Heiress Apparently

by Diana Ma

  “Fine!” she says, covering her head against the barrage of chips. “I do have epically bad breakups if that counts!”

  Camille and I look at each other. “Oh, it counts all right,” I say as Camille nods vigorously. “Example, please!”

  Glory tells us about dating a roommate who turned stalkerish after the breakup. “The worst thing was that because she was my roommate, I still had to live with her. One day I went into her room because I couldn’t find my favorite hoodie and thought that maybe she’d taken it. I didn’t find the hoodie . . . but I found a plastic ziplock bag of my own hair on her dresser. Apparently, my ex-girlfriend had been going around the apartment, secretly collecting my hair!”

  “That’s so creepy!” Camille says.

  I have to agree. “Glory, your ex-girlfriend was white, right?”

  Glory nods. “Yup.”

  I roll my eyes. “I do not understand white people’s obsession with Asian women’s hair.” I looked worriedly at Camille. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” she replies calmly. “On behalf of my people, I apologize.”

  We concede that Glory wins hands down for worst breakup.

  “I’ve lost too many roommates by getting involved with them,” Glory says darkly. “That’s why none of us are hooking up with each other.”

  Camille has a slightly wistful look on her face. I get it. On a sexuality scale, I’m mostly straight with definitely not-straight leanings, and Camille is probably the same. For me, that just means “I’m into guys, but girls like Glory get me all hot and bothered too.” After all, I’m not dead. Not when it comes to Glory.

  I don’t have a lot of dates under my belt, and nothing in the same league as my roommates’ stories, but I do my best. I tell them about my parents’ friend’s doctor’s cousin’s son—which was just enough degrees of separation for me to agree to show him around when he came on a visit from Taiwan. Everyone pretended that it hadn’t been a setup, but I knew better.

  “I’m not trying to perpetuate any nerdy Asian guy stereotypes,” I warn my roommates, “but this guy just happens to be nerdy and Asian.” I don’t want Camille to think that all Asian guys are nerds.

  Glory snickers because she knows this is a disclaimer that sometimes has to be made in mixed company.

  Camille nods. “Of course.” This girl’s earnestness is seriously winning my heart.

  “The date was fine,” I say. “No sparks, but he was a nice enough guy. Then, at the end, he tells me he brought me some presents. He opens up his backpack. . . .” I pause for dramatic effect and take a sip of water. “And then he starts pulling out, one by one, the kind of tacky souvenirs your parents might bring you back from a trip . . . when you were eight.” To be honest, I wouldn’t know. My parents hardly took trips without me and certainly not abroad to places like Taiwan.

  Glory is laughing so hard that there are tears in her eyes.

  “Like what?” Camille’s eyes are round in fascination.

  “Like a key chain with a plastic heart and a cheesy saying in English. I think it was something along the lines of Two hearts make one love.” I hold up a hand when Glory snorts water out with her laughter. “Wait for it.”

  Camille is practically bouncing on the couch. “Tell us,” she demands.

  “A music box. With figurines of Snow White and all seven dwarves on top.”

  “Oh, please tell me it played ‘Someday My Prince Will Come,’” Glory begs.

  “Of course it did,” I say. “He played it for me and then gazed at me with puppy dog eyes through the entire song. So awkward.”

  Glory is on the floor now, and Camille is gasping through her laughter.

  “The best thing was my mom’s reaction.”

  Mom had sifted through the brightly colored cheap plastic on my bed and then said, “All the way from Taiwan? Why bai fei qian on this?”

  Laughing at the memory, I say, “She didn’t get why he would waste his money on cheap trinkets. She thought he should’ve brought me pineapple cakes from Taiwan instead.”

  Mom loves her sweets. She’s always asking her best friend, who’s also Chinese, to bring back pineapple cakes from Taiwan. One time, I asked her why she’s never gone to Taiwan or China. She replied with something vague, but I knew that she was hiding something.

  Once Camille catches her breath, she asks, “Is Taiwan part of China? Is that where your parents are from?” These are the kind of “Where are you from” questions that I don’t mind. Camille’s not asking because my Asianness makes me foreign in her eyes—she’s just a new friend who genuinely wants to get to know me. But the answer to her question about Taiwan is complicated. Ever since the losing side of the Chinese Communist revolution fled to Taiwan in the late forties, mainland China considers Taiwan to be a part of the mainland. Taiwan disagrees. My dad would say that’s an oversimplification, but I can’t explain geopolitics the way he can.

  “Taiwan is a separate country from China,” I say simply. “My parents aren’t from Taiwan. They’re from China.” Then I change the subject. It’s because I know the next inevitable question. And it’s not an offensive one. It’s just one that I can’t easily answer. Have you ever been to China?

  The answer is no. But the why is anything but easy to answer. My parents have not only never been back to China themselves—but they’ve forbidden me to go myself.

  And I have no idea why.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I take a seat in a hard plastic chair in the audition waiting room and surreptitiously check out the competition sitting across from me. For the first audition, the room was packed, and for the first callback, it was about half-full. But for this second callback, there are only two other women—both Asian. One has a pretty, round face, and the other has an elegant beauty. If the director is looking for cute, the first one will be picked; if it’s glamorous that they want, then it will be the second one. Where does that leave me? With my hair in a ponytail and minimal makeup, I’d describe my vibe as more “girl-next-door,” except Asians don’t get to be “girl-next-door.” We’re either exotically cute or exotically glam.

  I smooth out the sheet of paper that the receptionist gave me when I checked in, hoping I have a shot at this role. Sonia Li, ex-girlfriend. That’s it. I guess it’s going to be a cold read again. The last two times were a cold read too—a scene with Sonia in a fight with her ex-boyfriend Ryan.

  Quickly, I review everything I know about Butterfly, the film I’m auditioning for. Butterfly is a midbudget movie slated for nationwide release and put out by a smallish but reputable studio. It’s also a remake of M. Butterfly, and from what I know of the play and the nineties film adaptation, I’m guessing the Sonia Li character is the updated version of the minor character Helga, the wife who’s eventually discarded. In both David Henry Hwang’s play and the original film version, Helga is white, but I guess she’s Asian in this remake. The only other female character I can think of is another minor one—Comrade Chin—but she’s supposed to be an older woman. I glance at the other two women, and they both seem to be around my age. Probably not auditioning for Comrade Chin, then.

  I swallow hard and then go get a cup of water from the dispenser. The other two women track my movements. The round-faced one blushes when she catches my eye and looks back down at her own paper—not that staring at the one line will help her much in the audition. Even though that’s exactly what I’ll probably do too.

  The other woman smiles at me with cool confidence. Her sheet of paper is nowhere to be seen. “Callback for the Sonia Li role?” She tosses her long hair over her shoulder, and it spreads like ink on her crisp white blouse. “I’m Vivienne.”

  “Um, yeah. The Sonia Li role. I’m Gemma.” I drink the water in one long gulp and accidentally dribble some onto my shirt. Great. All my competition has to do is introduce herself and I turn into a nervous klutz. Carefully, I sit back down in my chair.

  The blushing woman looks up and introduces herself as Julie.

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nbsp; Vivienne leans forward and says confidentially, “I’d love to get this role. Working with Eilene Deng would be a dream come true.”

  My jaw drops. Eilene Deng is my idol! I’ve seen everything she’s ever been in, even the single awful season of her failed sitcom. “You’re kidding,” I breathe reverently.

  “What part is she playing?” Julie asks, eyes round.

  Vivienne laughs. “Oh, she’s not acting in this film. She’s directing.”

  I frown, excitement dampened by the suspicion that Vivienne’s messing with us. “At the first audition, the casting director said the director is Jake Tyler.” Jake has been in the movie industry for years, and he has a reputation for having a short temper and demanding standards.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Vivienne confirms. “But Eilene was brought on as co-director.”

  Ah. It actually does make sense for the studio to hire an Asian co-director since the main director is white. “How do you know this?” I ask.

  “Oh, you know how it is.” Vivienne waves an airy hand. “One of my mom’s businesses is a Vietnamese fusion restaurant that Eilene loves, and Eilene let something drop about co-directing this film during an event the restaurant catered.”

  No, I don’t know how it is. My mom is an art director at a museum, and my dad is a political science professor, so we’re solidly middle class, but that doesn’t mean I occupy the stratosphere that Vivienne seems to. I mean, come on—she’s on a first-name basis with Eilene Deng, and an upscale fusion restaurant is one of her mom’s businesses? Still, there’s nothing mean-spirited about Vivienne’s gossip, so I ask, “Do you know anything else about the film?”

  Her eyes hood over. “No, not really.”

  I don’t blame her for being evasive. After all, we’re here to compete for a role, not make friends.

  “Julie Chu,” the receptionist calls out. “You’re up.”

  Julie stands up nervously, and Vivienne and I both wish her luck. We fall silent as Julie goes into the audition room, and Vivienne puts on earbuds to listen to something on her phone. It’s a smart move—straining to hear what’s going on in the audition room through the thin walls is never a good idea, so I put on my own earbuds.

  Thirty minutes later, Julie comes out. She gives us a brave smile, but I can tell it didn’t go as well as she’d hoped. I feel bad for her but also hopeful for my own chances. I take out my earbuds, hoping I’ll be called next.

  Soon afterward, the receptionist calls out Vivienne’s name, stumbling over the pronunciation of Vivienne’s last name, saying something like “Na-goo-yen” instead of pronouncing “Nguyen” as a one-syllable word without a hard g or y.

  Vivienne whispers to me, “Nguyen is the most common Vietnamese last name, but white people just can’t seem to get it right.”

  I smile. She’s my competition, but I can’t help but like her.

  Vivienne is in there for longer than Julie, and when she comes back out to the waiting room, she’s beaming. I take out my earbuds in time to hear her cheery “Good luck!” loud and clear. She leaves the waiting room with a spring in her step. This is definitely not a good sign for me.

  Left alone in the waiting room, I’m about to put my earbuds back in when I catch a murmur of voices from the other side of the walls. Uh-oh. I really should put those earbuds in. My fingers hover indecisively near my ears. No good has ever come of eavesdropping in an audition waiting room. But I let the earbuds fall to my lap in a messy heap of white cords.

  “What does it matter?” a male voice says in response to something I don’t catch.

  “Isn’t that why I’m here—to tell you what matters?” a woman’s voice replies.

  “Beautiful and poised—she’s perfect!” He’s obviously talking about Vivienne. My stomach drops.

  The woman’s voice is too quiet for me to hear her reply.

  The man is easy to hear; he sounds almost angry. “You’re sure this is the hill you want to die on?”

  “We’ll see,” the woman says. “We’ve got one more possibility.”

  “Why bother? I already know which one I want!”

  At that moment, the receptionist calls out from her desk, “Gemma Huang, they’re ready for you.”

  I stand, and my knees wobble. Why bother, indeed? Why should I even go in if the director has already made up his mind to cast Vivienne? I take a deep breath and tell myself that I didn’t come all this way just to give up before I even get into the audition room. With my heart thudding wildly, I open the door and step into the room.

  Like the first two times, there’s a cameraperson ready to film the audition scene. Sitting behind a long table are two good-looking, middle-aged people—a white man and an Asian woman. The man must be Jake Tyler, the director. But I have eyes only for the woman.

  Eilene Deng. There’s no mistaking that fine-boned face and sardonic arch of black eyebrows for anyone else.

  My hands grow hot, and my voice shrivels up in my throat. It’s really her. I guess I didn’t actually believe Vivienne when she said that Eilene Deng would be co-directing the movie. Because I’m getting light-headed from the shock of coming face-to-face with my idol. A voice in my head starts babbling excitedly. I’m a huge fan! You were the best thing in Danger Hospital—it’s too bad the show was canceled after just one season! Oh my god, I can’t believe I’m meeting Eilene Deng!! Blinking in starstruck awe, I give myself a mental shake. Get it together, Gemma. Eilene Deng does not want some crazed fan gushing over her.

  Eilene holds out my lines for the cold read with a friendly smile, but Jake doesn’t even look at me. I take the scene from Eilene, hoping she doesn’t notice how damp my fingers are. Quickly, I scan the scene. Sonia’s dashing away from Ryan after a fight. He’s running after her in the rain. It seems that this takes place right after the scene I read the last two times.

  “Let’s do the first take without the cameras, OK?” Eilene says.

  “OK,” I say, jittery with anxiety.

  Jake delivers Ryan’s first lines. “Sonia, wait. You must be soaked to the bone.” The stage directions say that Ryan takes off his raincoat and wraps it protectively around Sonia, who shivers and nestles into his embrace. “My little butterfly, I know you’re not mine to worry about anymore, but I’ll always look after you.” Seriously? Who says stuff like that? And why isn’t Sonia throwing the raincoat back in his face?

  Frustration pounds through all my pulse points as I try to get into character. “And who’s going to look after you, Ryan?” I’m supposed to say this wistfully, but it comes out flat. “When I was yours, I would have gone to the ends of the earth for you.” Gah. This dialogue is actually getting worse.

  Jake says his next lines like he’s half-asleep.

  Sweat beads on my upper lip. The stage directions tell me that Sonia is starting to get flirtatious, batting her eyes at Ryan, but it seems silly for Sonia to be batting her eyes, so I skip this direction. I bet Vivienne pulled off the eye-batting perfectly. “Careful, Ryan. You might be getting more than you bargained for.” My voice is so stilted that I might as well be reading an IKEA instructional manual instead of coming on to my ex-boyfriend.

  Eilene interrupts me. “What do you think of your character, Gemma?”

  “Excuse me?” I blink at her in confusion. It must be really bad for Eilene to interrupt me just a few lines in. My knees weaken in panic.

  “Can we just get on with this?” A petulant frown mars Jake’s sculpted good looks.

  Eilene ignores him and patiently repeats her question.

  I feel as if I’m back in high school, having just been sent to the principal’s office to answer for some mysterious offense. Not that I’d ever been sent to the principal’s office, but I still have anxiety dreams about it. “Sonia seems a little . . .” My voice trails off because there’s no good way to finish the sentence. “. . . unrealistic?” I finish weakly.

  Jake snorts.

  “Unrealistic how?” Eilene encourages me.

  “Um.
” My tongue feels like it’s swathed in itchy wool—it would be crazy to point out to a director that the character they’re casting for is a stereotype. “Well, it’s just that one minute she’s all doormat-y . . . and the next . . . she’s like, uh, seducing him?” Eilene actually seems to be listening, so I keep going. “I mean, if I were Sonia, I’d be angry that my ex-boyfriend is being sleazy and possessive. I wouldn’t be desperately trying to get him back. I’d be—well, I’d be trying to keep my last meal down.”

  Eilene laughs, but Jake doesn’t. He looks like he wants to be anywhere but here.

  My chin lifts. “But I’d also make damn sure he knows what he’s missing.”

  Jake’s unfocused gaze snaps back to me.

  Eilene’s mouth curves up in a smile. “Bu cuo.”

  “What did you say?” Jake asks Eilene, sounding a fraction less bored.

  “I said she’s not wrong,” she replies calmly.

  That is what “bu cuo” literally means in Chinese, but in common usage, it means “not bad,” with a strong implication of praise that’s lost in translation. Chinese parents get a bad rap for being stingy with praise, but really, a measured Chinese “bu cuo” is worth a hundred casual American “very good”s. And that’s what is causing hope to light up in me like a small, burning star.

  Eilene turns to me. “Let’s take it again from the top. OK with you, Gemma?”

  “Sure,” I squeak, terrified that I’m going to screw up all over again. How am I going to play Sonia convincingly?

  Jake shrugs and picks up his lines. As he starts up again, calling Sonia his “little butterfly,” a scene from M. Butterfly pops into my head—probably because I know the play frontward and backward by now. One of the characters says that it takes a man to play the perfect Asian woman convincingly. Because she’s not real—she’s the object of male fantasy.

  Right. Think fantasy, Gemma, not reality. I say my lines about going to the ends of the earth for Ryan, and this time, I pull it off better. Without gagging, at least.

  Jake says his next lines. “This is my hotel. Come inside and we’ll get out of these wet clothes.” My face burns hot as he ogles me over the top of his paper. Even bored out of his skull, he manages to leer—I swear it’s a reflex.