Everything is red.

A “Happy Wedding” garland. A wall sticker of the double happiness symbol. A duvet set on the marriage bed, with golden dragons and phoenixes embroidered on the surface. A pair of high heels beside the bed. The room smells of fresh roses, new furniture, and jasmine perfume. Not unpleasant, but too strong for anyone with a sensitive nose.

The source of the perfume, the bride Yuting, sits in the middle of the bed. Bright as a blooming hibiscus, her Chinese traditional dress spread around her. Yuting and I grew up together. Our moms were teachers in the same high school in Pingdingshan, a small city in Northern China. Six years ago, my parents and I moved to Vancouver, where they opened a convenience store, and I finished college. Yuting never left our hometown, but we’ve been keeping in touch.

Earlier this year, during our monthly video chat, Yuting told me she was getting married and wanted me to be her maid of honor.

“Congratulations!” I said. “Isn’t that a bit too soon though? You just graduated from college.”

“Yeah, I know.” Yuting sighed. “Shui is five years older than me. His parents don’t want to wait. And I thought I’d get married sooner or later, so why not sooner?”

Why not not getting married? I wanted to ask. But all I managed to follow was if I needed to wear a dress.

“Of course,” she said.

“What if I don’t . . .” I paused. “I don’t feel comfortable?”

“I’ll wear a dress, and the other bridesmaids will wear dresses, too. It’s the tradition.”

“Well, those wedding traditions are pretty binary, assuming women want to wear dresses. You know, I took this gender studies class—”

“What are you talking about?” Yuting laughed. “Aren’t you brainwashed by the West?”

~

A week before the wedding, I arrived at the Pingdingshan train station on a dry and sunny summer day. Reeking of sweat, no air conditioning, the station hadn’t changed much from the time I left. The crowd waiting in the lobby looked like migrant workers from nearby villages who had left their families to find a job in the city. Mostly men, carrying poly woven bags filled with veggies and instant noodle bowls, wearing sneakers of knockoff brands such as “Adadis” or “NKIE,” and speaking the Henan dialect I hadn’t heard in years. I pressed my hand on my left pocket where my wallet was, remembering what my mom told me. The train stations in China were unsafe. Then I realized I was assuming the worst of my hometown people the moment I was back.

Yuting met me at the exit and led me to her car. On our way to the hotel she had booked, she told me all about the wedding rehearsal, chirpy as always. I nodded, my eyelids heavy from the gentle rocking of the car.

“You know, you look different now.” She changed the subject.

“How?” I sat up a little in the passenger seat.

“Your skin is so much paler. Like you’re becoming white.”

“I’m just light-skinned,” I said. “I was like that, even before I left.”

“No, you’re definitely much lighter now. Look.” She pressed her right arm against my left. Her arm was warm, darker than mine, though I didn’t think that would make me “white” at all.

“Eyes on the road.” I put her hand back to the steering wheel. “Maybe it’s because Vancouver rains a lot.”

She turned back to driving without any more remarks. The area we were passing by was a new district under development. Along the road, I counted five brand-new high rises, three construction sites, and one shopping mall that was not open yet. When we drove through our childhood neighborhood, Yuting slowed down. In the distance, I saw the old building my family lived in. Though there wasn’t much point in looking. My parents sold the home before we left for Vancouver and used the money for the convenience store.

After Yuting pulled into the parking lot of the hotel, she handed me a bag. When I opened it, I found a pink knee-length silk dress.

~

“Damn, I almost forgot!” Yuting waves at me, the jasmine smell intensified with her movement. She points at the pair of red high heels beside the bed. “We haven’t hidden them yet!”

“Let me do it.” I crouch down, carefully folding the hem of my pink dress beneath my knees. I haven’t worn a dress for so long that when my bare legs touch each other, I’m surprised by the warmth of my own flesh. Then I pull out a cardboard box beneath the bed, place the shoes in it, and push it back to the darkness. It’s nine in the morning. In the living room, the other two bridesmaids are delaying Shui and his three groomsmen with warmup games. Next, the groom must find the hidden red high heels before he puts them on the bride’s feet.

Two days before the wedding, Yuting introduced Shui to me during the rehearsal. When I saw him, I instantly remembered Yuting’s quick comment the first time she mentioned him in our video call—“I can’t believe he’s already a bit bald! I mean, he’s only twenty-six!” That time, she rolled her eyes and moved on to another topic. But Shui sent her messages whenever she posted anything slightly sentimental on her social media. Which, admittedly, was quite frequent (even a cloudy day could upset Yuting). When Yuting mentioned him five months later, she said she was moved, felt love, and thought he “had a unique kind of cuteness.” Another two years passed. At last, she said yes.

On the rehearsal day, Shui wore a strong cologne and didn’t tuck his shirt neatly into his pants. He complained repeatedly that Yuting should have lost some weight before the ceremony. He also asked me whether I liked Canada more than China. I could give him an essay-length answer to compare the pros (nature, diversity, democracy) and cons (high living cost, language barrier, racism) of living in Vancouver, but I shrugged and said I liked them about the same. By the time we started the rehearsal, I already disliked him.

Yuting also introduced the other two bridesmaids to me, who were Yuting’s roommates from college years. One was tall and slim; the other had long curly hair.

“Do Canadians like Chinese people?” the tall one asked.

“Mostly, I think, yes. They do like Chinese food.”

“Do you speak English very well now?” Curly Hair asked.

“No, not as good as a native speaker,” I said.

“But your English must be much better than all of us here!” She laughed and everyone else followed. I felt embarrassed, as if my honesty had insulted them all.

Now, the man I dislike and his three groomsmen are examining every corner of the apartment to find the high heels. One checks the drawers and the closet, another turns the trash bin upside down, and Shui even opens the water tank of the toilet in the adjacent bathroom (who would put a pair of shoes in there?). The search is fruitless.

Shui takes a red envelope out of his pocket and passes it to me. “Please tell me where you ladies hid the shoes, I beg you!”

I accept the envelope and sit on the bed next to Yuting. “It’s somewhere around here,” I say. I’m supposed to give him hints with every bribe.

Shui looks around the bed while one of the groomsmen points at me and shouts, “It must be under her dress! I heard some bridesmaids tie the shoes to their thighs.”

Then I’m surrounded by the three of them. I turn to Yuting, confused. Before I ask anything, one hand flips my dress, and another hand touches my thigh. A clammy, cold hand. They must have sweated a lot from the search, I think.

“Not here!” one yells. The other men guffaw, and the women quiet down.

“Next!” The three men approach Curly Hair who’s standing beside me. She’s pressing her dress tightly, terrified. I look at her, feeling the horror all of a sudden.

“Wait.” Shui kneels on the ground and pulls the box out from underneath the bed. When he puts the shoes on her feet, Yuting smiles. The entire group cheers.

With no breather, the crowd sweeps me into the living room where Yuting’s parents are waiting. Kneeling in front of the elders, Shui and Yuting serve two cups of tea to them before receiving a red envelope. After that, everyone starts to leave but they all seem to have a sense of purpose—talking, yelling, standing up, giving out directions, packing, going to the washroom, heading downstairs to move the car. One of the groomsmen picks up a carton of cigarettes left on the table in the living room; Curly Hair ties two huge bags of candies, all in red wrappers, and places them in a tote bag; Yuting passes her makeup bag to the tall bridesmaid and tells her she must protect it with her life. The wedding planner’s message arrives in the group chat, reminding all to head to the restaurant where the ceremony will be.

At the door, Shui swoops Yuting up in his arms and carries her down the stairs, out of the apartment, and all the way to the first car parking in a line at the entrance of the building—another tradition to follow so their happiness will be secured. The other two bridesmaids and I are directed to the second car. Squeezed between the two, I converse, smile, nod, add them on my WeChat, promise we’ll go shopping together afterward, and pretend to be jealous of the married couple.

All the time, I keep playing the bedroom scene in my mind.

~

When Yuting and I were ten, our bodies were like two little birds, chests flat and limbs lean. One afternoon, we were climbing the stairs in my apartment building to reach my home on the sixth floor so we could do homework together. A man stopped us at the stairwell to the fourth floor.

"Have either of you seen a wallet around here?” he asked.

We shook our heads.

“That’s odd. I just lost my wallet and only you two are in here. Are you sure you don’t have it?”

“We don’t,” Yuting said, squeezing my hand.

“Well, then.” He paused. “If you’re telling the truth, then you won’t mind if I check, will you?”

The moment I lifted my arms, his palms were on my sweater, pressing into my waist, and crawling up to my armpits. His fingers tickled, and I almost wanted to giggle when suddenly they moved. I felt the fingers wiggling to my front and tracing along my chest and tummy. He stepped forward, so close that I could smell his sour breath, his hands playing with the edge of my sweater.

“Stop!”

Yuting threw her pink water bottle at the man and grabbed my hand. She pulled me away from him before I registered what was happening, then led me down the stairs, running, backpacks thumping against our butts. The man swore at us, but I didn’t hear his steps.

When we reached the ground floor, I wanted to stop and catch my breath, but Yuting wouldn’t let me. She kept us running, running out of the muted gray building, across the narrow street with grannies selling veggies on curbsides, past the stationery stores where we hung out after school, and toward her place. We ran so fast, hair flying, arms flapping, like two hummingbirds fleeing from a hawk.

“That was your favorite water bottle,” I said after we lay down on the couch in her bedroom. “You pasted all your Sailor Moon stickers on it!”

“It’s okay. I’ll ask my mom to get me another water bottle.” She waved her hand.

That was the only conversation we had about that encounter. When I finished homework at Yuting’s, I called my parents to pick me up. I didn’t tell them what happened.

~

At the restaurant, I catch Yuting sitting alone on the sofa in the bridal dressing room, reapplying her lipstick with a handheld mirror. When I enter the room, she puts the mirror down and pats the empty spot beside her. I sit down.

“How are you feeling?” She puts her hand on my forearm. The coolness of her palm startles me. “That was awful.”

“So you saw it? Was that one of the wedding traditions?”

“Of course not!” She removes her hand. “I may have not taken any ‘gender studies courses’ like you, but I’d never allow that to happen on my wedding day.”

“But it did happen.”

She turns her head away. Silence is diffusing in the air that we breathe in and out at the same time. I wonder whether I would have said anything if the groomsmen touched Curly Hair.

“The gender studies class never taught me how to deal with this kind of shit,” I say, feeling an urge to cry.

The screens of our cell phones light up when the wedding planner sends a message in the group chat. Only an hour left before the ceremony starts. Yuting glances at the message and turns off the screen. “I didn’t know what to do either. They were Shui’s best friends. I was afraid of making a scene. It was only the start of the day.”

“Okay.” I nod.

Yuting goes quiet. She picks up her mirror and fixes her hair. Looking at the mirror, she whispers, as if talking to herself, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” My voice softens.

“I’ll talk to Shui after the ceremony, and we’ll get them to apologize to you. All right?”

“Sounds good.”

“Now let’s get me ready.” She fetches the wedding dress from the closet and passes it to me. A ball gown dress decorated with lace, long and heavy.

“I don’t want to change in front of anyone but you,” she says.

Yuting takes off the traditional dress she’s wearing. For a moment, we are kids again: going to the public bathhouses together, helping each other undress, and comparing our bodies in silence. Her body is unfamiliarly plump now, not a little bird anymore. She puts on the gown and turns her back to me, the tail of her dress gently sweeping over the skin on my foot like a soft consolation. I zip the dress up.

Yuting shows me her front. “Tell me. How do I look?”

“You look terrific.” I give her a little hug.

~

On the stage, the host is checking the mic for the last time. I stand near the stage with the other bridesmaids, counting down the minutes to start. All sorts of cold dishes—braised duck, poached chicken, sliced pork with garlic sauce, Chinese yams with blueberry puree, and cucumber salad—are served on each table but no guest moves their chopstick. They crane their necks in our direction whenever there is a noise from the mic.

As kids, Yuting and I enjoyed going to wedding ceremonies. Our moms would receive invitations when one of their coworkers was getting married, and they would bring us with them. I remembered those days as the exciting outliers of our otherwise bland school days: loud firecrackers that made us cover our ears, candies in red wrappers that left a lingering sweetness on the tongue, and a male host who told corny jokes but still made everyone laugh. Once, Yuting dipped the tip of a chopstick in her mom’s glass of baijiu and asked me to lick it. The liquor burned in my mouth and into my memory. I never thought I’d fall in love with this sensation when I grew older.

At one of these weddings, Yuting asked me if I ever thought about my wedding.

“No, never,” I said. “You?”

“I have. We could marry two men who are also friends, then we’ll have our weddings on the same day, and live next door to each other after that. Our children will be friends, too!”

“Where do you want to live?”

“Don’t know. Haven’t thought about it.”

“I want to live in a big city. Beijing or Shanghai,” I said.

“Great, we’ll have a fancy big city wedding then—oh! At our weddings, let’s skip the firecrackers. They always scare me,” Yuting added.

A few years later, the government banned firecrackers anyway, for safety reasons. At least that part of her wedding dream came true.

The band starts to play a series of 2000s Mandopop songs that we listened to millions of times when we were teens: Jay Chou, Faye Wong, and Mayday. I don’t know if it’s the music, but when Yuting enters the stage with her father, I start to cry. Though I already know what she looks like in that dress, I’m still surprised by how stunning she is. Is this the magic of a wedding? The instant power to transform a second into eternity? For one moment, all my quiet disapproval toward her marriage dissolves. Instead, I’m filled with deep, sincere happiness for her. A hope for their love to last arises in me, but it is shadowed by the uncertainty of our future. All our childhood memories are revolving around me. Around us. And I have this sudden inkling that this is the closest we will ever be, that we will inevitably grow apart, that I am so far away from my childhood even when I am right here in my hometown.

After the ceremony, I’m back in the dressing room to help Yuting change again. She’s sitting alone on the sofa, sunk into the huge skirt of the wedding dress with a vacant expression on her face.

“I didn’t get an apology,” she says.

“Oh.”

“Shui told me the father of the guy who touched you was the one who just helped him get his job.” She sighs. “A pretty big name in his industry and Shui can’t afford to offend him. It’s a small city. Everyone knows everyone.”

“Right. I understand,” I say. “Let’s get the dress off.”

She turns her back towards me, speaking as my fingers reach the zipper.

“Aren’t you mad?”

I slide the zipper down to her waist. “I almost cried when you appeared on the stage.”

“Really? I kept thinking that you might hate my wedding.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s just . . . you’re so different now. You live in Canada. You speak English. You’ve learned so many things I’ve never heard of. And if I didn’t make you wear this stupid dress, maybe none of this would have happened.”

“No, well . . .” I pause. “Okay. I might hate this dress a little bit. But only the dress. Don’t marry again, I beg you. Next time, I won’t come home.”

“I’ll try my best.” She chuckles. With the zip open, she turns to hug me. My nose takes in the residue of her jasmine perfume, so weak that I’m certain if I move away even a centimeter, I will lose her scent forever.

“Why are we like this? Why?” She murmurs into my ear, soft as a feather, while I gently pat her back. In the distance, the crowd claps after the host jokes about something, awaiting the toast of the newlywed couple.

I leave Pingdingshan a week after the wedding. Yuting and I video-chat once when she returns from her honeymoon trip. Then she finds a teaching position at the high school where our moms worked. I start to learn how to run the convenience store with my dad. The monthly video calls with Yuting are reduced to once every two months, then twice a year. And eventually, we only message each other when it’s Christmas, Lunar New Year, and Mid-Autumn Festival. Two years later, my mom tells me Yuting is divorced. That night, I think about the girl who ran with me away from the stairwell and how I never asked if her mom bought her a new water bottle.