“Hmm,” Mom replies. “We’ll see if you like it.”
The cameraman leans in for a shot of her face.
“What do you do for work?” Dad asks Antoine, as we begin to eat.
You don’t waste time, Bàba, do you?
“I’m a tattoo artist,” Antoine replies. “I have my own parlor in the 18th arrondissement.”
If I hadn’t figured out his job during the honeymoon, I would’ve asked about it on the flight back to Paris. That’s when Antoine found out about my day job at the bank. Throughout our stay at Cala Stella, he had assumed that I was a professional costume jewelry designer.
There’s a beat of silence as my dad digests Antoine’s reply. “You mean… you draw on people.”
“Yes,” Antoine confirms. “It’s an art form.”
I almost spit out my wine.Your drawings, an art form?
“Do you make any money from yourart?” Dad presses, grimacing at “art.”
“Zhou!” Aunt Mei admonishes him. “Art isn’t a bad word.”
“Not if it pays,” Dad concedes before turning back to Antoine. “Does yours?”
“Yes,” Antoine replies.
Dad’s eyes narrow. “How much do you make?”
“Bàba!” I glare at him. “That’s rude.”
“It’s a valid question,” Mom interjects, her focus on Antoine. “You’remarriednow. Finances matter.”
The derisive tone with which she says “married” mirrors Dad’s handling of “art” to perfection.
Antoine hesitates. “Enough to live comfortably.”
“Comfortably for a hippie or for a family man?” Dad mutters.
Antoine chooses to treat that as a rhetorical question.
I grip my chopsticks so tightly my knuckles turn white. The camera shifts from Dad’s face to Antoine’s, then to mine, and then to Mom’s. Close-ups, no doubt. The cameraman, who isn’t Alain, is smiling with glee. The entire crew looks like they couldn’t be happier.
The meal goes on. Mom, Dad, and Aunt Mei pepper Antoine with more questions—where he’s from, why he chose this career, whether he has plans to move up in life. He replies he’s from asmall place in the Dordogne region. Other than that, he mostly deflects.
Every new pique, every passive-aggressive act of hostility my parents deliver makes the TV crew’s expressions a little happier. When they thank my parents and leave, without waiting for the dessert, they practically skip down the hallway. The moment I close the door behind them, I can hear them gloat.
“That was enough drama to fill an entire episode!”
“The Yangs didn’t disappoint.”
“When we air, fans will start calling in to check if Antoine made it home alive.”
They laugh.
I clench my fists.
Not funny. Not funny at all!
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
