1. Krista is a second-generation Chinese immigrant. She and her family speak a mixture of Mandarin Chinese and English commonly referred to as Chinglish.

2. Krista Ming's Chinese name is 明飛鴻 / Ming Fei Hong, which expresses a parent's ardent hope that their child will have a bright future.

3. I transcribe Mandarin Chinese using Simplified Characters because I think it's important to have a visual representation of her family's (and my family's) native language in my writing (as opposed to simply italicising foreign languages).

There are terms like

吃飯了

that don't translate fully into English. It's not just food's ready. It's not just let's eat. At least, not to me, who feels a shiver of urgency to get my ass to the dinner table every time. I want to preserve and represent my culture.

When this occurs, I will narrate the general meaning of what is said. After I've uploaded all the chapter, I might come back to add inline translations, but I also would love if anyone could help me out with this if they feel comfortable!

to the phone call I had scheduled with Mom.

I opened WeChat and saw her name immediately, since she was constantly sending me concerned and questioning messages. Dad really didn't care so long as I graduated and didn't get myself pregnant. But Mom just happened to show her love through endless nagging and setting impossible standards.

She picked up the phone after five rings.

"Hi, Mom. How are you?"

She skipped greeting me back. She didn't really need to, because between our phone calls and her messages, our relationship was one continuous conversation. Outwardly I rolled my eyes at her probing, paranoid nature, but inwardly I loved that she was so attentive to me.

One day in freshman year, I'd caught a bad cold and taken the whole day off classes. Lying in bed, with no one bringing me a scalding jar—yes, like a full-size jam jar, because Mom always kept and reused them—of steaming ginger and lemon and honey tea, no-one to confiscate my phone to force me to sleep, no-one to press a cold flannel to my forehead, I'd realised my mother's love language was something that would never be put into words.

"飛鴻, 你要我送你茶嗎?" Mom asked me over the phone.

She was talking about sending me the herbal wormwood tea that she insisted on every time I came home. It was apparently anti-inflammatory, probiotic and good for digestion.

Sounds good, but imagine being sent a two litre glass jar full of twigs that, when steeped, looked and tasted exactly like swamp water. And then imagine explaining to your flatmates why you've left a cup of sewage sitting on the coffee table.

"No," I told her, hoping she wouldn't send the tea again.

She immediately stated that I didn't drink enough water, "你喝不夠—"

"—yes, I do—"

Or eat enough food, "—你吃得不夠—"

"—yes, I do," I argued.

"Are you sure? 這茶對你有好處."

"I said I don't need the tea, Mom."

She acted as if she didn't hear me, which was how I knew I would be getting a jar of dried wormwood leaves in about five days. "你睡夠了嗎?"

"睡夠了!" I insisted, "每晚八小時."

That was a lie. I didn't get eight hours of sleep every night, but if I let her know that, she would definitely send the wormwood tea from New York. Perhaps even hand-deliver it to cure the urgent state of my failing health.

She would say it gives energy, or some other fanciful justification. Sometimes, the way she talked about her herbal medicine, I thought I'd better be made damn immortal by such potent-sounding substances.

"Are you sure? 你工作在那個 nightclub is too stressful."

"No, it's not, I promise," I told Mom. That was a half-lie. My job at the nightclub was certainly stressful, but it was too stressful. I mean, what was too stressful, anyway?

Did something become too stressful the moment it made you break down, or did the moment you break down prove it had been too stressful from the beginning?

"Alright," Mom said slowly, sceptically. "Your grades seem to be able to handle it. How are your applications going?"

"They're going great. I've sent out primary applications to twenty med programs."

My MCAT scores were more than satisfactory. I mean, I expected them to be. I had dropped pretty much all my extracurriculars and hobbies to focus on my grades, relying on things like my job with Natural Affairs, my membership in a few student organisations and the two past internships I had done—in the agriscience and pharmaceutical industries—to round out my applications.

Med school was competitive. If I wanted a place—especially in the huge candidate pool that was New York—I needed to shine. It was a good thing I had so much regular practise in writing, because a major strength of my applications were the personal statement sections. I could tell a story that would stick in the minds of those who read it. Even Riley, the best writer I knew, said they were extremely compelling.

"You should get a better job after this year! But keep modelling—they want to see that you are multi-talented," Mom said.

She was always suggesting I do frivolous, superficial things like that, which would earn her street cred among the other Chinese mothers of high-achieving daughters, because she was never overly-concerned with my academics. I had never, from first grade till now, given her a reason to worry about my grades. She trusted me to succeed in that area, and therefore turned her attention to my failings.

"Niang Niang put her daughter into a beauty pageant, 但是我覺得她不夠漂亮不能贏. You're much prettier."

"Mom! Don't say stuff like that."

Even though she never said it, I could tell my Mom was proud of me. I knew because everytime we went to events within the New York Chinese community, everyone somehow knew of my latest achievements, photoshoots or awards. My Mom loved to brag about me—whether for her pride or mine. I had gotten used to it.

"你見過中國男孩嗎?"

Whoop, there it was. It came up every time we called since I turned twenty-one. It was time to find a boyfriend. Not just any boyfriend, but preferably a smart, rich Chinese boyfriend. Mom became intensely excited if she so much as found out I had a Chinese male friend, and her imagination would run away with her.

Namely, to a place where she had lots of beautiful grandchildren to put in children's fashion runway shows.

"Nope. My love life is dry as ever."

"Make me sad, 小鳥," Mom murmured. "It's because you work too hard."

I completely agreed with her, using that very same work ethic as a speedy exit to the phone call. Lab reports, ugh, gotta go! I told her I loved her, and she reminded me to keep the windows open at night to allow for air circulation.

Which was her way of saying she loved me, too.

Viv came to mine and Riley's room to do their makeup tonight.

I was getting ready to work my usual Friday shift, applying layers of my usual extravagant makeup. I swept my contouring brush up and down the plane of my cheekbones, watching as the hollows beneath them were magically carved out. The way I had learnt to apply makeup was through doing my stage makeup for ballet performances. That was also how I had learnt to do my hair in a variety of styles.

Mom was never a dance mom. She dropped me off and picked me up whenever I needed her to, but she left me well alone to practice, develop and prepare myself for shows the way I saw fit. In all honesty, I appreciated that. I'd been independent for as long as I could remember.

"You have to come out with us tomorrow!" Viv scolded me, inking on her eyeliner while staring into her portable makeup mirror.

I replied unblinkly, "Pity. I'm not going to."

"But the whole floor is going out! You can't skip out on this," Viv rebutted. "Scratch that. You can. But you shouldn't."

"I see the floor all the time. I'm sure they will understand why I can't go out," I shrugged. "Pre-Med is stressing me out, and I've got to write a Natural Affairs article tomorrow afternoon."

Viv would not take no for an answer. "I'm doing the same degree as you! If I can manage to get drunk and embarrass myself in front of a hot guy, you can do the same. And how about Riley helps you with the article? She's an English Lit major, I'm sure she can write stunningly."

"Riley, do you know anything about aquatic invasive species in Massachusetts?" I asked.

Riley paused from her eyeshadow blending to give me an apologetic smile—as much for Viv's relentless argument as for her not being able to help me out writing-wise. "Nope."

I levelled a blunt frown at Viv. "She can't help me with the article."

"Krista, I love you dearly, but there are cobwebs growing between your legs. Please shake them out of there," she whined.

"Oh, Viv. You are so going to peak in university," I retorted.

"That's the way it's meant to be. Please, Krista, just say maybe."

I sighed. "Maybe."

"And mean it."

I sighed again, watching as Viv and Riley's faces lit up with hope. "Alright. Maybe. I will really think about it. I'll let you know tomorrow."

That was confirmation enough for them. When we had all finished our makeup and gotten into our nightclub outfits, we had the mandatory photoshoot on Viv's brand new iPhone. She had participated in so many on-campus focus groups and drug trials to raise funds for that—her endometriosis qualified her for a slew of clinical studies.

At the time I was so worried that the cocktail of untested medicine she ingested would result in some serious harm, but two months later she was happy as can be. Like I said, she lived outside her means.

Plus, now we had a great camera for getting Insta-worthy photos. I wore a cheetah print bodycon dress with thigh high white platform books. Riley wore a red two piece and had her hair in two curly, glamorous pigtails. Viv had a silver sequin bandana shirt over a black leather skirt. We took single portraits of each other, duos, trios with the self-timer setting, and finally we were ready to depart.

It was our ritual. Before each shift, I asked Riley to take pictures of my outfit and makeup on Viv's phone. After all, I needed to maintain a certain image to keep my audience. Since I hated the effort that went into getting glammed up, I made sure to roll two of my jobs into one, and stockpile the photos for posting at a later date. Work smarter, not harder.

Jake and Jamie were turning the common room into a rave as we caught the elevator, the familiar beer bottles and red solo cups appearing on any flat surface people could find. Once on the ground floor, Riley, Viv and I strolled down the path to where I had parked my car, ready to head to Topaz.

They were using Topaz as a launching point for their night. I would give them a free ride instead of making them catch an Uber, and they would get utterly drunk using my staff discount before finding a club that wasn't jam-packed with sweaty freshers and actually played good music.

See? Even if I didn't make much of a social effort, I liked to think I was a good friend.

Five minutes later, I parked where I usually did, facing the dumpster and the white brick wall behind it. The music was pounding already. There was a larger line than there had been last week. Riley and Viv vacated the car and claimed their place in it hastily, before even more people joined.

"See you in there!" I called after them.

Riley smiled over her shoulder at me.

Viv turned and yelled, "See you, Kris. Love you!"

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I scanned through the back door and met Zachary in the staffroom.

A new The Office meme had been added to the growing collection on the walls. When you want to lock up but girls are still crying over their exes in the bathroom.

Michael Scott grimace.

"Nice meme."

"Thank you, Kris," he greeted with his signature charming smile. Zach held up a clawed hand and swiped the air. "Today's looking to be a rawr-ing night. Ha, get it?"

"Yes. I'm wearing cheetah print. Rawr. Hilarious," I rolled my eyes. "We must get you to the nearest standup club. The comedy world doesn't know what they're missing."

Zach pouted at me like a schoolgirl, and that's how I knew he was tipsy. "Wow, sourpuss— Ha! I didn't even mean to make that one!"

"Why are you back here when it's so busy, Zach?"

"Looking for you, of course!" he exclaimed.

His charming smile dimmed a fraction, until it was more warm and considerate. Sometimes I didn't know if he was a teenager in a thirty-year-old's body or a geriatric in a thirty-year-old's body. An odd mix of both, protective but playful, mature but a mess.

"But seriously, I want you to be onstage tonight. There's a little too many people here to have you working the floor like usual, and I already told security to look after all our girls."

"Oh, is it that busy? The line didn't look that bad coming in."

"It will. I feel it in my bones. You can work the floor once it hits one, but until then, stay behind the partition."

I believed Zach. He was a goofball that refused to act his age and bent all the laws that applied to him. But underneath his immaturity was a heart of gold. He thought of others before he did himself, he was generous—I mean, you had to be if you offered to give away house liquor to your staff—and he was indisputably wise in Halston's nightlife.

I nodded. "Alright, then. See you out there."

When I emerged through the digitally-locked door that led onto the dance floor, I saw that Zach was right. Fridays were always hectic, but it wasn't even late into the night, yet already people thronged on the dance floor and lined the booths.

The dance floor was so crowded that people couldn't even dance anymore. They had to resort to jumping up and down in tempo with the rest of the hundred or so freshmen pressing in on them. The music was some lyricless, warbled D'n'B.

I made my way onto the DJ stage, holding my abdomen solid as my tall stilettos climbed the stairs. My long hair fanned behind me, tickling the section of my lower back that was exposed by cutouts in the dress.

"Wow," I heard behind me, from a group of boys at the very front of the crowd. "That's Krista Ming, right? She's so hot!"

I rolled my eyes and kept walking, giving a mock salute to the DJ once I was up onstage. He recognised me immediately, and started dancing behind his mixing table. I joined in letting my body sink into the beat underneath all the screeching synth noises.

The exact moment I first read Zachary's offer of employment, I hadn't believed it. How did I get a job offer after throwing up in his bathroom? I had thought I was under qualified to do the job, and seven months later I sometimes still did feel like an impostor. But as I was onstage, rolling my hips and wandering my hands up and down my body, I thought I might be well-posed to be a promoter after all.

I could do makeup and hair. I was confident and calm under pressure. I knew first aid and could look after drunk people. My time as a dancer had taught me how to move and perform seductively. If you just overlooked the fact that I didn't particularly like it, this was my perfect job.

I made a slow circle around myself, tilting my hips as I was facing the back so that more of my thighs would be flashed at the audience. I was wearing Spanx under my dress, anyway, so I wasn't worried. Furthermore, I wasn't conservative about my body. Alongside ballet I had learnt lyrical and contemporary dance, and anyone who did that would know that it was incompatible with having qualms about exposing some leg, stripping in front of strangers—especially during quick changes—or being body-shy.

But I didn't appreciate the lewd voice that emerged from the crowd.

"That's it, baby! Flash that sweet ass!"

I pinpointed the man who had said that and narrowed my eyes at him, even as my limbs continued their slow, controlled hypnosis. He was red in the face with bloodshot eyes. The only reason he wasn't collapsing to the ground right now was that he had each arm looped around a friend of his, leaning his weight on them.

His friends seemed much more sober and apologetic about his behaviour. One was taller and lean, with familiar black hair. He looked up at the stage, and we locked eyes. The roaming strobe lights perfectly illuminated Quentin's face as his eyes widened and his eyebrows lifted in shock.

He recognised me.

Ah, shit.

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I made this so you could visualise Zach's (my) humour lmao