Heiress Apparently

by Diana Ma

“Why don’t you enlighten me, then,” I say sarcastically.

  “My grandfather made his money in the eighties under the market reform policies of the Communist Party! It’s one thing to make money in that kind of economy, but if anyone thought that—” She stops abruptly. She was about to tell me something more. She starts again, speaking more slowly and carefully. “Inherited wealth through many generations of rich landowners is different. It’s considered elitist. Money made on the backs of the people. That kind of wealth is frowned upon.”

  “Especially for a high-ranking Communist Party official like your grandfather, I imagine.” My voice is dry.

  “Like I said, my grandfather made his money under party-approved economic policies, so we had nothing to worry about.” Her face closes tight. “Not until your mother decided to steal that painting out of greed and selfishness. My grandfather had no choice but to banish your mother. What she did threatened us all.” A strange emotion flickers in her eyes. “Just like Gong Gong had no choice but to report Mimi’s grandfather. Gong Gong did what he did to protect our family.”

  That doesn’t make sense at all. How would reporting Eric and Mimi’s grandfather to the Red Guard as a counterrevolutionary protect our family? And why am I just standing here, accepting whatever she says without protest? Why should I believe these horrible things about my mother just because Alyssa says that they’re true? “I don’t believe you,” I say clearly. “My mother would never put her family in danger. And nothing excuses what our grandfather did to Eric and Mimi’s grandfather.”

  “You don’t understand.” Alyssa’s voice is as hard as the diamonds in her choker.

  “You’re the one who doesn’t understand,” I shoot back. “You’re so ready to believe whatever your grandfather tells you that you can’t see that it doesn’t add up. Why keep my grandmother in the dark about me? Why inform on a friend, starting a generational war with Eric and Mimi’s family? Why kick my mom out of the family if she took that painting—no one even pressed charges, so how would anyone know she had it?”

  Alyssa’s body tenses, and I think she’s going to scream at me. Instead, she walks to the black door and opens it. Music, laughter, and talk rushes in, jarring me to the bone.

  A few of her friends, including Mimi, float to her side, and Alyssa smiles widely, as if our intense exchange never happened. “Stay and drink if you want, Gemma,” she says airily. “The band is coming on soon.”

  I’m tempted to throw a fit in front of all these beautiful people. I bet they would just love that. I can just imagine the headlines on the gossip sites—Heiress Throwdown with Long-Lost Twin. Tossing my hair over my shoulder, I stalk to the door, head held high. But before I sweep past Alyssa, I murmur, “Maybe you don’t know the whole truth either. If I were you, I’d ask your grandfather.”

  Alyssa rears back as if I’d slapped her, and Mimi, standing next to her, gives me a troubled look.

  I begin to push through the crowd, but it eventually parts; the people let me pass even as they look after me curiously. I don’t blame them. My skin is burning, and my scalp prickles with sweat. What the hell just happened? Heart thumping erratically, I rush down the stairs.

  At the bottom, someone puts a hand on my shoulder to steady me. “Gemma, what’s wrong?” It’s Eric.

  “We should go.”

  “OK.” He starts to lead me toward the elevator and then stops midway across the room. “Do you want to tell me what Alyssa said about your mother?”

  “Nothing that different from what you told me.” It’s true. Eric told me my mother had stolen Wu Zetian’s painting, and Alyssa told me the same thing. But the part about my mother selfishly putting her family in danger? I just can’t believe it. And there’s something else. Or someone else. The person responsible for what happened to Eric’s grandfather and my mother. My grandfather. I shudder.

  Eric’s forehead wrinkles in worry. “You’re all pale and shaky. At least eat something before we go.” He snags a plate of green onion pancakes from a server passing by. “I think these are on your food wish list.”

  I manage a wobbly smile. “I’m not hungry.” But I take one of the pancakes anyway and dip it into a small dish of spicy soy sauce. As I bite into the pancake, the crunchy outer layer gives way to the soft underlayers of dough studded with green onions, and an amazing burst of salt and spice fills my mouth. “Oh wow. Is this what they serve at all the rich, exclusive parties?” When was the last time I ate? Have I actually eaten anything but post-breakup ice cream today?

  Eric laughs. “Feeling better?”

  “I am actually.” It’s true. I don’t know if it’s because of the best cong you bing I’ve ever eaten or Eric’s kindness, but the shakiness after my encounter with Alyssa is fading.

  In reply, he hands me the whole plate.

  “Are you sure?” I ask. “Because I don’t think I can do the whole polite Chinese thing where we go round and round, insisting that the other person takes the food. That can last forever, and these cong you bing are just too good to resist!”

  “No, please!” he insists. “I eat these a lot of the time, so they’re all yours.”

  I eye him suspiciously. “See, that’s what you’re supposed to say. And I’m supposed to say something about not being hungry. Even if I am.”

  “You’re right—this can take forever. How about this? You go ahead and eat it all,” Eric says with a glint in his eye, “and I’ll stand here, silently judging you.”

  A grin tugs at my mouth. Eric’s dry sense of humor is my favorite kind of pick-me-up. “Well,” I say, pretending to think it over, “I suppose the only thing more Chinese than outpoliting someone else is . . .”

  In unison, we say, “Silent judgment!”

  Despite Eric’s protests, I share the pancakes with him, and while we’re polishing off the plate, he leads me farther into the room until we’re standing close to a small stage. Unlike Alyssa’s raised platform in the opposite corner, this one is empty of everything but sound equipment.

  I turn to Eric. “Shouldn’t we get out of here before we’re kicked out?”

  “Not just yet. There’s something you should see. I think it will cheer you up.”

  I glance toward Alyssa, who’s sitting again on her own stage, as if she were a queen commanding a special performance. Except that Alyssa’s unwavering gaze isn’t on the performance that’s about to start. Her attention is directed at me, and it makes me feel like I have a target painted on my back. “I don’t have a burning need to see a band.”

  “I think you’re going to want to see this band.” Eric’s eyes are lit up with secrets. The fun kind, not the criminal-in-the-family kind of secret.

  Then the lights suddenly dim and the music in the background cuts off. Eric opens up a hand toward the stage. “I present to you Gen XX!”

  “Gen . . . what?”

  Four young Asian guys saunter onto the stage, and all around me, guests are bursting into cheers and rushing the stage, which pushes Eric and me closer to the front.

  What did I say to Eric to make him think I’m a Chinese boy band groupie? “So, Gen XX is a boy band?” Gritting my teeth, I refuse to budge as a mass of girls press against me, screaming their undying love for various members of Gen XX. The girls simply eddy around me—an unstoppable, shrieking wave of haute couture and high heels. At least they’re not after me this time.

  Eric anchors me to him with a light hand at my elbow, and all my senses zoom to that tiny square of skin where he’s touching me, making my nerve endings go completely haywire. The crowd, the noise—everything fades away.

  “Look again,” he says.

  Oh, I’m looking all right. It takes me a moment to understand that he’s talking about the band. My face heats up, and I turn quickly to the stage to hide my confusion. The four band members are blowing kisses and thanking their hysterical fans. They all have slim, graceful builds, cool haircuts, and the poreless faces of angels. In other words, they look like a boy band.
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  The only thing that distinguishes them from other Asian boy bands is that they’re all wearing suits, but not matching ones. One has a pin-striped suit with a red bow tie. Two of them wear their suits more casually, with their jackets rolled to the elbow and open over T-shirts. The last one is wearing an all-black suit, the top buttoned up over a black silk shirt and black tie. “Um, beautiful suits?”

  Gen XX starts singing and dancing, and the crowd goes wild. Their voices are as angelic as their faces, and their dance moves are spectacular, but boy bands have never been my thing.

  Eric leans in to make himself heard. “Mimi will be glad to hear that. She’s the one who designed that particular line of clothing for the family business.” It’s impossible to miss the note of pride in his voice.

  I bring my mouth to his ear and yell, “Your sister is very talented.” And the thought of unfriendly Mimi takes the edge off the odd feeling threatening to burst through my skin at Eric’s nearness.

  “Thanks, but I didn’t want to stay for the band to show off the clothes Mimi designed!” The crowd cheers as the lead singer does a split in midair, and it’s a moment before the cheering fades enough for Eric to continue. “When you told me what your director said about China and our so-called traditional views, I wanted to show you a different China. Show you that China isn’t just a repressive country with rigid views on gender and sexuality.”

  Gen XX executes a series of moves that involves weaving in and out in a synchronized pattern, all while singing about unrequited love—I don’t really know what they’re singing since my Chinese isn’t good enough to make out the lyrics. But from the soulful way they’re gazing out at the audience and the panting, shrieking response of that audience—I’d say my guess is a pretty good one.

  The song ends, and I have to wait until the applause dies down before I can resume my conversation with Eric. “And this boy band proves my director wrong?” I gaze at Gen XX doubtfully. I guess there’s a sexiness the band has without being hypermasculine. “That’s cool.” But I’m still confused. Gen XX doesn’t seem different from any other Asian boy band I could’ve watched on YouTube, so I don’t get why Eric felt it was important that I see them live.

  Eric grins. “And even cooler that the band members are all girls.”

  “What? You’re kidding!” My attention snaps back to the stage, where Gen XX is launching into another pop song with high-octane dancing. As a boy band, they do nothing for me, but a band of girls? That’s hot.

  Apparently, I’m not the only one who feels that way. Girls all around me are screaming and shoving past me to get closer to the front. As much as I’m loving Gen XX, I am not into the ear-piercing enthusiasm of the audience. If only Jake could see and hear this.

  Eric bends his head to mine. “Had enough?”

  “Yes,” I say gratefully. “Gen XX is awesome, but . . .”

  “Say no more,” he replies promptly. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Smoothly, Eric extricates us from the crowd, and I’m reminded of when we first met, at the Forbidden City. We were escaping a crowd that day too. But unlike then, no one—except Alyssa—is watching us leave this time. I grab my hat from the table near the elevator where I’d left it on our way into the club.

  Even as we step into the elevator, I can still feel Alyssa’s eyes on me, and I turn back for one last glimpse. Alyssa’s face is unreadable as she stares back at me. Then Mimi, sitting next to Alyssa, says something in her ear. Alyssa’s reaction is . . . surprising. The impassive expression on her face melts into something that looks a lot like fear.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The elevator door slides shut, and I breathe a sigh of relief to have escaped.

  “How are you doing?” Eric asks.

  “I’m fine.” I’m not about to tell him that something his sister had said to Alyssa seemed to have struck fear in Alyssa’s heart. Shaking off the unsettling image, I ask, “How was Alyssa able to get Gen XX to play at her private club?”

  “Money. How else?” Eric says sardonically. “Alyssa, or her family, has more money than they know how to spend. The huge amount of money it must’ve taken to get a wildly popular band like Gen XX is nothing to Alyssa.”

  “Do their fans know that Gen XX is made up of all girls?” It’s hard to reconcile everything I’ve heard about a conservative China with the popularity of a gender-nonconforming band of girls.

  “Of course,” Eric replies. “Girls talk openly about their crushes on the group members. Gen XX is as popular and gets as much fan mail as any other boy band.” As I take that in, he adds, “You have to understand that there’s the Chinese government’s stance and policy, and then there are the actual Chinese people’s views and practices—it would be a mistake to think the two are the same.”

  The elevator slides noiselessly down the many floors, and I look out the glass walls of the elevator at the space-age Beijing skyline, all spires and lights. “My parents are from China, but I don’t know a thing about this country. Not what you call ‘actual Chinese people’s views and practices.’ What your sister said about me—it’s what I feel I am sometimes. Wai guo ren. Foreigner. Because I’m not just Chinese. I’m Chinese American.” I laugh hollowly. “I sometimes feel like a foreigner in the U.S. too. But there I’m Chinese American.” No matter where I am, one part of who I am marks me as different.

  “Hey, don’t listen to my sister,” Eric says, taking one of my hands in his own. “You’re not a foreigner. It doesn’t matter that you haven’t been to China before now. Or that you were born in America. None of that matters. You are Zhong Guo Ren. Chinese.”

  Something squeezes at my heart. When I first came to Beijing, I wasn’t thinking about what I wanted or what I was looking for, other than my success as an actress. But now I know. I want to belong. And Eric is speaking as if that’s already true—that I already belong. “But if your grandmother and Alyssa are right, then my mother gave up her family and homeland because she’s a criminal.” The elevator stops smoothly on the ground floor, and we step out into the marble hallway.

  I shoot Eric a covert glance, but he doesn’t reply until we’re back out into the still-warm night full of people. “After the Summer Palace,” he says at last, “I called my father and asked about the painting. I asked if your mother had stolen it like my nai nai said.”

  “What did he say?” My hands grow damp with anxiety.

  “He said to forget the painting. That it’s better for everyone that it’s gone.”

  “What? You said that painting was priceless! That it may have come from Empress Wu’s own art collection.”

  “Yes,” he agrees, “but my father didn’t seem to blame your mother for stealing it. He wouldn’t even say that she had. In any case, as you pointed out, my family never pressed charges.” He stops a little distance from the guards flanking the doors to the club. “Listen, neither of us knows the whole story of that painting or what happened to make your mother leave. Until we do . . . or even if we do . . . can we call a truce? Be friends?”

  Eric’s father believes it’s better that the painting is gone. Except that it isn’t gone, and I know exactly where it is. On a wall in my mother’s office. The lady with the red dress and calligraphy brush. But Eric is right that we don’t know the whole story.

  “OK, let’s call a truce,” I say. “And as a friend, can I give you some advice?”

  He looks at me warily. “Sure.”

  “If you can give my mother the benefit of the doubt, then maybe you can do the same for Alyssa.”

  His eyes widen in startlement. “Why would I do that? Why would you even want me to give her the benefit of the doubt?” he asks. “After ten minutes with Alyssa, you came out of that room looking like you’d seen a ghost!”

  It’s a good question, and I don’t have an answer ready. I think of Alyssa’s unexpected acts of kindness and the shocked look on her face when I suggested that she didn’t know the whole truth. Maybe there’s more to Alyssa th
an meets the eye. Plus, I’ve never had a sibling, but it seems silly for Eric and Mimi to be fighting over who Mimi gets to be friends with. “Your sister did have a point—you and I are friends. Why can’t Mimi and Alyssa be friends too?”

  “That’s not the same!” Eric argues. “You and Alyssa are nothing alike. I just don’t understand why Mimi would want to be friends with someone as superficial as Alyssa, and I don’t like the way she acts around Alyssa. Mimi is smart, talented, and kind. But ever since she became friends with Alyssa, Mimi’s been . . . different. Guarded and even rude.”

  Yeah, I got a dose of that head-on. But no matter how rude Mimi was to me, she’s still important to Eric. “Look, maybe it would help if you gave Mimi some space. Show her that you’re not trying to control her life or her choice in friends.”

  He nods reluctantly. “You’re probably right. Mimi has a good head on her shoulders. I should trust her to take care of herself.”

  My stomach chooses this moment to let out a loud rumble. Mortified, I clap my hand to my stomach. “Sorry! I didn’t have dinner.”

  “No, I’m the one who’s sorry!” Eric says. “One small shared plate of green onion pancakes is definitely not enough food.” He glances around at the jumbotrons and big-name stores surrounding us. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

  Eric hails a taxi and takes me to Wangfujing Street, promising that I’ll be able to knock off everything I have left on my food wish list and then some.

  We end up at the Wangfujing night market, which is lined with red lanterns and crowded with people. Our first stop is a food stall wafting out clouds of fragrant steam from big bamboo steamers.

  “This place makes the best hum bao,” Eric boasts.

  Hungrily, I eye the pillowy white hum bao being lifted out of the steamers. “Let me pay,” I insist, reaching into my purse.

  Eric, no stranger to the rules of this game, throws himself bodily in my way. “No way!”

  I try to duck under his arm, but he’s too quick and hands the amused vendor some bills before I even get my wallet out.