The Good, the Bad, and the Aunties (Aunties, #3)

by Jesse Q. Sutanto

Fourth Aunt’s voice, already pretty nice on its own, is amplified in a powerful and yet silky way through the microphone. Everyone claps. Whistles tear through the applause, and I can’t help but smile.

She sounds as smooth as oil, as rich as chocolate.

a scream slices through Fourth Aunt’s golden voice.

A ripple goes through the crowd as someone scythes through them with ruthless efficiency, elbowing and shoving people out of their way. When I finally catch sight of the person, every muscle in my body freezes. Because it’s

A gasp shudders through the crowd.

Screw Abraham Lincoln and Julia Child not wanting to get the cops involved. Hah. Now there’s a sentence I never thought I’d say.

Yes, my aunt was diculik and you need to—ah, mail people before my whole family is killed.”

Of course, even if I were relaying the information in English, it would still take a lot of explaining, because how the hell do I convey to anyone what just happened?

Even through the phone, I can practically hear her rolling her eyes.

This can’t be real. I can’t possibly be in a situation where I’m about to lose literally every member of my family. Everyone I love.

The room is dominated by the largest office desk I have ever seen. It’s as big as a six-seater dining table, with a chair behind it that’s so large it’s practically a throne.

The front vehicle, a large Hummer, stops, and Abi appears from the top like the world’s worst jack-in-the-box. He raises a hand, and all the cars start honking.

His voice is silky soft, and somehow, that’s even more terrifying than if he’d been screaming into the loudspeaker. There’s a quiet, cold rage that’s undeniable, and even from this distance, I shiver, my survival instincts telling me to get far, far away from here.

No, not men. They’re boys. Boys who think the world is their playground, who think that sabotaging each other’s businesses is part of playtime.

It feels as though my mind is moving so fast, crashing in every direction, that I can’t even really tell what makes sense and what doesn’t.

It’s a letter, written in shaky handwriting, as though whoever wrote it was a millennial who’s always on their phone and has forgotten how to handwrite. Or maybe they were in pain.

Literal wars have been fought, countless lives ended, over sillier reasons. Love is perhaps the only thing worth fighting over.

The noise outside of Kristofer’s bedroom has reached a fever pitch. Shouts and thumps can be heard vaguely even from all the way up here.

My tone had been so sharp it cut like a knife, slicing through the layers of propriety, going straight to the bone.

The crowds at the San Gabriel Valley dim sum places have been known to get very territorial, especially when they sense that the lunch carts are running out of the good stuff.

Ah, the feather duster. It’s like every Chinese parent’s go-to weapon. When I was little, Ma told me that when Chinese people have babies, the hospitals bestow upon them a feather duster and tell them to use it liberally.

“Hit him in the neck!” she cries. “The neck, I said. Oh for—are you even trying?” I follow her gaze to the man she’s cheering on and oh god. All of my insides plummet. My heart forgets to beat, my lungs forget to take in air. Because the man that Fourth Aunt is cheering on is none other than

As though they’re robots whose switches were turned off, four of the men immediately stop fighting. They drop their hands to their sides and leap back onto their feet.

He has the kind of intensity that tears away at your confidence, because it’s obvious when he looks at you, he’s fully listening, absorbing not just everything you say but all of the minute details of your movements, reading your body language like a book. It’s easy to see, in this moment, how this man has ascended to the top and become one of the largest business tycoons in the country.

“You. I knew you were a thug. You gave my sister a stolen scarf?”

I’ve never seen Second Aunt like this before, and it’s kind of a treat.

as soon as the scent of the coffee hits my nose, it’s as though my muscles are unlocked, my whole body relaxing. I breathe in deep, closing my eyes. Truly, there’s nothing better than Indonesian coffee. Beside me, Nathan takes a sip and gives an appreciative sigh. “This coffee tastes sinful,” he says. “Like a rich dessert, but not too sweet.”

The house we’re in, which seemed so big when we first arrived, now feels shrunken, the walls closing in around us.

It feels as though my heart has melted into sweet milk chocolate.

But when has anything gone to plan, especially when my family is involved? Frustration scratches at me, but then I take a deep breath and let myself fall into this moment, embracing all of it.