The boy sets his phone aside and looks up for the first time, which I consider a tremendous success. “Two is the cheapest I can offer,” he says gruffly, but I can see him taking me in, his eyes wandering down from my lips to where my halter top is cropped at the waist to the slim length of my ankles, strapped into my black stilettos. This is what I’m good at. This is maybe, probably, the only thing I’m good at: fleeting impressions, tourist-attraction interest, something to admire for a minute before you start getting bored of seeing the same scenery.

“Quick. How do you say handsome in Chinese? Like, in a colloquial way?” I ask Cyrus under my breath.

“You don’t have to tell me I’m handsome in Chinese,” he replies, cocking his head. “English is fine.”

There are a number of things I would like to tell him that are less flattering and far more menacing, but I need to act fast while I still have the boy’s attention. “Cyrus.”

He hesitates. Sighs. “It’s shuaige,” he says, as resentfully as if the information had been tortured out of him. Then, in a lower voice, “I can’t believe I’m helping you flirt with this guy.”

“You’re helping me help us win,” I inform him, and turn back to the boy. “Please, shuaige. Can’t you be nice and let us buy the lettuce for fifty cents?” I doubt my grammar is entirely correct, but I hold out hope that any awkward turns of phrase are smoothed over by the way I’m gazing right at him as I play with a strand of my hair.

The boy blinks at me like he’s only just learned how to do it and wants to keep practicing. He blinks again. Three more blinks, two fast and one slow, and I’m beginning to wonder if he’s actually conveying a message in code when he nods and grabs the lettuce for us.

“Thank you so much, shuaige,” I coo.

“Maybe take the excitement down a notch,” Cyrus mutters in my ear. “Unless you want him to bring you home to meet his parents.”

I ignore him, then swiftly turn to grin at the boy. “Thanks again,” I say, fluttering my fingers in a wave.

I’m still waving to him as we head off to buy carrots next, with Cyrus hauling the bag of lettuce over his shoulder.

“This should be our strategy,” I tell him. “Just charm the vendors, and we might be able to buy things for a cheaper price.”

“I’m not sure I’m a fan of that strategy,” he says, walking faster.

“Yeah, okay, but you’re not a fan of anything.”

His gaze slices up to my face. “That’s not true.”

“Sure.” I let out a scoff of disbelief.

“I just don’t like relying on my charm to get the things I want.”