by Diana Ma
I’ve known men like Jake. And I understand their fantasies—ancient erotic secrets and shy giggles—sex and modesty all wrapped up in one impossible package. I had been wrong when I was sizing up the other women in the waiting room. Julie, Vivienne, me—none of us can be the woman they want. Because that woman isn’t real. But I don’t have to be that woman. All I have to do is act the part. And it’s about damn time that I remember to be an actress. My voice goes high and breathy as I glance demurely at Jake through lowered lashes. “Careful, Ryan. You might be getting more than you bargained for.” I allow just a spice of danger to leak through my voice.
He straightens up, interest sparking in his eyes as he reads his next lines.
Eilene gives me an approving smile and leans back in her chair.
I finish the scene, ignoring the directions that have me saying goodbye to Ryan with helpless longing. That’s not how I would feel if an ex-boyfriend came on to me with scummy lines about “little butterfly” and always looking after me. Instead, I read the lines with a sassy “kick-my-ex-to-the-curb” vibe.
When I’m done, both Eilene and Jake seem to like the way I played the scene. They have me do it again, this time with the cameras rolling. Then we shoot another scene. By the time the two directors tell me that they’ll be in touch, I’ve been in here for as long as Vivienne was. That’s a good sign, right? As I walk out back into the waiting room, I’m feeling tentatively OK about the audition.
I wave goodbye to the receptionist, and as I’m about to leave I hear Jake’s voice from the other side of those thin walls. “That went better than I expected.” Hope swells in me for a brief, joyous moment until he adds, “But Vivienne is still the clear choice.”
My stomach twists, and my shoulders slump. Well, there goes another chance at making rent. At least I got to meet Eilene Deng, if nothing else. But it would’ve been nice to meet my hero under different circumstances—when I’m not failing an audition, for instance.
CHAPTER FOUR
As I leave the audition building, my phone buzzes, right on cue. It’s my mom—I guess her Spidey sense told her this would be a good time to call. I sigh and tap answer. “Hi, Ma.”
“Gemma, this is your ma,” my mother says. It’s not that she doesn’t understand how caller ID works. It’s just that she thinks it’s necessary to state who she is at the start of every phone call.
“I know, Ma.”
We talk for a little bit and she tells me all about her friends’ children who are at college, forging a path to success and apparently having the time of their lives while they’re at it. Subtle, Mom.
“Mom, it’s called a gap year. Plenty of people take a gap year before going to college. It’s not a big deal to take a year off to get a start on my career!”
“Remember last summer? You said you didn’t want to work at the museum anymore, so you said you’d get a different job, and you didn’t.”
“I worked for two summers at your museum and on weekends during the school year! I needed a break!” I’m pacing the sidewalk, and I have to force myself to stop because I’m drawing curious looks from people passing by. “Besides, I was in a play last summer.”
She sniffs so loudly that I can hear it over the phone. “Rehearsals and showtimes were at night. You still could have gotten a job, but you were on the couch, watching that show all day.”
Admittedly, The Empress of China miniseries, clocking in at ninety-six episodes, is quite the time commitment. “That show was a Chinese drama, which you love, and it starred Fan Bingbing, your favorite actress,” I remind her stiffly. “I thought you’d want to watch it with me.” Actually, I’d counted on it because my Chinese is so basic that I’d be lucky to understand half of what was going on without her. Mom did eventually agree to watch it with me—but only to criticize. Mom, Dad, and I used to binge on Chinese dramas when I was a kid. But that was before I decided to be a serious actress. Now anything that feeds my dream of being an actress is suddenly a waste of time.
“That show got nothing right about Empress Wu Zetian!” Mom’s graduate art history degree and interest in Chinese culture gave her more Chinese historical knowledge than the average person, but since Wu Zetian lived thousands of years ago, it’s not like Mom or anyone else could actually know what the real empress was like. Plus, historical inaccuracy never stopped Mom from enjoying Chinese dramas about flying monks and magical warrior maidens.
“I think the show did a pretty good job! At least it didn’t portray Wu Zetian as a heartless court harlot who killed her own baby daughter to frame a rival.” The woman passing me on the sidewalk gives me an alarmed look. I smile at her as if to say, Really, I’m a totally normal person who just happens to be talking about court harlots and infanticide on a busy public street. The woman scurries by without meeting my eyes. I lower my voice. “I thought you’d appreciate a portrayal of Wu Zetian as a mother grieving her daughter’s murder rather than a bloodthirsty empress.”
“Please,” Mom says scornfully. “They made Wu Zetian a lovesick innocent who let everyone walk all over her! That girl couldn’t have run a household, much less an entire country.”
She has a point. Empress Wu didn’t get to be the only female ruler of China by being the damsel in distress that The Empress of China portrayed her as. Still, I know better than to concede a point to my mother in an argument. “Look, I’m just saying that Fan Bingbing gave us a portrayal of Wu Zetian that was better than the one that male court historians gave us.”
“The show just changed one wrong detail for another wrong detail. That doesn’t make it better.” So, now my mother is pretending to know what happened back in the time of the Tang dynasty? That just goes to show how stubborn she can be. My mom’s the most strong-willed, determined person I know. That’s why she speaks nearly flawless English even though she came to the United States as an adult. “Besides, I don’t like the ideas that show gave you.”
“What you really mean is that you don’t approve of anything that inspires me to be an actress! You want me to be a doctor or lawyer or something!” All right—this is a totally unfair accusation. My mom’s never pressured me toward a specific career. Besides, her own education in art history isn’t exactly a conventional path to success.
“You want to be an actress? Fine! Be an actress! Just be smart about it and go to college first! You think I got to be a museum director because I saw a painting and got ‘inspired,’ just like that?” She takes an audible breath. “But this isn’t about your acting. I just don’t like that show. Luan qi ba zao! Filling your head with nonsense. Kai wan xiao!”
Now I know she’s not telling the truth. Mom just used her two most scathing insults. “Luan qi ba zao”—disordered, chaotic—used on occasion to refer to the state of my room. “Kai wan xiao”—you’ve got to be kidding—reserved for items priced too high. She’s never used either phrase to describe anything artistic. You’d think Mom, being a museum director, would be snobby about art, but it’s just the opposite. She doesn’t like insulting any kind of art—much less her beloved Chinese dramas. That’s how I know her problem really is with my acting. “The show isn’t nonsense, and you know it! And neither is my acting!”
She ignores my outburst. “Do you have a job yet?”
I don’t respond, which is its own answer, and Mom’s voice turns soft. “We can give you qian for rent.”
Money. In the heat of our worst fight ever, Mom swore that they wouldn’t support me if I didn’t go to college this fall. But I should have known she would walk back her threat eventually. It must not have been easy for Mom to swallow her pride like that, but I’ve got my own pride. “No thanks.”
She sighs. “Your father grew up poor, you know.”
I blink in surprise. My parents never talk about their pasts.
“He’s very worried about you,” Mom says. “Delun,” she calls out, “get on the other line and tell our daughter how worried you are!” My parents are the only people I know who still have a
landline in addition to their cell phones.
“Mom,” I groan. The last thing I want is a conversation with Dad about how worried he is. Talking about feelings always makes Dad awkward.
In the background, I hear my dad say, “Lei, she doesn’t need me to tell her that.”
Mom ignores him and says to me, “He doesn’t want you to worry the way he did about food and a place to live. Here’s your ba ba now.”
OK, this is happening.
Dad comes on the line. “How are you for money, Gemma?” That’s Dad, right to the point. But in Dad-speak, “How are you for money?” pretty much means “I love you.” Plus, unlike Mom, he doesn’t have any rash threats to take back. Dad wasn’t thrilled about me putting off college either, but he didn’t threaten to cut me off from financial support.
“Fine,” I lie.
“Hao.”
“OK,” I repeat.
Awkward silence ensues.
Mom jumps in, rescuing me. “She’s not OK!” Well, sort of rescuing me.
“I’m fine, Mom. I really am. You and Dad don’t have to worry about me.” I pause. “I didn’t know Dad grew up poor. Were you poor too, Mom?”
My dad makes a strangled noise, and I hear the click of the phone, indicating that he’s hung up.
“No,” Mom says, “but it was nothing compared to the riches I have now. You know why?” Here it comes—because I worked hard. Because I went to college. But Mom’s too smart to be that obvious. “Because your father and I have each other. And we have you. I just want the best for our bao bei.” She’s pulling out the emotional big guns now. My mom used to call me Bao bei—treasure—when I was a kid. And in case that was too subtle, my dad used to call me “Gem” for short. I’m their treasure—got it. No pressure at all.
“You think you’ll go to college after this ‘gap’ year,” she says, “but I know what it’s like to be young and impulsive. It’s too easy to get distracted from what’s important—and trust me, you don’t want to have regrets for the rest of your life because you lose sight of what’s really important.” The woman is wasted as a museum director—she could give me drama lessons.
Raising my voice to be heard over the roar of traffic speeding by me, I say, “I know what’s important to me—and it’s acting! This isn’t an impulsive decision or a distraction. It’s my career!”
“I’m not telling you to give up acting. I’m telling you to go to college first so you have options! How many people actually earn a living through acting?”
Time to change tactics. “Sara Li took a gap year, and her mom didn’t give her grief for it.” That poor girl needed a gap year after enduring endless jokes about her name since elementary school. To this day, Sara Li can’t look at a frozen dessert without shuddering.
For once, Mom remains unmoved by the mention of her best friend’s daughter. “You don’t need to be like Sara Li.”
Seriously? All my life, I’ve heard Mom talk about the perfect Sara Li, and now my mom tells me that I don’t need to be like her? (If Sara weren’t my friend, I’d hate her guts.)
Then—giving into the sheer force of her Sara Li–worshipping habit—Mom says, “And Sara Li ended up going to Harvard.” It’s like Mom can’t help herself.
I seize on this. “And I am going to college next fall, just like Sara did after her gap year. Would you be happier if I did what Sara did during her gap year?” Oh no, don’t go there, Gemma—but my stupid mouth is faster than my brain. “Go to Beijing?”
Icy silence forms on the other end of the line, and my throat turns dry.
Over the years, I’ve spun a lot of wild theories about why my mother doesn’t want me to go to Beijing. A spurned lover turned stalker. A criminal past. The Chinese mafia (if there’s even such a thing) putting a hit out on her. Or maybe she just thinks the air is unhealthy. Every once in a while, I’ll blurt out a theory, hoping to surprise her into letting something slip. But nothing has worked so far. Eventually, I learned to stop pushing. For a woman who loves to talk, my mom is eerily good at the silent treatment. She doesn’t use it on me often. Just when I ask about Beijing. Or her family.
Sara Li has a sister, two sets of grandparents, and a whole passel of cousins, aunts, and uncles. Some are in the United States, some in Taiwan, and some in China, but the point is that Sara has them. Here’s the thing—I’ve never been jealous of Sara’s grades or awards. But I am jealous of her family, bursting at the seams with siblings and relatives. I have no one but Mom and Dad. That’s why I suspect the reason I can’t go to Beijing has nothing to do with stalkers, criminals, the mafia, or air pollution.
It has to do with Mom’s family.
Dad, at least, talks about his family . . . or lack of family, anyway. He’s an orphan. I’ve tried to ask my dad about why I can’t go to Beijing, but that doesn’t work either. Dad doesn’t give me the silent treatment like Mom does. But he does give me a wide-eyed, panicked look and a garbled “Talk to your mother” as he literally runs from me.
Finally, Mom speaks. “Do what you want with your life,” she says coldly. “Just don’t step foot in Beijing. You have no idea what will happen if you do.” She says the same thing again in slow, precise Chinese. Then she hangs up.
My stomach twists in knots. Here I am, standing all alone in the middle of Washington Boulevard, having just failed an audition. And now I feel even worse after talking to my mother. Anger sparks in me. Why is it so bad to bring up Beijing? It makes me even angrier when I think about her calling again in a week or so. It will be like nothing happened. Like Beijing never even came up. In no time at all, Mom will be back to telling me what I’m missing by not going to college. As if she knows everything about what’s best for me.
But she doesn’t understand a thing about me. The only reason she thinks I’m too impulsive is that every decision she’s ever made is so logical. Even Sara Li has a streak of rebellion. But not my mom. She’s never deviated from the conventional path to success. I’ll bet she’s never even made a rash choice in her life, and she wants me to be just like her. Except that I’m nothing at all like her.
Cars whiz by on the busy road, underscoring that I’m the only one with nowhere to go.
CHAPTER FIVE
The crowd around me is screaming in an airless concert venue while the scruffy lead singer of an indie band I’ve never heard of belts out a song at the top of his lungs. Ken, Glory, and Camille seem to be having fun. That’s more than I can say for myself, but by now I’m resigned to my friends and new boyfriend dragging me to dark little clubs that require me to have a fake ID. At least the ID part was easy. Getting one was simply a matter of asking Sara Li to give me her old driver’s license and get a new one; I reimbursed her for the replacement fee, and that was that. The fact that I look nothing like Sara doesn’t matter—the doorman at the club tonight didn’t even blink when he checked my ID.
Camille says I’m “lucky.” But that’s not how I see it. After all, it’s not often that white people’s cluelessness benefits me.
If seeing this band is a benefit, that is. The lead singer’s screech tears through the stuffy interior of the club, and someone accidentally bumps me, dripping cold beer onto my arm. I wince and try to move away, but there’s nowhere to move to. For once, I’d like to go someplace where I can move more than an inch without coming into contact with the sweaty chest of a stranger. And I wouldn’t mind listening to a band with intelligible lyrics either.
“Dai earplugs if you go to a rock concert, Gemma. Be careful of your ears.” Before I left home, Mom loaded me up with advice—as if I were a fragile plate that needed to be wrapped up in layers of care before being shipped off. Still, it’s nice to know that getting cut off from financial support doesn’t mean getting cut off from parental advice—even though I’ve ignored most of it, including the one about being careful of my ears. I’m not about to be the uncool girl wearing earplugs at a concert.
But if Mom had told me in all English to make sure I understood and
repeated the exact same thing again in all Chinese to underscore her feelings? Then I’d be shoving orange squishy cones into my ears—no matter what anyone else thinks. Looking uncool is nothing compared to ignoring that kind of warning. Because that’s DEFCON 1 for Mom. Life or death.
Glory and Camille are too into the music to notice that I’m being elbowed aside by a crowd of excited fans trying to get closer to the front, but Ken notices. He puts a protective arm around me, and his touch is so lovely and tingly that I don’t complain about getting even hotter and stickier from his body heat.
The set ends at last, and the crowd starts to ease away from the floor and toward the bar. My ears are ringing, so I don’t immediately register that the phone in my back pocket is buzzing. Who’s calling me near midnight on a Saturday? I pull out my phone and glance at the screen. Then the world tilts and I stop breathing. It’s my agent.
In slow motion, I answer the call. “Hi, Laura,” I squeak.
Ken drops his arm from my shoulders, and Glory and Camille both turn away from the stage to stare at me. They don’t know about my Butterfly audition. Why tell them about every long-shot audition—only to be disappointed? But that doesn’t keep the hope from rising in my throat.
“Are you sitting down, Gemma?” Laura asks.
“Yes,” I lie, calves and feet aching from dancing in place for hours on a hard, concrete floor. My breath is coming in hard pants now. This could be it. This really could.
“Good.” Excitement sparks in her voice. “Because you, Gemma Huang, just got cast in the lead role of Sonia Li!”
My heart goes numb in my chest, and my knees weaken, making me wish I actually were sitting down. “Oh, wow,” I whisper in hushed awe. Ken, Glory, and Camille all lean closer to listen in, and I take a step backward. “Did you just say lead role?” Thrilled disbelief jolts my heart, making it thud painfully. I thought Sonia was a minor role. The scene I read made her seem like the ex-girlfriend of the white male lead. “We’re talking about Butterfly, the M. Butterfly update that I auditioned for, right?”