“No, Mr. Liu, I’m pretty sure not.”
“Well, I suppose no one’s perfect.” Dad smiles at us knowingly, and I have the feeling he isn’t exactly surprised by our big announcement. “There’s some dumplings for you in the fridge, Brendan. And call me Arthur.” He turns back to theTV.
“Thanks, Mr . . . Arthur,” Brendan stumbles over the name, but he’s clearly happy. Wes didn’t get the “call me Arthur” until about a month before the wedding.
It’s not exactly the thrilled reaction Brendan’s mom had for the news, but for my dad, this is a pretty great outcome.
“Oh,” Dad says, as we start to head out of the room, “So I know I’m not a creative genius like you two, but I have the perfect idea for a character for your show—Matsock.” He points the remote at theTV, grinning. “Get it?”
Lan and I both groan, and Brendan laughs. “Matsock. I like it.”
Dad winks at me. “He’s a keeper, Su-Lin.”
Don’t I know it.
“That went surprisingly well,” Brendan says quietly as we get back into the kitchen. He gives a confused look back toward the living room, like he’s wondering if my dad was involved in some alien body-snatching incident while we were gone.
“I told you he loves you, Chinese or not.” I wrap my arms around him. “Speaking of surprises, I’ve got one for you. Give me, like, ten minutes—have some of those dumplings!—then meet me up in the studio.”
He raises his eyebrows, and I give him a quick kiss and then dart up the stairs.
I don’t have too much left to prepare—I got most of it done as soon as Brendan dropped me off earlier today. But I strip down and get myself back intoThe Dress (complete with sneakers underneath). I pin up my hair sort of like it was the night of the masquerade, though I add some bright pink butterfly clips, just for fun.
Then I do a check of the studio.This room is where Brendan and I spend the bulk of our time. Against the wall is a shelf crammed full of craft supplies, above which hangs the unicorn piñata I bought on a whim and which Brendan named Artistic Integrity, making her something of our mascot.There’s a big comfy futon where we would usually be found draped over each other—probably way more than “just friends” ever should, looking back on it—working on scripts and editing. We do our filming in the basement, since there’s less ambient noise down there. Brendan trapped the civilization of rats that were living down there when we first started working together—I like to imagine them building a barricade and one lone rat singing “Empty Chairs at EmptyTables”before they finally succumbed—and fitted the room with some foam that helps with the acoustics. All the prep work, though, we do up here.This is where the magic happens.
I’m hoping for a whole different kind of magic today.The studio is always a fun, happy workspace. Now, though, it looks totally transformed. I take in all my work.
Twister mat: spread out on the floor.
Strings of outdoor lights: hanging across the room.
Disco ball borrowed from Lan’s room: lit up and spinning on the ceiling.
Bubble machine (because of course I have one): whirring away, churning out bubbles.
iPod: docked and ready to go.
I smile and turn off the overhead light. Perfect.
“Can I come in yet?” Brendan calls from outside the door.
“Yes!” I shout, bouncing on the balls of my feet and hitting play on my iPod.
He opens the door and stands there, stunned, his mouth dropping open as he sees the room, lit with strings of lights, sparkling in reflections off the spinning disco ball and glistening bubbles floating through the air. And me, in a dress of stars that I now know he really, really loves (both me andThe Dress!)
“I thought we should get to have the prom and masquerade we really wanted,” I say, grinning at him. “No other dates. Just us.” I gesture to the craft table, which now has a small stack of freshly-made Gudetama toast and full bottles of cherry vodka and 7-Up I grabbed from the liquor store next to Fong’s. “And alcohol,” I add.
Brendan laughs, a huge smile spreading across his own face. “This is incredible. I feel a little underdressed, though.” He looks down at hisSock and Ordert-shirt and slouchy shorts.
I grab his hand and pull him into the room onto theTwister mat/dance floor. “Aww, you look perfect.”
He shakes his head and looks down at me with this expression that makes my heart beat harder and my whole body feel all warm and tingly. “No, that word is definitely meant to describeyou.”
I tug my lower lip between my teeth. “Care to dance?”
Just as he’s about to take me into his arms, I start chicken dancing, and he grins and joins me, and we chicken dance to that Jonathan Coulton zombie song he loves. And then we fast dance to Kylie Minogue and Cardi B and LMFAO, doing every goofy, super uncool dance move we can think of to make each other laugh. We eat toast and we drink and we make a game of popping bubbles. And when that “So Close” song comes on, we dance again, together, his hand on the bare skin of my back and my head resting against his chest, where I can hear his heartbeat.
“This is exactly what I wanted at both those dances,” he says, pressing his lips to the top of my head.
