Counterfeit by Kirstin Chen
Part I
1
The first thing I noticed was the eyes. They were anime-character huge, with thick double-eyelid folds, expertly contoured in coppery tones, framed by premium lash extensions, soft and full as a fur pelt. Then there was the hair—sleek yet voluminous, nipple-length barrel curls—and the skin, poreless and very white. And the clothes—sumptuous silk blouse, patent Louboutins. And, finally, the bag—an enormous Birkin 40 in classic orange. Back then, I wouldn’t have known all these details, although, like most people, I knew those bags were absurdly expensive and impossible to obtain. All of this is just to say, the woman standing in the doorway of my neighborhood coffee shop looked rich. Asian-tourist rich. Mainland-Chinese rich. Rich-rich.
Of course I was surprised. Almost twenty years had passed since I’d last seen her, and she looked nothing like my freshman-year roommate. In fact, she didn’t even sound like her. Back at Stanford she’d had a thick singsong accent. Each word she spoke curled in around the edges like a lettuce leaf. She struggled with the “th” sound, so mother came out mo-zer; other, o-zer. Now, though, it would have taken me a few lines to figure out that she was from China. On the phone, when she’d identified herself, she’d pronounced her last name like the tooth. Ava? Is that you? It’s Winnie Faaang.
Why on earth did she want to catch up? How did she even get my number? In hindsight, she must have had her private investigator track me down, but when I asked her then, she answered breezily, Oh, I looked you up in the alumni listserv.
I didn’t think to question her further. I agreed to meet for coffee, a part of me curious to see what had become of her. She’d dropped out of school so suddenly, midway through our first year. None of my college friends were in touch with her, and she didn’t use social media, at least not under her real name. Still, rumors drifted in from time to time: we heard she’d gone back to her hometown of Xiamen and graduated college there, that she moved to Virginia to care for an ailing aunt, that she married an American and quickly divorced. A friend of a friend had run into Winnie while touring one of those pricey Chinese immersion private schools in L.A., where she’d apparently taught for a spell.
The woman in the doorway caught sight of me. Ava, she cried. She hurried over holding out one arm for a hug, her other weighted down by the duffel-size Birkin. The coffee shop patrons looked up with idle curiosity, probably pegged her for another one of those influencers, and returned to their screens.
I’d dressed carefully, changing out of my usual leggings for pants that zipped, stippling concealer under my eyes. Now, however, I felt as plain as a brown paper bag.
Winnie ordered a double espresso at the counter and toted the doll-size cup and saucer back to the table.
I asked what had brought her to San Francisco, and she said she was here on business—handbag manufacturing, boring stuff. She waved a hand laden with emerald and sapphire eternity bands. To think I’d left my engagement ring at home for fear of appearing too flashy.
Now I know you’re wondering why I called, she said. She explained that a dear friend in China needed a liver transplant and wanted the procedure done in the US. She’d done some research; she knew my husband was a successful transplant surgeon. Might I put her in touch with him? She understood that he was highly regarded in the field.
Again, I hadn’t heard from her in twenty years! Misreading my disbelief, she said, I know, I know, since the election they’ve cracked down on transplants for foreigners, but if your husband could just talk to my friend.
I agreed to speak to Oli. She thanked me profusely and said, Now, Ava, how are you? Tell me everything. It’s been too long.
I ran through the checklist (while she pretended her private investigator hadn’t already filled her in): Olivier, with whom she appeared to be already acquainted, husband of four years, half French, half American; Baby Henri, two years old—did she want to see a picture? Here he was in our backyard, yes, we lived right up the street.
And work?
I gave the stock answer: I’d left my law firm when Henri was born and was now considering going in-house, better work-life balance and all that. As I talked, I parsed her transformation. Eyelid surgery, of course, cutting-edge facials involving lasers and microcurrents, quality hair extensions, designer clothes. But it was more than that. Sitting across from me, sipping from that miniature ceramic cup, Winnie looked comfortable, relaxed; she looked like someone who belonged.
What had she done with the plump, earnest girl who’d entered our dorm room lugging a pair of scuffed hot-pink suitcases, filled, I would learn, with acrylic cardigans and ill-fitting polyester cuffed trousers? Right away, it’d been clear that we could not be friends.
Why, you ask? For all the usual superficial reasons that matter to teenagers. She was awkward, needy, fobby. No, f-o-b-b-y. Fresh off the boat.
Look, I wasn’t cool then, either, but I wasn’t a lost cause. I knew the right friends could buoy me and the wrong kind would sink me, and there was only a small window of time in that first year of college to get it right.
You see, Detective, it felt like I’d waited my whole life to get to Stanford. Growing up outside of Boston—Newton, to be exact, if you know the area—I was one of those quiet, nerdy kids everyone ignored. I mean, the teachers knew me because I had excellent grades, although they constantly confused me with Rosa Chee. She was my friend, along with all the other quiet nerds, but to the rest of the school, to the normal kids, I was invisible.
You want an example? One time my brother was home from college, and we went out for ice cream and ran into Mitch Paulson, his former tennis doubles partner. Gabe and Mitch slap palms, thump shoulders, and I kind of wave. I swear, Mitch’s face goes completely blank. Gabe says, That’s my sister, Ava, she’s a junior, and Mitch says, perfectly pleasantly, Nice to meet you.
Nice to meet you! I’d watched at least a dozen of their matches. I knew who Mitch had dated all through his senior year, and who he’d dated before her. He had no clue who I was.
Stanford was full of kids like me. I had new contact lenses. I’d grown my hair long enough to braid. I was ready to be seen, and if I couldn’t have a blond ponytailed jock roommate, I wasn’t going to let the one I did have get in my way.
In my defense, I tried to be civil to Winnie. I squelched my impatience and answered her countless questions. Mostly basic things, like where to get a student ID and how to figure out her mailbox combination. But she also had this annoying habit of treating me like her pocket dictionary, asking me to define words she didn’t know, and complicated ones, too: doppelg?nger, verisimilitude, conceit.
Come to think of it, given that the vast majority of our interactions in college involved her asking for my help, perhaps I shouldn’t have been so taken aback by this, her most recent request, to aid in arranging her friend’s medical care.
Through the course of the afternoon, she disarmed me by commending my life choices, saying things like, It doesn’t surprise me at all that you married someone both brilliant and handsome. And, I’ve always thought that half white, half Asian babies are the absolute cutest. And, Of all the girls at school, you’re the one I envied most. Basking in her flattery, I failed to notice that she’d had me pegged from the start, while I’d completely misjudged her.