Chapter One
They say money doesn’t buy happiness, but…doesn’t it? I’ve been staring at my closet for twenty-three minutes and I’d be much happier if I had the money to buy something I actually want to wear to this event happening in less than three hours. Money pays the rent, money takes the tension out of my mom’s shoulders, money pays for my little sister’s activities. And most importantly, money will help me fulfill my filial duty to my parents as the elder daughter of immigrants and absolve me of future guilt when I leave one day for college.
This is the year everything’s going to change. I can feel it. Or at least I can will myself to feel it.
I grab my secondhand Loewe bag and rush out of our apartment, determined to find a better outfit for today than what my sad closet offers me. The G train isn’t far, and within a half hour, I’m inside one of my go-to thrift stores in Williamsburg. They sell a lot of clothes that scream ’90s, like things you’d see from that movie Clueless. It’s not fully my style, but if I match it with something I already own, I like what I can create. I scan the room. There’s a rack with a lot of bright colors and it looks happy and inviting, so I start there.
Next to me, two girls are talking about their office drama. Their baskets are filled halfway with necklaces, earrings, multiple tops and shoes. I’m filled with envy. I don’t need a basket because I’m pretty sure I can only pick one thing. Focus on yourself, Charlotte. There’s no point in getting distracted by what the people next to me are buying.
By my third rack, I see something promising. It’s a bright purple off-the-shoulder dress with sleeves, all one piece of delicate satin. It’s stunning and perfect. I check the price tag, hoping the Korean money gods are on my side. They are not. It’s eighty-five dollars. I check my wallet, wondering if what’s inside somehow more than doubled. Nope.
At the register, I see the two girls checking out. One of their totals is more than two hundred dollars and I’m awash with annoyance at their happy laughter and the casual way in which they pay for their new possessions. I hang the satin dress back on the rack, squashing every ounce of envy that thrums through my body. I thank the woman at the counter and leave, empty-handed, ready to head to my second hope. I only have one hour before Fall into Florals starts.
This store is smaller, with less selection but often better curated. I take a deep breath, determined. Slowly, I look through each item of clothing, imagining it on me, paired with every piece I have in my closet. If I maximize the use of what I buy, I feel less guilty. I pick three tops, all under forty bucks, and go to the dressing room. The same thrill of finding that purple satin dress is missing, but I convince myself that a top is much more practical than a fancy dress. I settle on a red one with
lacing on the hem and an oversized bow in the middle, and I’m pleased with how it gives my muted yellow pants some pop. It’ll pair well with most of my shorts, too. Inside the fitting room, I dump out my bag of accessories to see what’ll go best with my new outfit. I check the time before deciding on feathery earrings and a simple black headband.
With just enough time, I pay for my new top, rush back to the train, and make my way to Flatiron. It’s at The New York Edition hotel, and, like most hotels, I’ve never been. But I was promised free food and a preview of the fall collection for some of New York City’s trendiest boutique brands in (unspoken) exchange for posting to my Instagram stories. After checking in, the hostess, dressed in an all-black fitted outfit and heels that look too high to walk around in, leads us quickly and gracefully to the event area. Strewn across the space are different tables showcasing all categories of late summer and fall attire, each uniquely designed and decorated. Servers walk around with trays full of crudités, appetizers, and drinks.
“We’re so happy to have you, Charlotte,” the hostess says, walking with us. “Welcome to Fall into Florals. So, today we’re showcasing our favorite boutique designers in New York. At this event only, everything is twenty-five percent off for our influencers as a thank-you for joining us. Just use this hashtag if you post to your stories,” she finishes, handing us a sticker with the event hashtag on it.
I nod, looking around for familiar influencer faces. New York is probably the second-biggest pool of influencers, second only to Los Angeles, and the proof is right in front of us. There are a handful of people I recognize: @LizzyBrawls, @GirlInTheCorner, @JulesJewels, @WooYoungOh, @AudreySena. I study their outfits and am in love with Audrey Sena’s look. She’s wearing a pink-and-orange crocheted bucket hat, a white fitted three-quarter-sleeve top, and baggy velvet purple pants. I glance at my own reflection in the dark glass panes, suddenly
no longer appreciating my own wide mustard pants and new top. I look like a Heinz ad. The satin dress would’ve looked so much better.
I spend some time recording videos of the booths, tagging vendors and the hotel, taking selfies, and making small talk with a few of the influencers I vaguely recognize. I feel out of place and everyone else seems like they’re friends. I wonder if they also think I’m out of place here.
One of them looks my way. “Hey, I love your top. The bow is so cute.”
“Thanks!” I say too chipperly.
“Where’s it from?” another one asks.
“Oh, it’s vintage.” Vintage is close enough to secondhand, right?
“Ugh, I knew it. Aren’t vintage things the best?” the first girl says.
I nod, pretending to agree, and try not to fidget. Eventually, enough time passes where I feel like it’s acceptable to excuse myself and wander through the booths. I try on a few plaid coats and oversized knits. Not much catches my eye until I notice a beautifully dark, leather baker boy cap. I’ve seen them everywhere, or versions of them anyway. It’s the hat in all of Condé Nast magazines’ “trendy fall accessories” lists. I feel like the only influencer who hasn’t gotten the memo. It’s the perfect accessory I’ve been looking for, and something I’ve been craving for my closet. This booth has three different colors: black, a caramel brown, and a Barbie pink. I try the black one on, and the seller offers to take a few photos for me.
“It’s okay,” I decline politely. She has no idea how uncomfortable giving her my phone makes me. The power they wield with the camera frightens me to my core. I will always and only do selfies alone or timed pictures when I’m posing.
“Do you like it? It’s the last one in that color.”
“It’s perfect,” I tell her. “How much is it?” It’s habit that I ask. I already know I can’t afford it.
I contort my features so it looks believable that I’m considering the purchase. I hold on to it for a few moments longer than I need to. Because not being able to buy things never gets easier. While the seller goes to greet someone else, I snap a few photos at an angle that looks like the hat is mine. The very definition of curated content.
I slip out while she checks someone out at the register and quickly walk through other booths. I’m about to try on sunglasses when I hear whispers behind me. There’s a giant rack of coats between me and the quiet snickering voices, so I stop moving to make myself invisible.
“Honestly, I don’t get what people see in her,” someone says.
“She got big for no reason. Because her family has money and nowhere to spend it, so she just uses it on nice clothes and voilà, she’s suddenly an influencer,” a new voice says with a mocking tone. I catch a glimpse of her between coats. Her outfit is forgettable, but she has an intensely long fishtail braid.
“Hi, I’m Audrey Sena, and I looooove being authentic,” the third one says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She’s wearing a cute LoveShackFancy dress.
They’re all hovering over a phone that a blond girl is holding up, and I strain to see it in between the coat collars I’m peeking through. She’s zoomed into Audrey’s Instagram page.
“There are so many Asian influencers now. Aren’t we the minority yet?” the girl with the phone says. She flips her thin hair over her shoulders with a look of disgust on her face. My hands feel clammy and cold. They have zero idea that I’m standing right here. Me, an Asian person. Is this how everyone talks about us? I wonder.
LoveShackFancy nods vehemently. “Honestly, just so much Asian everything,” another adds. “Like, oh my god, did you guys see that Shake Shack is doing a Korean menu for their burgers? It looks gross.”
Fishtail pretends to gag. “Seriously. They’re taking up too much space. You know they’re the ones who started Covid, right? People like her—” And that’s enough for me to interrupt.
I step out from behind the rack and snatch the phone from the girl’s hand before they know what’s happening. “People like what? Asian? Seriously?” I feel like someone is scraping out my stomach.
It’s clear she didn’t know she was being overheard. A flicker of guilt flashes across her face but she replaces it with annoyance. “Give me back my phone,” she says. “And sorry, who are you?”
LoveShackFancy snickers. “Oh, I know. An amateur influencer trying to find her ‘space,’ too.”
Fishtail chimes in. “We were having a private conversation. It’s not our fault you overheard and got all righteous.” She’s not much taller than me, but her long blond hair reaching her waist and her icy gray eyes make her feel more intimidating.
I toss the other girl her phone. “If you’re going to be racist, do it in your bedroom so the rest of the world doesn’t have to deal with your idiocy. And yeah, we’re taking up space. It’s about damn time, but it’s not even close to the space you’ve been occupying.” My hands feel shaky but I ball one of them up in a fist. The other one is holding my phone, recording this entire dialogue.
She leans in so our faces are too close. I make a face when I smell the garlic bagel on her breath and discreetly bring my phone higher up.
“No one can hear us, anyway. So yeah, annoying little know-it-all Asians like you are getting in the way. You, Audrey Sena, and the rest of you need to just back the fuck off. No one can tell you all apart anyway,” she hisses.
Fortunately, her whisper isn’t quiet enough.
I stare at her with a small hint of a smile and pull back, showing her my phone. “And, stop.” I wiggle my eyebrows, channeling confidence the best I can. “I wonder what the world will think when I blast this video, angled perfectly to capture your face?”
She looks stunned, shocked, and scared all at once. She stammers, glances around at her silent friends, then regains her composure. “You don’t even know who I am.”
“LilasLovers,” I say, remembering what I saw when I grabbed her phone. “Really bad username, by the way. Are you trying to have online orgies?” She goes pale. “Find Audrey Sena and apologize. I’m going with you.”
“Hard pass. And again, who even are you?”
“Do it, or the video goes viral. Also, you’re in a compromising position so maybe don’t be a ragingly rude human to me?”
She says nothing but scans the room with a cold stare. When she spots Audrey across the space from us, she stalks over. Her friends and I follow behind.
When we get to Audrey, I’m nervous though I pretend not to be. “I’m Charlotte,” I tell her, extending my hand. “These girls were being racist jerks about you and got caught on video by yours truly. Now they’re dying to apologize.” I turn to LilasLovers. “Take it away.” The entire ordeal is super cringy. She apologizes and begrudgingly mutters something about not meaning what she said. We all know she meant it, though.
LilasLovers is watching Audrey, waiting for a response, probably hoping she doesn’t tell me to post it. After a moment, she says, “Uhh, hello?” She waves a hand in front of Audrey’s face.
Audrey just stands there, intimidatingly stoic. Finally, she says, “People like you make me even prouder of people like me.”
LilasLovers purses her lips, knowing she can’t retort back. “Sorry,” she mumbles again. We all know she doesn’t mean a syllable of it.
“Charlotte, want to look at that hat again?” Audrey
says, turning to me.
I’m baffled; did she see me? Audrey Sena is talking to me. Me! “Sure.”
LilasLovers grabs my arm as we turn. “Wait, I apologized. Now delete the video.” She’s desperate.
“The deal was I wouldn’t post it, not that I’d delete it,” I say, yanking my arm back. “A deal’s a deal, but the content belongs to me and you have no right to tell me what to do with it. Now you back off.” My whole body is sweating and I quickly nudge Audrey and scurry to another booth before LilasLovers has a chance to follow.
A server has a tray of tuna tartare nearby so we make our way over. I take a fizzy citrus mocktail from a different tray and take a long sip from it.
“Are you okay?” I ask her. More servers come by and I study my options, opting for a fancy mozzarella stick.
Ever so gingerly, Audrey puts down her deviled egg, dabs the edges of her mouth with a napkin, and looks at me. “Thank you,” she finally says.
“It was no big deal,” I say, but the vibe feels heavier than that.
“I heard her say the first part of it,” she admits quietly. “Then I walked away. I’ve been getting a lot of messages like that lately. Ever since I started speaking up and being more vocal about supporting other POC creators, I’ve gotten some nasty messages and a lot of unfollows. I’ve turned off my DMs and disabled comments. I expected it, but it doesn’t make it less shitty.”
I stand there, staring at the tablecloth, unsure of how to respond. My mouth feels dry. When I feel really helpless or angry, I get numb and fumble, often becoming disassociated. When this happens, people think I’m insensitive. But I’m so crippled by the pain that I think my heart tries to rescue me by turning off. I don’t know Audrey well, so I search my mind for anything appropriate to say. Anything at all. “I just feel like the world is moving backward sometimes,” I manage to say. A beat later, I add, “I’m sorry.”
“It really did mean a lot to me, what you did.”
video,” I joke.
Audrey smiles back. “Thanks,” she says, finishing off her deviled egg. “I think I’m going to head home now. It’s been a long day.”
I nod, unable to say anything consoling. “Totally,” I tell her sincerely. To her back I say, “Bye.”
Mindlessly, I find my way back to the booth with the popular leather caps before I head home. I try on the pink one this time. The seller isn’t here at the moment, which is a relief. I know I can’t buy it. I just wanted to see myself in it one more time.
Chapter Two
I get off the R train and walk toward our apartment on the northern side of the Queensboro Bridge. Some people think we have money because we live in LIC, Long Island City, but we’re lucky we got this unit when it was still rent stabilized, when my mom was pregnant with Jojo. The doorman gives me a nod as I enter.
“Hey, Teddy,” I say.
“Finally Saturday,” he says, lightly chuckling.
“Finally,” I echo.
The elevator dings when it reaches the fourth floor, something that makes me a little nervous every time. Four is unlucky in Korea so all the apartments there have gotten rid of that number in elevators. When things don’t work out for my family, which happens often, I always wonder if it’s because we live on the fourth floor. If there’s a Korean god, I imagine they’re upset with us for moving to the States and betraying them by living on this cursed floor that doesn’t even exist back in the motherland.
“I’m home,” I call out. I don’t have a chance to throw my backpack on the floor before Jojo jumps into my arms, as she routinely does, and throws her sticky arms around me.
“Sharty’s home!”
“Char-lotte,” I correct her while kissing her cheek. Joanna’s three and a half, but when she was two, she couldn’t pronounce “Charlotte” and would call me “Shart.” It was a super-annoying stage and somehow, even with the tonsil ability to pronounce l’s, the name stuck.
“SHARTY!” she screams louder, with the untainted glee only a toddler could have. I follow her into the kitchen, where my mom is trying to bribe Jojo into eating pancakes.
“How was book club?” my dad asks. “Steven was there, too?”
Steven, my best friend, would absolutely shame me if I brought him into my ongoing lie. ...
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