astrid, but we're the ones who laugh together.” I don't dare say anything about it. Eventually the air grows chilly, and we go our separate ways.

I am meeting a lot of other expats, but all we have in common is the fact that we are expats in China. So far, the best conversations I have are with taxi drivers. I love these guys! I love practicing my Mandarin with them. After they establish that I am an American, here is how every single conversation goes:

Cabdriver: (
gives me a good, long look
) You know, you look a little Chinese to me.

Me: My dad's Chinese.

Cabdriver: YOUR DAD IS CHINESE?!

Me: Yes.

Cabdriver: And your mother is...?

Me: American.

Cabdriver: So you're a “mixed-­blood.” (In Mandarin, this is an acceptable thing to say.)

Me: Yes!

Cabdriver: tue fjklsio akdj woeur adsla wieur aldj ckxlz

(In this e-mail, this looks like Czech or something, but it's actually supposed to be Mandarin that is too advanced for me to understand.)

Me: Yes...?

Pause

And then I get out, and I'm like, “It was so good to meet you!” and they're like “DON'T OPEN THE DOOR ON THAT CYCLIST!” and also, “Go slowly”—­their way of saying, “Take care.” I love speaking this exotic language. I feel like a completely different person when I step back and listen to myself.

Speaking of half-­bloods, have I told you that I've been reading the final Harry Potter book? During my first week here, I was desperate and it was the only English book I could find. However, I made the mistake of first buying a fake one off the street. It was called
Harry Potter and Leopard Walk-­Up to Dragon
. It was essentially bad translations of the Lord of the Rings, with Harry Potter characters inserted. I'll try to send one to you. Here's how it begins: “Harry doesn't know how long it will take to wash the sticky cream cake off his face. For a civilised young man it is disgusting to have dirt on any part of his body.” He sounds a little OCD to me in this version.

Fucking gold. Read it and weep, J. K. Rowling.

Love,

Jess

P.S. What do you think happened when Harry Potter had sex for the first time? Like, what magical thing happened? I'm thinking when he's done, he has a full beard or something.

Let me know your thoughts, ASAP.

SEPTEMBER 28

Rachel to Jess

It's hard to imagine a world in which you and Astrid are competing for the same guy—­you've never liked (or been able to tolerate) the same guy before. You always like guys who have approximately 3 percent body fat and are two inches taller than you, while Astrid likes beefy Eastern Europeans.

Also, I can't imagine you performing improv or voicing a cartoon. I think you are definitely becoming more extroverted in Beijing. I wonder what New York is doing to me....I keep thinking that New York is what's wrong with me, but my therapist says that this is not helpful (yes, therapist). I can't control what happens to me, only what I feel about it.

So, this means that I took your advice and my dad's advice, as well as the advice of a kindly tourist on the C train, and finally called a therapist. Actually, if you want to know the truth, I called
three
therapists. The first one was the analyst, and the way I understand it is that you tell
him
what's wrong with
you
. So basically, you are also my analyst by this definition. You majored in psychology, so this makes perfect sense. Anyway, he was so nice on the phone—­so, so nice. Until this:

Him: I do have a Saturday-­morning slot available.

Me: Fantastic, I'll take it. Oh, and quickly—­if I can ask, what's your fee?

Him: The first consultation is $750 and after that, we can discuss whether you're eligible for reduced fees.

Me: Uh. What's the lowest possible rate?

Him: $500 an hour.

Me: Thanks so much! You know, I'm so busy these days...

Click.

No insurance.

I finally found another guy through Mount Sinai and he is, like, our age. He told me that I could call him Eric.

I told him that this made me uncomfortable. Now I call him Dr. Eric.

Dr. Eric told a lot of stories about bullies. He said that the surgery interns used to bully the psychiatry interns, namely him. This just made me feel bad for him, and also like maybe my therapist was a loser. He told me to write down on a piece of paper “This is not about me,” and to look at the paper every time Vince said something threatening. I started crying at this point, and he showed me that he also had a paper like this, which he keeps in his wallet. That just made me cry harder. It was so SAD.

Lately I just pick up on everyone's emotions, no matter what they are, and respond to them a million times more intensely than I normally would/is appropriate. I know I've always felt things a bit too much (
Notebook
, ugh) but all the same, this is ridiculous.

Meanwhile, I have a shiny new prescription for Xanax, so I am fully qualified to be a dissatisfied 1960s housewife.

Dr. Eric costs $250 an hour, so I still had to find somebody else—­somebody cheaper. Which was good. I was cognizant of the fact that he makes me feel existentially sad.

So many feelings.

I told him I couldn't afford him anymore, and so he went through his BlackBerry and arrived at the name and number of Claudia (no last name), another therapist. So I arrived at Claudia's brownstone office in the Village, and sat in the waiting area. When she came out, she called out, “Rachel?” in a thick German accent, and when I stood up, Claudia looked from me to her clipboard and back again before inviting me into her office.

I followed her in and saw a chalkboard...a bucket of blocks...a rag doll...

Turns out Dr. Eric referred me to a child therapist.

After she explained this to me, Claudia asked me if I wanted to continue with her for a trial counseling session, and I did. We spent the whole time doing a basic questionnaire, in which she asked a lot of questions about my family and my past experiences. She didn't want to talk about Vince
at all
. I was like, okay, neither do I, but he's really the problem here.

All she said was, “
Is
he?”

Ugh.

I feel like I know exactly what she is trying to do, but I also kind of like her. Her office has a bunch of artwork and plants, and the kid stuff is kind of comforting. She makes me mint tea. Also, I like knowing that I am the most emotionally mature of her patients (probably). But I do have to write her a check at the end of each session ($150—­am I going down the scale of therapists? Pretty soon it's just going to be me, a twenty-­dollar bill, and a cheap prostitute). Paying a confidant is so unsettling.

And now, after very healthily comparing my therapist to a prostitute, I am closing the office for the evening and going to a gallery opening in Chelsea, because Claudia is making me do one thing every day that “scares me.” She said that my weekly trips to the Film Forum don't count. I've also been trying to think about things in New York that I like (which makes me think that she is brainwashed, but maybe will help lure you back here?). So far I have this:

Fall finally came to New York today after holding out for way too long. When I woke up, everything smelled like fall and the leaves were starting to change and it was chilly—­and I love it. From work, right now, I can see Central Park and it looks like broccoli because I'm so high up and the light is so dramatic. The tops of the trees are all streaked with sunlight.

I haven't told Rosabelle too much about Claudia. I mentioned the Xanax and she's calling them my crazy pills, so I kind of hate her right now. I'm contemplating hiding her favorite baking tray. Then we'll see who's crazy.

I love you!

Rach

P.S. I think when Harry Potter has sex for the first time, sparks fly from his penis.

OCTOBER 5

Jess to Rachel

I would have pursued another degree in psychology if I had known that meant hanging out with you all day. The reality actually seemed to be hanging out with rats. I still remember the mandatory rat lab I took at Brown and how our professor told me I couldn't name our rat because...well, because I'd see soon enough. (He died, Rachel. Fifle's DEAD. Fievel? Fyfull? He died and nobody even bothered to learn how to spell his name!) Sorry. You're fragile.

If it makes you feel better, I don't actually know what I'm doing with my life at all. My Mandarin isn't good enough to land me a fancy job. People keep saying there's so much opportunity in China...but for what? On principle, I don't want to teach English. It's a slippery slope. You agree to teach English and then suddenly you're forty-­five, with a fanny pack and Teva sandals, still teaching English, except inexplicably you have become a white male and you have a hot Chinese girlfriend and everyone else thinks you're a creep.

But, I feel a strange connection with China. Astrid keeps telling me it's because
these are your people
and I think she's kind of right. I find myself thinking about that a lot here, even when I have trouble communicating with them.

Even so, I still don't know what I'm going to do here. Sometimes I wonder if I should be in New York with you like most of our graduating class. I still haven't given up on my aspirations of being a reporter, but New York has the most concentrated number of journalists and aspiring journalists than any other place in the world. Someone sneezes and within seconds, someone has already covered it. It feels like there isn't any room for another one.

Also, it feels strange telling this to you, but I was always so terrified of moving to New York after graduation and just becoming a small cog in a wheel for the rest of my life. But don't think about that too much, okay?

Maybe you'd like to hear that I shower over a toilet. Perhaps I glossed over that in my other e-mails. It seems totally normal to me now. It's strange how quickly one adapts.

More importantly, things finally came to a head with the Maxwell and Astrid situation. I've taken to avoiding them when they're together, but our problems go so much deeper than our mutual ad­oration of Maxwell. When Maxwell's not around, Astrid and I go everywhere together. Every single person I've met, Astrid has also met. No one has met just me as me. I'm always in addition to her.

Last night we had a huge fight in a small alley while Maxwell waited in a bar for us. I wanted to go home to catch some much-­needed sleep, but she demanded that I come with them to another bar. She told me that sometimes conversation falls flat between her and Maxwell and that I balance it out. I told her she was selfish and that I wasn't going to play the supporting role in her life forever. It was one of the most honest moments of my life. Somehow, and I really don't know how, we made up after this, but there's palpable tension. It feels like I'm stuck in a bad marriage. How do you break up with your best friend? You can't. Do you ever feel this way about Rosabelle or is it just me?

I'm also pretty sure we scared off the elderly Chinese people who live on that street. They wear their pajamas around town once the sun has set, but when they heard the first screech of an angry Norwegian, they scattered.

I'm planning to fly to Shanghai to crash on Jon's couch for a week to escape the tension. He's teaching there, and I'd love to see his face. Apparently, he's catnip to all the gay men in Shanghai as well as to every guy at Brown.