Chapter 1

ROONEY

I’ve always thought of Washington Square Park in New York City as a place where people say good-bye. In When Harry Met Sally, Billy Crystal—with a laundry bag, duffel, and baseball bat in tow—walks away from Meg Ryan as she drives off in her pale yellow Toyota Corona wagon. In Barefoot in the Park, Robert Redford drunkenly laughs and tells Jane Fonda that she’s the one who should leave their apartment instead of him. As he shouts at her to “Get out!,” this park has never looked so hopeless.

But for the past week, Washington Square Park has taken on a new meaning because I’m attempting to change the narrative. As the location for my first-ever public art installation, Entangled, this iconic park will be a place where people are brought together. After years of small-scale string art installations in less-frequented galleries and at art fairs, this is my big break. I stand at a distance under the giant marble arch detailed with intricate carvings and spy on my creation, just like I have each afternoon for the past six days of Entangled being up. Each visit feels like I’m seeing my work for the very first time.

Surrounding the fountain in the center of the park, my red string installation curves and loops past the fountain, through the grassy corner plots, under the trees, and around the globe lampposts. There’s no way to identify where the beginning and end are, which is entirely the point. It’s one continuous loop.

“Rooney! Why am I doing all the heavy lifting?” my mom, Wren Gao, says breathlessly before dropping a cardboard box to the ground. Her breath puffs out visibly in front of her and floats for a second before disappearing in the cold February air. “You know I’m almost seventy, right?”

“Careful!” I bend down to grab the box. “You’re going to pull a muscle.”

“If I didn’t grab these, someone else would’ve. I fought off a twenty-year-old with purple hair to save that,” Mom says proudly.

I give her a look. “She’s one of the interns who helped set all of this up. She just picked those up from the printer.”

Mom crosses her arms. “I guess that would explain how she knew my name. I thought she was clairvoyant or that she recognized me.”

“Not everyone knows who you are,” I say playfully. I heave the box onto my hip as Mom and I circle around the installation to a spot behind a row of barren hedges.

Mom smirks. “Maybe not, but enough do.” She says it with the confidence of someone who’s earned it. As a now-famous visual and performance artist, Mom creates attention-grabbing work with statements on reproductive rights and social issues. My unashamed and unapologetic mom got her career going in the late seventies, and it stayed fairly steady.

By the time she was twenty-eight, the age I am now, she had already been in the business for five years, making a decent living off her work. But it wasn’t until I—an unplanned bundle of joy—was born in the mid-nineties that she catapulted to international fame. That’s when everything changed for her. At forty-one years old, Wren Gao had become a name that was read aloud in newspapers and whispered about around dinner tables. Even when she toted me around as a kid from country to country, her career didn’t slow down once. If it takes eighteen years and giving birth for a career to take off, then I have a very, very long road ahead of me.

I shouldn’t compare myself with her. Our careers are completely different. My mom is a famous artist whose work now commands five-to-six figures at auction, and I can hardly scrape by with string pet portraits. Not that she doesn’t offer to help me out. I just don’t want her money or connections. My career is supposed to be something that I accomplish on my own. And when I one day match or, better yet, exceed her level of success, I’ll know it was because of my efforts.

We hide behind a thick tree trunk, watching people’s reactions from afar. I’m pleased to see that their attentions are drawn from their phones mid-walk, which is not an easy feat.

Mom waves her arms toward my installation beyond the trees. “How did you pull this off?” she asks.

I set the box gently onto the crunchy brown grass. “A group of students from the School of Visual Arts helped string this up. That way, no one knows it’s me.”

“At some point, you’ll be figured out,” Mom warns. “Your Red String Girl cover-up can’t last forever. Certainly not these days with cameras everywhere.”

“Not if I can help it,” I tell her.

“Your work is imaginative. Let yourself shine, baby!” Mom says as she readjusts a wool hat I knitted her over her silver hair.

“I like being anonymous. It’s more private. I can let the work speak for itself. It’s not about me,” I explain. “I never wanted it to be.”

Mom studies me for a moment. “People like having a face to the name. If you’re unknown, you’re forgotten.”

I wrap my arm around her shoulders. “As usual, we’ll agree to disagree. Besides, I want to get people talking about something that isn’t me,” I justify. “With this installation, I’m creating a destination for people to go to after the rush of the holidays. There’s no competition and doing this in the winter brings beauty to the gray landscape. In the summer, exhibits are expected, but then they just become any other day. This will last in people’s memories.”

“Yeah, well, people will also remember your installation as the day they got frostbite,” Mom says, wiggling her gloved fingers.

“Hilarious. I really think we’re pulling this off, though. Talia is also helping manage this. All you have to do is enjoy the show,” I say, using a key to slice the tape open on the box.

“Did someone say my name?” a voice says behind us. “Wren, great to see you!”

I turn to see Talia Ma breezing toward us in a chic belted winter jacket. Talia’s my best friend who I met in art school. We bonded over being mixed-race Chinese American and our belief in the Red Thread of Fate. She’s one of the very few people who know that I’m Red String Girl. After years learning the ropes at Sotheby’s and Christie’s, Talia now owns an art gallery in Chelsea specializing in showcasing new local painters and ceramic artists with plans to open a second location on the West Coast. She was the first person to sell my string art pet portraits in her gallery when I was starting out.

Fine. She’s still trying to sell them. Enough people buy pet portraits for me to get installation materials. All that string adds up. What it doesn’t provide? The freedom not to have to live with my mom. Yeah. I won’t accept money or connections, but I will accept a room to sleep in.

“How was your tour?” Talia asks my mom.

Mom sighs. “Exhausting, fulfilling. It’s my last one. I’m done being a show pony. It did take me all throughout Asia and Europe. I sold a few paintings to wealthy art collectors and museums,” she recounts. “All in all, I can’t complain, except, of course, for missing Roo’s opening day.”

“We missed you!” Talia says.

“You’re here now. That’s what matters,” I say.

“Nice of you to help out, Talia. Slow gallery day?” Mom asks.

“My business partner, Isla, is in town and managing the gallery while I’m here. I couldn’t miss this huge moment for Red String Girl,” Talia says, lifting her dark eyebrows in my direction.

My chest tightens with hope. Being able to present my work in such a public way is more than I could’ve dreamed of.

“Oh! Wren.” Talia reaches for Mom’s arm and squeezes. “I got the inside scoop that one of your pieces is going up for sale soon.”

I practically leap at Talia. “Which one is it?”

Talia steadies me. “Sorry, Roo, it’s not the one you’re looking for.”

“Perfect. Another one of my pieces trading hands, and I’ll never see another cent for it,” Mom grumbles. “You’re still trying to find Baby Being Born?”

“Well, if you still don’t care to buy back the video of my birth, then it’s up to me.” I turn to Talia. “You haven’t heard anything about it at all?”

Talia’s head swivels as she watches a man walk by while strumming a guitar with his gloves still on. “I’m keeping my ears to the ground,” she says, refocusing on me. “I ask around periodically, but you know that the buyers are anonymous. If it ever does go up for sale, we’ll at least know a couple of months ahead of time while they validate the authenticity.”

“Oh, it’s one of a kind, and it’s real, baby,” Mom says.

Talia peers into her purse. “You have the permits, right, Rooney? I also emailed you a copy.”

“Permits. How by the book of you,” Mom mutters. “I think you could’ve made a bigger statement without permits, but to each her own.”

“You want me to start doing work without permits and share my name publicly?” I say with a laugh. “Are you personally trying to send me to prison?”

Mom’s eyes widen, and she laughs. “Prison? Don’t cause permanent damage to anything, and you’ll be fine. It’s those moments that lead to attention. And attention leads to paid shows. And you know what paid shows get you? Your own apartment. Just saying!”

Talia looks between us wearing an amused expression. “Wren, you must come with us to the Lantern Festival party tonight. You’d be a hit. The person who invited me said it’s BYOWAF. Bring Your Own Wine and Friends.”

“I’m not a showpiece, and I’ve learned long ago that it’s not worth my time when I’m fifth in line to the throne of a party, especially when you have to bring your own alcohol,” Mom says with a grunt.

Talia, the Queen of Multitasking, taps into her phone. “If you change your mind, let us know. It’d be nice to have more familiar faces there,” she says as she looks past my shoulder. “I’m being called over. Be back in a few for those Fate Notes.”

“Great! I’ll get these ready for you.” I lift the box lid, revealing the final pieces of the installation puzzle. The important element that makes my creation fulfill its purpose. I hold up a freshly printed Fate Note the size of a postcard from the pile.

“What the hell’s a lophole?” Mom asks, eyeing the paper in my hand.

My heart stops. “It’s supposed to be loophole!” I scan the cards, confirming that they’ve all been misprinted. “Okay, this is no big deal. It doesn’t match the first batch people have been using, but it’s fine. It’s open-ended, interpretive. A reaction from… something. Honestly, it fits the string theory aspect of the installation well!”

Mom raises her eyebrows. “Your optimism and can-do attitude are admirable, truly, but you can’t be fine with this. They messed up your vision. They should fix it for free.”

“It’s really okay,” I say. “But they were supposed to be waterproof.”

“This is your work. You’re a professional.” Mom rubs the Fate Note between her fingers. “You’re justifying someone else’s error.”

“If Christo and Jeanne-Claude can do The Gates in February in Central Park, I can do Entangled in February in Washington Square Park.” I quickly problem-solve. “I’ll swing by to see if they can reprint these quickly. If not—”

“Then maybe it was meant to be?” Mom says, amused.

“Smirk all you want, Mother,” I say, “but all threads lead to you.”

“Ah,” Mom says, “there it is. The Red Thread of Fate.”

“Let’s not forget that you’re the one who taught me about it,” I say, lifting my eyebrows at her.

“You’re welcome.” Mom looks pleased with herself. “My storytelling abilities must really be something for you to believe it—no, embody it—all these years later. You know what? I’m glad you’re not settling. That’s something I can get behind. You’d be hard-pressed to find me someone worth settling for.”

“Does the word ‘compromise’ fall within your definition of settling?” I ask with a laugh.

Mom lets out a huff and looks away. “Compromising is what people tell themselves they’re supposed to do to feel better.”

My heart squeezes in my chest. Mom’s always had a fierce and strong façade with a self-attested lioness heart, but I like to imagine there’s something soft and squishy deep down in there. It couldn’t have been easy with me being an accident, but it’s not like I would know because she doesn’t talk about it.

I cross my arms, unintentionally wrinkling a Fate Note in the crook of my elbow. “There hasn’t been anyone serious yet, but one day.” I narrow my eyes at her. “How about this? I’ll reveal myself as Red String Girl when you admit that you’re actually a romantic.”

“Ha!” Mom barks.

I double down. “You don’t tell your daughter the Red Thread of Fate myth if you don’t want her to believe that their stringmate, that their person on the other end of their red string, is out there somewhere. And if you wanted me to believe it, then you must’ve believed it, too.”

Mom shakes her head. “I told you about it because it was research for a show. That’s it.”

“Sure, Mom. Whatever you need to tell yourself. Did you know Talia is also a Red Threader?” I say. “Do you think her belief in it is silly?”

Mom smirks. “As usual, we’ll agree to disagree, Roo,” she says, throwing my words back at me. She lifts a Fate Note from the pile and focuses in on the red loopy word. “So, this lophole. What’s it supposed to mean?”

“Oh! Yes!” I say, clapping my hands together. “This installation is my interpretation of something scientific to show how fate has more influence than we think. When visitors come by, they’re supposed to grab a Fate Note and write on it,” I explain, uncapping my red pen to write something onto the wrinkled note as an example. “Here, I’ll show you how it works. People can write a joke, a wish, whatever they want. They slip the note between the web of string and grab one in return. By doing this, they’ll become linked with the person who wrote the note. They’ll be influenced no matter how far apart they are.”

“Influenced by… the words?” Mom asks suspiciously.

I stand from my crouched position, my five-feet-five stature towering over Mom’s five-feet height. “The words, the very action of writing a note and taking one, by fate,” I rattle off. “There are a lot of variables at play. There’s some string theory sprinkled in—Hey, don’t look at me like that.”

“I know, I know. Fate,” she says with a dramatic whisper. “It’s very on-brand.”

I shrug. “It’s not like I’m famous or anything. Literally no one knows who I am. They just can’t see me making the art, because then they will know.”

“And what’s so wrong with people knowing who you are?” Mom asks.

I think of how to phrase it. That if people know who I am, they’ll put the pieces together that I’m Wren Gao’s daughter. The infamous baby who was born in a museum. It was such a sensation that it had become my entire identity until enough time had passed and I was no longer a child.

I also don’t need the literal beginning of my life on display for everyone to see. It’s why I want to buy Baby Being Born back so no one can own something that is private and personal to me. So that a museum can’t play the moment I entered the world on repeat for days on end against a large white wall for strangers to watch and comment on. Is that so much to ask?

I don’t know how to explain it to her. Instead, I just ask one question. “Do you regret it? Filming my birth?”

Mom shakes her head firmly. “I don’t believe in looking backwards. It gave us financial security, that video. It gave me the career of my wildest dreams. Long-lasting art imitates life.”

I flip the edge of the crinkled Fate Note back and forth. “Well, I’m on a mission to get it back.”

I pick up the box of Fate Notes and lead Mom to a wavy portion of the installation. With my free hand, I remove fast-food wrappers and empty cans of soda from between a stretch of string, trying not to let the misuse of my art rattle me too much. I slip my Fate Note into a clean section. “That’s how it works,” I say. “It’s meant to bring people together. Feel free to add one, too. Just keep it relatively PG.”

“That’s no fun. I’m trying to find my X-rated match,” Mom says.

I watch as park visitors bundled in thick coats slow their steps to look up and around at my creation. “Do you think people are liking it?” I whisper to her.

Mom scoffs. “Who cares what they’re thinking? You’re Red String Girl and you’re showcasing in Washington Square Park. Chin up!” She slides her hands into her pockets, puffing out the sides of her oversize, paint-splattered parka.

“Okay, easy!” I look around to make sure no one heard. “You’re going to scare people away, or worse, give me away. Unless this was your plan all along, and this is one of your performance art pieces. You can call it Daughter Being Sabotaged.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Mom says with a glimmer in her eyes. “Ah, I almost forgot. I brought this back for you.”

From her coat pocket, she reveals a miniature snow globe of Tokyo. Anytime we’d travel together, our souvenir of choice was snow globes to remind us of where we’d been. Mom knows I love winter, and in snow globes, cities exist in that glorious season all year round.

I shake the globe and watch as fake snow lands in the indents of the Tokyo Skytree. Yep. There’s definitely a romantic bone in her somewhere. “Thank you. Maybe one day you’ll be going on tour with me.”

She gives me a single nod. “I would love that.”

I grin at her, noting her features that mirror my own. We share square jaws and rounded noses and big smiles. Not that Mom smiles much, but when she does, it lights up a room. I place the snow globe in my bag and readjust the box in my arms, resting my free hand on Mom’s shoulder. “Can you let Talia know I’m going back to the print shop to try to get these Fate Notes fixed? Or to at least get my money back.”

Mom pulls a pocket-size sketchbook from her coat pocket. “I’ve got makeshift Fate Notes right here. Go, but hurry.”

“What else have you got in those pockets? You’re a magician!” I say with a gasp.

Mom’s smile widens slightly. “Go!”

“I give you permission to yell at people who are using this as a garbage can. Otherwise, don’t frighten people away, please!” I shout as I head out of the park and toward the print shop.

Behind me, I hear Mom laughing maniacally.