Dial A for Aunties (Aunties, #1)

by Jesse Q. Sutanto

Thank you so much for picking up Dial A for Aunties. This book is a love letter to my family—a ridiculously large bunch with a long history of immigration.

My parents are fluent in Indonesian and Mandarin, and speak halting, broken English. When we speak to each other, the sentences are jagged and cracked, and we often struggle to convey what we’re trying to say. This is the price my parents have had to pay to ensure that my brother and I were safe and sound.

Their grasp of the English language is not a reflection of their intelligence, but a reflection of the sacrifice that they have made for us. They are, in essence, trilingual, and I am so proud of this heritage. I’m aware while writing this that I’m straddling a very fine line between authenticity and stereotype, and it’s my hope that this book defies the latter.

I hope that this book gives you a little peek into the fierce love with which my family raised us and protects us to this day.

There is a curse in my family. It’s followed us all the way from China, where it took my great-grandfather (freak accident on the farm that involved a pregnant sow and an unfortunately placed rake),

Ma is her biggest nemesis, and she’d rather choke on a pumpkin seed than agree that Ma’s the lucky one out of all of them.

(There might be insta-love and also someone might die. We’ll see.)

people surge behind Ma as she scythes a path through the throng of families waiting for their tables, and I would’ve lost her if I wasn’t keeping a death grip on her arm as if I’m all of three years old. She doesn’t bother stopping at the front desk. She strides in as if she owns the place, eagle eyes scanning the large dining hall.

Ma and the aunts often try to help me improve by speaking to me in either Mandarin or Indonesian, but then give up and switch to English because I only get about 50 percent of what they’re saying. Their grasp of the English language is a bit wobbly, but it’s a heck of a lot better than my Mandarin or Indonesian.

The table being round means all the dishes are equally within reach of everyone, but Chinese family meals aren’t complete without everyone serving food to everyone else, because doing so shows love and respect, which means we all need to do it in the most attention-seeking way possible. What’s the point of giving Big Aunt the biggest siu mai if nobody else notices?

“Always such an attention hole,” Ma said once, which was equal parts horrifying and hilarious.

Big Aunt smiles at Fourth Aunt, and Fourth Aunt beams back so hard she might as well be a kid again. Ma says Fourth Aunt is Big Aunt’s favorite because she’s the baby of the family, and she was such a needy baby that she stole Big Aunt’s heart right out of her chest. “She snatch it right out,” Ma has grumbled many times.

It’s exactly the kind of thing Chinese-Indonesians love naming their kids after—famous people and/or brand names (I have a cousin named Gucci, who moved very far away as soon as he was legally able to),

How we managed to land these people as clients, I have no idea. Well, I do.

Everything in Chinese-Indo culture is like that; everybody is somehow related to everybody else, and deals happen because somebody’s in-law knows someone else’s friend’s cousin.

“You mean exquisite?” Fourth Aunt says, and Ma gives her the deadliest side-eye in the history of all side-eyes.

“Nobody has a face anymore.” Hmm, that can’t be right. I parse the words slowly in my head. I think she’s saying Big Aunt has made all of us lose face.

She gives Second Aunt a smile that I can only describe as “so sweet it’s deadly”

Big Aunt, like her title, is larger than all her sisters. I guess twenty years as a pastry chef will do that to you.

I’m basically driven by a mixture of caffeine and familial guilt.

“Aiya, he’s not here, silly girl,” Ma says. “Is he tied up in the trunk of your car?” “Don’t joke, Meddy,” Big Aunt tuts. “Your mama is doing all of this so that you can have a good life.”

What part of this is a good idea, exactly?”

I mean, good grief, that is some messed-up shit, Ma.”

To be loud enough to attract attention in a dim sum restaurant during the lunch rush is damn near impossible,

two glossy golden retrievers that are so golden and so perfectly shaped they look like they could be some pet magazine models.

I can’t even right now. What is my life?

very good boy. Very good. If you don’t go, you miss out.”

He gives that grin, the one that makes his eyes almost fully close. The one that makes me want to throw up. Just to be clear, it makes me want to throw up because it’s so cute it does weird things to my stomach, not because it disgusts me.

quite literally vibrating with music. I mean, I can actually see the windows rattling with each deep bass beat.

He’s going to DIE.” “Not literally, I hope,” I mutter under my breath, just in case the curse is listening in.

my teeth rattle to the beat.

backless tank top that doesn’t allow for a bra. She says it’s fine since bras are really only for women with boobs. Harsh but true.

“Excuse you, I am five feet two—”

...and a poet!

Okay, one of them was the back of my hand. The kiss with the other boy wasn’t great; I mean, my hand was better, honestly.

I’m gonna tell them this date went so well that they should do the same for you. Selena [7:09PM]: If your mom can find me a rich hotel owner to date, I’m down.

Ma would’ve dished me out to any guy as long as he has a pulse.

most men seem to think that just because I’m in the wedding industry, that must mean I’m in a rush to get married myself. The truth is, being in the wedding industry is a surefire way of making me not want to get married.

Damn it, self! Why’d you have to go and get all tipsy?

The way he says it doesn’t sound at all like a compliment. It sounds dirty, as if he’s talking about an overripe peach he can’t wait to sink his teeth into.

“Stop freaking out.” “I’m not.” “Okay, tell your face to stop freaking out.”

wonder if this is what all English families are like, if they all use words like “lovely” and “delightful” instead of shouting and flapping like my family does.

last weekend, I’d found a forgotten coffee mug that had actual mushrooms growing in it. Not even mold but like full-grown mushrooms, with stalks and heads and everything.

The bathroom, for example, has no fewer than twenty-seven bottles of face cream. I know, I counted them when I was fifteen, and the pile hasn’t moved in the last five years.

This is where curses go to die.

I release a shuddering laugh. Unbelievable. I’m okay. I’m— I turn and barely stifle the shriek clawing its way up my throat.

Who makes those, anyway? I mean, those are creepy AF— Focus!

What kind of sane person would do that? Question after question assaults my mind until a scream rips out of me,

“We have a big announcement!” Ma says in Mandarin. Her eyes are all twinkly. Seriously, they’re like Christmas lights. She claps like an excited child.

She’s already sacrificed so much for my sake, and I can’t even communicate with her in her mother tongue.

Now I know what the saying “jumped out of their skin” means.