Fu Er Dai to the Max

It is technically an unhappy occasion but I am crazy happy to see Kenny. I spot him in the crowd right away, all the way from the sidewalk of the airport. My dad’s driver, Six Uncle, who is obligated to follow me everywhere now, says, “Look at that little filthy bastard,” loud enough for me to hear, and squeezes the horn.

Kenny is a lot skinnier than the last time I saw him; his hair isn’t gelled now and it flops around the top of his head like a fin. For the first time, I’ve actually got more muscles than he does. His expression is grim until he spots me and sticks his tongue out.

As Kenny pushes through the crowd to the curb, I catch a nearby couple turning around and giving him dirty looks. Maybe they can tell from his suitcase, the smell of his cologne, but it must also be something intangible—I know it because I have it too. Some people think being called a fu er dai, second-generation rich, is an insult, but I don’t care. The emphasis is on the fu, as in rich. And Kenny and I, we are fu er dai to the max.

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