Graduates in Wonderland Read online

  Advanced Praise for Graduates in Wonderland

  “I loved Graduates in Wonderland. It made me nostalgic for the uncertainty and excitement and seemingly endless possibilities of the post-college years but also relieved to have that phase behind me. The first thing I did after reading it was pour my heart out—via e-mail, of course—to my best friend.”

  —Rachel Bertsche, New York Times bestselling author of MWF Seeking BFF

  “A charming epistolary tale of female friendship and early post-graduate life in all its exciting and confusing glory. Jess and Rachel’s adventures will be relatable to anyone who has ventured down that strange rabbit hole we call the ‘real world’ and wondered just how to find her way back out again in one successful, happy piece.”

  —Rachel Friedman, author of The Good Girl’s Guide to Getting Lost

  “Sounding, thinking, and talking exactly like your best friends, these girls dive headfirst into the humor and heartache of life after college. They kiss a lot of foreign frogs in a lot of foreign cities. And just when they think they are in danger of becoming real live adults, they prove themselves spectacularly wrong. And I love them for it.”

  —Jerramy Fine, author of Someday My Prince Will Come

  “I knew from page eight, on which one of the authors ends a letter with a piece of brutally honest advice about the other’s crush, that I would love Graduates in Wonderland. Theirs is a best friendship I find as complex, challenging, and deeply intimate as my own—the type of dynamic, all-consuming female friendship story that is as common as it is undertold. Jess and Rachel are smart, funny, and wise, and it’s a pleasure to be like a fly in their e-mails, if that were a thing.”

  —Katie Heaney, author of Never Have I Ever

  “Gloriously addictive. This book is like catching up with your best friends over two-dollar tacos and margaritas, trying to convince each other to date this guy or travel or buy weirdo heels. I’ve been there, babes! The two authors have perfectly captured a time in your life where you have no footing and everything is utter chaos . . . but at least you have your buddies. A warm breath of both nostalgia and reality. The kind of writing you eat with a spoon. Funny and sweet and honest, like the best kinds of friendships. Will recommend to all my ladies.”

  —Alida Nugent, author of Don’t Worry, It Gets Worse

  “Rachel and Jess have done an extraordinary job, in the creation of this book, of turning an epistolary life story into something richly tender, and genuinely suspenseful. The intimacy here is not just between the writers, but with the readers. I’ve adventured forth now with Jess and Rachel, and I have returned with a warm, good feeling in my heart.”

  —Beth Kephart, author of Handling the Truth: On the Writing of Memoir and Going Over

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  Copyright © 2014 by Jessica Pan and Rachel Kapelke-­Dale

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  ISBN 978-0-698-15720-0

  While the authors have made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers, Internet addresses, and other contact information at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the authors assumes any responsibility for errors or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for authors or third-­party websites or their content.

  Penguin is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the authors’ alone.

  Version_1

  To our parents

  And for all good friends separated by circumstance

  Contents

  Advanced Praise for Graduates of Wonderland

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  A Note from the Authors

  Year One

  Year Two

  Year Three

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  A Note from the Authors

  The experiences recounted in this book are real, but to protect the privacy and anonymity of those involved, we have changed names and identifying characteristics. In order to maintain a streamlined narrative, this book has been edited for readability and cohesion. The timeline has been altered to reflect a compressed period of time (i.e., we do not include months where we did nothing but eat Saltine crackers and watch Gossip Girl). For a few minor characters, we combined characteristics and incidents of different people into one composite character.

  YEAR ONE

  AUGUST 20

  Jess to Rachel

  Rachel,

  These are some of the last courses I took at Brown:

  Behavioral Neuroscience

  Late Nineteenth-­Century French Painting

  Russian Literature in Translation

  Abnormal Psychology

  After my first week in Beijing, I decided that these are the courses I should have taken instead:

  Six Mandarin Phrases That Mean “No, Thank You, I Don’t Eat That”

  Practical Uses for Fire

  Guess My Race: A Sociological Study

  Abnormal Psychology

  Since we last spoke, I’ve flown thirteen hours and made it halfway across the world with my entire life packed into two suitcases and no return ticket (don’t tell Chinese immigration that). First observation: Everything here is so crowded and new to me. Ancient temples sit right next to brand-­new futuristic buildings; Chinese hipsters dart among elderly Chinese people who wander around in pajamas after sunset. The city is overflowing with heavy traffic and yellow-­and-­blue cabs, and the buildings are overwhelmingly gray and red. And it’s so fucking hot—­the local men here roll up their shirts in the heat in a style I like to call “the Beijing bikini.”

  When I got into the cab at the airport, I realized that taxi drivers here assume I’m Chinese, until I speak my broken Mandarin to them, and they crane their necks to get a better look at me, and exclaim, “Foreigner?!” Meanwhile, all the expats in China assume I’m full Chinese, not some halfie from Texas, and approach me with their own terrible, stilted Mandarin. I’m going to completely lose it on the next person who asks me, “WHERE...BATHROOM?”

  What is going on? Am I Chinese or am I a foreigner?!

  I want to perform some sort of experiment called “Where’s Jess?” (à la “Where’s Waldo?”) to see if anyone could pick me out of a crowd here. I thought China would be full of people who look like me and understand me, but I’m in some strange backward universe. Also, if you want the really easy version of this game, play “Where’s Astrid?” because she’s the only blond, blue-­eye
d girl for miles. Last night, we wandered upon a night market where they were selling cooked worms, caterpillars, starfish, etc. A man thrust a plate in front of us and said, “Buy these testicles!” Then I turn around and see that Astrid has been kidnapped by Chinese people who want to take their picture with the exotic Norwegian girl. She’s beginning to think she’s famous.

  So far, everything else I thought I knew was wrong. My idea of China was gleaned from what I had seen on the news (crowded Chinese streets and bird flu), kung fu movies (flying humans who wield swords), and my limited experience in Chinatown in Los Angeles visiting my dad’s side of the family (eating noodles, spending hours inexplicably waiting in line at Chinese banks).

  What I did not expect was to be covered in dust, sweating profusely, and writing this e-mail by candlelight. CANDLELIGHT. Like the thing they used in the Middle Ages to see in the dark. Astrid and I found a place to live through an acquaintance of an acquaintance from her German class at Brown, so we’ve already moved into an apartment on the sixth floor of a dusty apartment complex. But apparently, electricity costs money here too, and neither of us has a clue about how to pay the bill. Let’s hope my computer doesn’t die before I get to send this e-mail.

  And yes, no electricity means no air-­conditioning, so I’ve opened all the windows and am sitting here writing this in my underwear. You didn’t ask, but I’m telling anyway. Since I can’t communicate with 99 percent of the people I see, I’m going to overcompensate with too much information in these e-mails. For example: The smell of Beijing is like a punch in the face. The air is gray and hot and I can’t even place the source of the odor. It’s a mixture of Tiger Balm, burning plastic (Astrid calls this the smell of cancer), food waste and God knows what other kinds of waste, gas fumes, cigarette smoke, and grilled meat from street vendors.

  I feel like anything’s possible here. Even when I’m waiting in line at the bank for three hours (that part was actually true), I’m thinking, “But I’m in China, so this experience is not wasted.”

  My short-­term plan is under way. I’m starting classes at a Mandarin language school here soon, and when my program wraps up, I’m going to start applying for journalism jobs. This is a place where absolutely anything could happen. I could become the straight, half-­Chinese Anderson Cooper. I could have three-­quarters-­Chinese babies with the next boy I see. I could actually learn Mandarin OR I could somehow end up lost in the Chinese countryside selling eggs (this is a real fear of mine). It’s more likely that I’ll accidentally set my hair on fire with this candle, though.

  Stranger things have happened. For instance, when was the last time you were attracted to a guy named Beard Brother?

  On our first night here, Astrid and I met up with some older graduates from Brown who we found via the online alumni directory. A guy who graduated last year brought some friends and they all offered to show us around. I don’t know if it’s the combination of high pollution levels, a potent alcohol here called baijiu (tastes like rubbing alcohol), or just the intoxication of being in a foreign land, but I fell into a conversation with a guy named Maxwell and immediately took a liking to him.

  He and his best friend used to teach English in a tiny town in the Chinese countryside, where they were the only foreigners in the entire place. Maxwell has a bushy beard and mustache, and had the best stories about the young Chinese kids he taught, who gave themselves English names like Tiger Dinosaur or Nightclub.

  “I had one class where about a quarter of the boys and one of the girls were self-­named Wolf. I think there was some kind of hierarchy involved too, because they were named Wolf One through Wolf Sixteen,” Maxwell said. “I never figured out the order, though.”

  “But what did they call you?” I asked him.

  “They named me Beard Brother. They were simultaneously amazed, intimidated, and disgusted by my beard,” Maxwell said, laughing. “It was an emotional drain on them just to be around it.”

  The stories almost made me want to head to rural China until he explained that there was nothing to do in the city and no opportunities for anything besides teaching English.

  Then Maxwell asked me what I was doing in Beijing.

  Since even I don’t know the answer to this question, I told him about how I wanted an adventure and how I wanted to finally visit my dad’s home country and how I wanted to learn Mandarin. And also because I’d just graduated and did not have a job. When I said it out loud, it almost made sense to me.

  From then, it was one of those nights that went on and on—­we ended up in Beijing’s bar district dancing in an ’80s music club and I pulled out all the stops with my dance moves, although they were no match for Maxwell’s. (I wish I were a boy so that I would be boobless and have long, sinewy arms and fluid movements like him.) We jumped around and sweated profusely under strobe lights and as Maxwell dipped me, I had that very strange sensation of not recognizing my own life.

  Then we went for Chinese street food at 4 A.M. (just food here) and Maxwell walked me back to my apartment.

  I mean, he walked us back to our apartment. Did I mention that Astrid was there the entire time? We’re both completely charmed by him, and we’ve been hanging out with him nearly every day since we met. With Maxwell by our side, Astrid and I explore our neighborhood, try out used bicycles, and alternate staring into his eyes. Neither of us has dared to discuss what is happening or what it means.

  Okay, I’m just going to say it. Maxwell seems completely enamored of Astrid and she of him. And, of course, it makes me resent Astrid, who is currently asleep in the bedroom next door. It’s killing me because I really like him, and because I don’t want something like this to come between me and Astrid. And yet...both are happening.

  But I’m thousands of miles away from everyone else I know, and Astrid is the only familiar face here. Home feels so far away right now. When I said good-­bye to my parents at the Amarillo airport, my mom hugged me and said, “You’re braver than I am. Be safe.” My dad hugged me and said, “Remember what I told you when we dropped you off at college? The sentiment still stands: I love you, but don’t fuck up.”

  But I’m not sure that I won’t fuck this situation up.

  Remember this time last fall, when we began our senior year? You and Rosabelle and Astrid picked me up from the Providence airport, brought me bad white wine, and it was raining and we sat huddled on the front steps of our porch and drank and laughed about how we had no idea what we were doing with our lives but we had ten more months to figure it out. Those were the days, my friend! We had it so good! I miss you so much. I wish I could meet you at Ocean’s Café, right now—­you know the weather is perfect and we could discuss the assholes who lived upstairs, our classes, the color of your hair, and quitting smoking.

  How’s life stateside? I can’t believe you’re so far away.

  I miss you more than I miss microwaveable food (which is a lot!).

  Love,

  Jess

  AUGUST 27

  Rachel to Jess

  I can’t believe you and Astrid are in Beijing! So are you saying that it’s possible that you are wandering night food markets and dancing to ’80s music in clubs while on the other side of the world, I’m sitting on the C train commuting from Brooklyn to the gallery on the Upper East Side? And when Rosabelle and I are baking cookies after dinner in our apartment, you’re having breakfast with Astrid in Beijing? The twelve-­hour time difference is really doing a number on my mind!

  I also wish I had a good reason for coming here—­but unlike in Beijing, nobody ever questions why I chose to move to New York. New York is just where you’re supposed to go after college. It’s basically a rule, if you go to school on the East Coast. (You broke the cardinal rule!)

  New York feels different now that I’m working here instead of just visiting. I imagined it would be really similar to when I came last summer and hung out on friends’ roofs and d
rank umbrella drinks with Rosabelle at a tiki bar and came across the shooting locations from my favorite movies. Basically, I thought that it would be like my view of New York in the 1960s, still gritty but exciting, full of smoky nightclubs. So far, it hasn’t turned out that way, but there’s something about living in New York that feels like hyper-­reality. Like the stakes here are higher than they are anywhere else.

  Rosabelle and I live in an apartment that is a 1.5 bedroom in Fort Greene. This means one bedroom and a nursery. I live in the nursery. For $850 a month, I had to make the choice between shutting my door or having a double bed in my room. So far, I am compromising by pushing the bed diagonally when I sleep and rearranging it every morning. Rosabelle gets a real bedroom, but she’s paying a lot more (and splitting the rent with Buster, who has moved in). I spend my nights trying to shut out the sounds of Buster and Rosabelle climaxing next door. No matter how much you love your friends, there’s nothing worse than hearing them having sex (I know you know this, having lived with Astrid and her various boyfriends for four years at college). Any advice?

  My way of coping is to escape from them via the fire escape, which I refer to as my balcony. It’s been so hot this summer, and I just sit out there and read and peek through the brownstones at the tiny corner of Fort Greene Park that I can see.

  I also get to listen to our neighbor, the daughter of a famous singer, bicker with her boyfriend all the time. I have to tell you, the boyfriend sounds like an asshole. To protect their privacy, let’s call the father Jilly Boel. The boyfriend keeps saying, “Nobody cares that your father is Jilly Boel!”

  I keep wanting to yell back, “I do! Sing me a song!”

  But then I leave them to their own devices.

  So...I finally started working with Vince at the gallery. He runs the place, talks to artists, and chooses the layout for the next show. I’m his second personal assistant, so I spend my time paging through glossy auction catalogues and successfully managing a six-­line telephone.