by Diana Ma
I half-expect that she won’t know about Tiananmen Square, but Alyssa says, “Yes, like that. I only found out about the massacre a few years ago when I went abroad for a fashion show. It shocked me.” She takes a sip of her own tea and stares down into the tumbler. “In fact, I asked my grandfather about it.”
My heart skips a beat. “What did he say?”
Her mouth twists. “He said that it was a lie. Western propaganda. According to him, a few rioters were arrested in Tiananmen Square, and that was it.”
I stare at her in shock. “Hundreds died. And thousands were arrested.”
“Yes, I know.” Alyssa looks up at me, her gaze steady. “It’s things like my grandfather’s lie about Tiananmen Square that makes me wonder if you were right. Maybe I don’t know the whole truth either.”
That’s quite the admission. My fingers numb with cold as I grip the chilly tumbler in my hands. Afraid I’m going to break the glass, I set the tumbler in a cup holder. “Ready to tell me the real reason your family kicked my mom out?”
“I told you the real reason.” I’m about to protest when she adds, “But you’re right that there’s more to it.” I knew it. “I want to tell you. You deserve to know, but—” Conflicted feelings sweep over her face. “Let me talk to my mother. I can’t make this decision by myself. After I talk to her, I’ll get in touch with you.”
“When?” I don’t want to wait another agonizing two weeks wondering when or even if my cousin is going to contact me.
“Soon,” she promises. “By Zhong Qiu Jie. Mid-Autumn Festival.”
Mid-Autumn Festival. An ache spreads through my chest. Mid-Autumn Festival is a time for family and reconnection. Except that this will be the first one I’ll spend without my parents. And I had forgotten all about it. “Mid-Autumn Festival is in a week. That’s hardly soon. Why will it take you that long to talk to your mother?”
A cagey look comes into her eyes. “I have some other . . . complicated things going on. But I’ll talk to my mother as soon as I can. Let’s say Mid-Autumn Festival at the latest, but probably before then.”
“Fine,” I say tightly. “But if I don’t hear from you by Mid-Autumn Festival, I’ll come looking for you.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Alyssa says wryly. She downs the rest of her iced tea in one swallow, and the diamonds at her throat glitter as coldly as the ice in her glass. “But it won’t be necessary.”
It had better not be.
Alyssa drops me off at my hotel, and when I get to my suite, I find another surprise. A pink envelope on the coffee table—tucked under a yellow silk bag embroidered with a phoenix. I read the note first.
This belonged to your mother. It’s yours now. I want you to have something of your inheritance.
Xoxo, Alyssa
With shaking fingers, I pull the silk cords to open the bag. An oval green jade pendant hung from a gold chain spills into my palm with a Chinese character I don’t recognize carved into the jade.
For a long time, I sit on the luxurious white rug, holding the pendant in my hand as if it’s hiding all the answers I want in its luminous green depths.
The jade grows warm and heavy in my hand. But it gives me no answers.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
For the rest of the week, gifts start arriving like it’s the Twelve Days of Christmas. But it didn’t start with a partridge in a pear tree. It started with a green jade pendant in a yellow silk bag.
On Tuesday, the second day, a Hermès shoulder bag and matching clutch showed up in my hotel room. Both bag and clutch were in soft, supple leather that baby calves gave their lives for, and each was adorned with a gold-plated clasp. The accompanying pink note said, One for everyday use and one for special evenings! Xoxo, Alyssa.
On the third day, a pair of Jimmy Choo strappy heels in my exact size arrived. They had chunky platform heels and looked like they had been dipped in glittering gold fairy dust. That time, the note said, So your every step will shine! Xoxo, Alyssa.
On the fourth day, a ticket for that night’s performance of a modern Beijing opera appeared, propped up against another bottle of Moët. The show was at the National Centre for the Performing Arts—a glass-and-metal-plated dome structure surrounded by an artificial lake in the heart of Beijing and accessible only via a long underwater corridor. Tickets, of course, were superexpensive. The note simply said, Enjoy! Xoxo, Alyssa.
It’s now Friday morning, and I’m lying in bed with the natural-light lamp glowing bright. But it didn’t wake me up because I wasn’t asleep. I’m lying here, wondering why I’m getting presents and pink notes instead of answers from Alyssa. Of course, I’m bowled over by her generosity, but Alyssa’s deadline is almost up. Mid-Autumn Festival is on Monday.
Ugh. My head feels like it’s been stuffed with sludge. It can’t be because of the single glass of champagne I’d drank last night after the Beijing opera.
No, it’s the endless questions running in a loop through my head. Did my mother steal that painting? If not, then what’s the real reason my mother was kicked out of the family? Does Alyssa really have more information about my mother? Will Alyssa actually tell me? Will her mother let her? Those thoughts kept me up last night, and I’d be surprised if I got more than a few hours of sleep.
My phone buzzes at that moment, and I roll over in bed to grab it off my nightstand. It’s Eric.
Hey! How are you doing on the food wish list?
Blinking the crustiness out of my eyes, I text him back.
Nothing left. Glad to hear from you!
I hesitate. Does that last part about being glad to hear from Eric sound too eager? We’ve been texting regularly for three weeks, so you’d think I’d be better at this by now.
Argh! I delete the second sentence. But now the text sounds too abrupt. Why is this so hard? Because there might be some people who are good at flirt-texting, but I, Gemma Huang, am not. I retype the sentence I just deleted. Then I send off my text and spend a small eternity hyperventilating and staring at the three pulsing dots—proof that Eric is texting back his reply.
His text finally pops up on my screen.
Want to go out Sunday night? It’s Mid-Autumn Festival eve. Fun things are happening that night.
Like I need a reminder that Mid-Autumn Festival is approaching fast with no word from Alyssa. As usual, I don’t have plans. But that doesn’t mean it’s a good idea to go out with Eric.
I’d like to say that I hesitate or spare more than a passing thought of all the excellent reasons to turn Eric down. But the truth is that my thumbs fly so fast that autocorrect is challenged to translate my text into an intelligible response. In the end, I delete everything and respond with just one word.
Sure!
We text a bit more and agree to meet at my hotel on Sunday.
Then I drag myself out of bed and into the shower. The reflection in the bathroom mirror makes me grimace. My hair is in tangled knots, and the bags under my eyes are big enough to pack my luggage into. Maybe, I think morosely, Jake will actually like this look for Song. We’re shooting more of Song’s scenes today, and it would be an understatement to say I’m not looking forward to it. Groaning out loud, I turn the taps on and yelp when the icy water hits me. Hastily, I turn the taps to warm.
Apparently, I don’t even have enough mental energy to take a shower. How am I going to play Song on set today? Especially since I still haven’t figured out how to follow Eilene’s advice to stand up for myself.
No brilliant ideas come to me as I throw on clean clothes, run a comb through my hair, and walk to the hotel lobby to take a car to the studio.
The driver is the same man who picked me up from the airport over a month ago. By this time, I know his name is Wei, and we’ve become fairly friendly. Enough so that he looks at me in concern as I climb into the back seat.
“You OK?” he asks.
“Never better.” I smile wanly. “Right as rain.”
Wei is silent, probably running my comment t
hrough a mental translation.
I try again. “Wo hao.” Saying I’m good is a total lie, but Wei brightens anyhow. Maybe he just likes that I’m speaking Chinese.
“Na hao,” he says. That’s good. It seems that he’s taking my assurances at face value.
The time passes in silence as Wei drives. By now, I’ve almost gotten used to the fact that driving in Beijing is a competitive sport. Everyone—pedestrians, bicyclists, other drivers—is vying for the same narrow slice of road. And everyone goes at top speed. I’ve hardly ever seen Wei take his hand off the horn when he’s driving.
Traffic slows a bit, and Wei scans the left lane for an opening. I brace myself when our car starts inching to the left. To my cowardly American eye, there isn’t an opening, but Wei’s been known to force a space out of nothing. The window on the car next to us slides down. Uh-oh. Here we go again. More car-to-car angry shouting. Wei seems to anticipate the same thing because he rolls down his window too.
But the two young women in the car aren’t even looking at Wei. And they’re not yelling. At least not in anger.
They’re looking right at me. “Alyssa Chua!” the girl in the passenger seat screams. The rest of it is in Chinese and turns into a dull roar in my panicked brain. I didn’t get nearly enough sleep to deal with this.
Way too late, I scramble for my hat and sunglasses, but what’s the use? I’ve been made. My hands drop limply into my lap. “Roll up the window please,” I tell Wei tightly.
He does so, but it barely cuts down on the noise. “They think you’re Alyssa Chua.”
“Yeah, I figured that out somehow.” Then I feel bad. Wei’s been nothing but nice to me and doesn’t deserve my sarcasm. “Sorry.” Wincing, I press my fingers into my temples. The fans’ shrieking is bringing on a killer headache. And the incessant flash of the camera isn’t helping either. Shielding my face, I say, “I guess the noise and lights are getting to me.”
“No problem,” he says cheerfully. “Let me get you away.”
For once, I’m grateful for Wei’s death-defying driving skills. Again I brace myself and lock my legs as Wei lays on the horn and swerves to the right, slotting us into the next lane. Everyone honks, which doesn’t bode well for my headache. But even worse is that the driver of the car to our left seems to be as much of a risk-taking demon at the wheel as Wei—based on how quickly she slips into the spot we just vacated. That means my fans are next to us again, with their window still rolled down and shouting Alyssa’s name.
In disbelief, I stare at the other car as both girls wave at me in wild elation. “They are batshit crazy.”
“What is this ‘batshit’ and who is crazy?” Wei asks.
He loves to ask me about American slang, but now is not the time for a lesson. “They are.” I point to the fans still waving at me.
Wei looks to the left. “That driver is good, but I’m better,” he says confidently. “We will lose them.” He steps on it, only to slam on the brakes when traffic slows again.
My seat belt cuts into my stomach as I’m thrown forward. “Maybe,” I gasp, “we should just wait until traffic lets up a bit.”
“It’s OK,” Wei assures me. “They are bothering you, yes?” As if to underscore his point, the girl in the passenger seat starts taking pictures of me again.
Resigned, I sink back into my seat, prepared to let Wei do his worst.
Wei shoots ahead when our lane picks up the pace and angles our car toward the left lane. The driver of the car ahead of Alyssa’s fans is a burly man around forty. He glares at us and speeds up to close the gap Wei is nosing toward.
“Wei,” I say nervously, “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
Wei doesn’t answer me. I’m not even sure if he hears me. His mouth is set, and he’s pressing on the horn with stubborn determination as he eases the bumper over the line. The other driver is honking like crazy and not slowing down. Great. My life is in the hands of two grown men playing chicken.
“Wei!” I shriek. But it’s too late.
In slow motion, our car barrels into the other car. Again, my seat belt knives across my stomach as my body is slammed forward. All I can smell is burned rubber, and all I can hear is the squeal of brakes. There’s a sickening crunch of metal and glass, and then all is quiet.
“Huang xiao jie, ni hao ma?” Wei cries. “Miss Huang, are you OK?” He’s twisting back to peer at me in worry, and his eyes are round, pupils dark and dilated.
I put my hand to my aching head, half-afraid it will be sticky with blood, but there’s nothing. No bones seem to be broken either, and when I turn my neck, it’s a little stiff but not painful. “I’m OK,” I say weakly. “Are you OK?”
“Yes.” He sighs. “I think everyone else is too.”
The driver of the other car has gotten out of his vehicle and is yelling at us in Chinese. Given that I don’t understand most of what he’s saying, I’m guessing that he’s swearing at us. My parents never use profanity, so that’s a big gap in my Chinese vocabulary.
Even worse is that Alyssa’s fans are getting out of their own car. Leaving it in the middle of the road for cars to go around, the two girls are making their way to us, phones out ahead of them as if they’re scanning for alien life-forms. The air is now filled with honking as the other cars have to make their way around three cars at a standstill.
Alyssa might regularly cause stampedes and car accidents with her presence, but this is brand-new territory for me. I’m not a crier, but tears of sheer frustration bubble at the corners of my eyes. Not only did I get zero sleep last night, now I have to deal with a car accident and two fangirls who are posting this on social media. To top it all off, I’m going to be late to work.
And Alyssa still hasn’t told me if she can reveal the big secret about my mom. I don’t care how many expensive gifts with cheery pink notes she’s giving me—right now, I really hate Alyssa Chua.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
My bowl-cut wig sticks to my scalp, and the cheap synthetic material of my suit rubs against my skin in slithery discomfort. We’re on the office set again, shooting another scene between Song and Ryan. And nothing is going right.
Everyone had to wait around until I got to the set almost an hour late, and that didn’t exactly do wonders for Jake’s less-than-sunny disposition. Eilene, Aidan, and everyone else were super nice about my lateness and kept saying they were glad that I didn’t get hurt from the car accident. Jake made some obligatory remark along the same lines and then hustled us into the shoot to make up for lost time. He was even relatively patient when I flubbed my lines during the first take. But he was less patient when I did it again in the second take. In the third take, I managed to deliver all my lines correctly, but my performance could only be described as wooden. Or, as Jake called it, “a travesty.”
To make matters worse, my headache hasn’t gotten any better. My neck feels like a tightly coiled spring radiating pain into my skull. The only comfort I can take is that the headache came on before the accident, so it’s probably not a concussion. Although, a concussion might explain why I’m such a wreck. Is it bad that I’m hoping I have a concussion to excuse how awful my acting is?
Throughout this ordeal, Eilene’s expression is perfectly composed, and her directions are given calmly, but I’m sure that speaks to how good her acting skills are, rather than any confidence in mine.
Jake huffs out a long-suffering sigh. “Let’s try that again. Aidan, just do what you did last time. You are playing Ryan exactly right.”
“Thanks.” Tactfully, Aidan looks away when my face flames up.
“Gemma . . .” Here Jake seems to grope for his last fragments of patience. “At the risk of repeating myself, this is a comedy.”
Eilene says to me, “Your sense of humor is one reason we wanted you for the role of Sonia.” Nope. My resemblance to Alyssa is the reason they wanted me for the role.
Jake looks like he’s about to dispute what she said, and I wonder which part he d
isagrees with. The part where I have a sense of humor or the part where they both wanted me for the role? “Right. Gemma, let’s get you into character.”
I take a deep breath, willing myself to ignore the pounding pain in my head and pay attention. “OK.”
“You come into the office,” Jake says. “You see Ryan wearing a tie that you, Sonia, gave him. For a moment, you forget that you’re dressed as Song. Your eyes soften with emotion, and you walk right up to him, touching his tie. Ryan reacts with confusion and recoils from you. In horror, you realize that you’ve just hit on your ex-boyfriend, who thinks that you’re a man.”
Recoil. Horror. Yeah, that’s what I’m feeling now. A sick feeling spreads through my stomach. I blame my lack of sleep on why I didn’t understand what had been happening in those last three takes. All the humor of this scene is based on that old comedic standby—homophobia. Ryan recoils because he thinks a man is interested in him. And Sonia reacts with horror because Ryan thinks she’s gay. It’s not funny at all—it’s offensive.
Jake wraps up his directions. “You and Ryan both get real macho, real fast. Got it?”
I get it all right. And it sharpens my headache into a wincing rain of sparks at the edges of my vision.
“Gemma, are you OK?” Eilene’s face is pinched in concern.
My gaze snaps to her. Doesn’t Eilene get it? Can’t she see what this scene is about? It’s bad enough that I have to play Song as some effeminate Asian male stereotype, but now I have to play this scene for cheap, homophobic laughs. “This scene . . .” I trail off, remembering what happened the last time I tried to speak up. Jake shut me down. And Eilene didn’t step in.
“What about this scene?” Eilene asks.
Aidan watches me in confusion.
“Yeah,” Jake says with a belligerent undertone. “What about this scene?” He’s ready for a fight.