“If you would stop kissing Hongbo’s trust-fund ass for one second, you’d realize what a huge mistake you’re making discounting Andrew. His parents have family money too, in addition to their surgeon salaries.” This is all part of the plan, to get Hongbo out of the picture, I told myself. But I was still ashamed of what I’d resorted to, playing into my mother’s shallow standards and acting as if family money were an essential part of a relationship.

I hated who I became with my parents.

My mother turned my words over in her head, frowning as she deliberated.

Finally she nodded. “Good for you, Jing-Jing. I hope you can keep him interested. Won’t be an easy task if he’s as eligible as you say.”

She whisked into the next room, and through the doors I heard a muffled “Andrew, would you like to join us for a game of mahjong?”

Which I—and thus Andrew—knew translated to I’m going to interrogate you using the ruse of a friendly game. Phase two had begun: my mother was starting to give him a chance. I was so relieved I almost started crying, but I had some tiles to shuffle.

Drew CHAPTER 9 PÒNG!

After Jing-Jing and I declined lunch with a strategically timed “The delicious breakfast filled us up—we couldn’t possibly eat another bite!” the Wangs brought out a collapsible square table. (Was it specifically bought for mahjong?)

We settled in, shuffled, and stacked the tiles in silence. Five minutes later, we’d each had a few turns, there was a growing discard pile of directional tiles in the center, and it was still deathly quiet. Like this was the World Series of Mahjong, golden bracelets at stake. Jing-Jing had warned me via application that it would be intense and her mother would try to learn things about me from my strategy, but I wasn’t completely sure what that meant. So I stayed on guard (on the inside, while acting relaxed on the outside).

“Who taught you to play?” Mrs. Wang asked me, breaking the silence but not looking up from the tiles.

It was part of my training—rounds and rounds against other operatives so we could become good enough to impress Category 1–3 parents, and to throw games for Category 5–7s. “My wàipó,” I answered, because Category 1a hearts melted at the thought of grandmas passing knowledge (especially Chinese culture–related knowledge) down to their grandsons. “She was tough to beat,” I added with a chuckle. “I have so many wonderful memories of playing with her.”

My real wàipó was stone cold and hated my love of art because it reminded her of her penniless husband. Huàidàn, she used to call me. Rotten egg. Which was better than what she used to call my paintings (lèsè, for “garbage”).