After Eric and I part ways, I hit the food stalls, but I’m so freaked out by what I learned about my family that I don’t enjoy the outing as much as I should. Plus, every time I think about Eric, it feels as if I’m charged up on a hundred fireflies. Not good.
When I get back to my fancy hotel room, the first thing I see is another pale pink envelope on the coffee table. This time, there’s no expensive bottle of champagne accompanying the note.
Gemma,
Stay away from Eric Liu! He’s trouble!
Alyssa
No “Xoxo” this time. Alyssa must have seen the pics of Eric and me at the Forbidden City. Eric was right—the rumor that they’re together did piss her off. But there has to be more than that. Everyone seems to be warning me about something. Alyssa warns me about Eric. Eric warns me about Alyssa. And my mother warns me to stay out of Beijing. But no one seems to be telling the whole truth.
I sink into the white plush couch, still clutching the note. Looking around at all the opulence surrounding me, I wonder where Alyssa’s money comes from anyway. If her grandfather is so big in the Communist Party, why does her family have so much money? Isn’t the Communist Party supposed to be about class equality and “Down with the rich!” ideals?
My dad would tell me that I was being naive. Except that he’d never put it that harshly. He’d give me some professor lecture about the complexity of communism in practice, and then he’d talk about how capitalism was also problematic. Problematic is my dad’s favorite word, and by the time I was seven, I was saying things like “Not having enough peanut butter in this sandwich is just as problematic as not having enough jam.” Dad was so proud. Well, he wouldn’t be proud of me now. I’m living in the lap of luxury in the city Mom has forbidden me to be in.
I finger the tasseled silk of a gold pillow. Is this why Mom didn’t want me to come here? Does she not want me to know about what I could have had? And is Alyssa really trying to keep me from my inheritance? Maybe if I had all this for real and not just on loan, I’d do anything to keep these riches to myself too.
But I don’t think so. In spite of the luxury hotel suite, I’m not Alyssa Chua, fashionista superstar heiress. I’m Gemma Huang, recently graduated high school student and aspiring actress.
I need a little normalcy.
Dropping the pillow, I pick up my phone and try again to reach Ken. Instantly, I regret it. I’m not actually in the mood to talk to him right now.
Then, just when I think I’ve missed him again, his voice comes over the line. “Gemma! At last!”
Are you kidding me? This is when I finally connect with Ken? After getting a weird note from my cousin and after meeting a cute guy I can’t get out of my head?
My “Hi!” in return sounds overly enthusiastic. Even over the phone, Ken can probably smell the guilt streaming from my pores. I try to take it down a notch. “I was just running lines and figured I might as well try to call again.” Argh! That sounded way too casual. My whole body tightens as I pace my small hotel room. I hate lying. Now I have to go over the script again so I won’t technically be lying to Ken. The worst thing is that I’m not even sure why I’m lying.
“I’m glad you did.” Ken’s voice is warm. “I miss you.”
He doesn’t suspect a thing. But what am I trying to hide? Nothing happened with Eric, and even if something had, Ken and I have an agreement. To cover up my confusion, I ask about his commercial.
Ken’s so happy talking about his commercial that I can almost ignore the little voice that’s pointing out how Ken isn’t asking a single question about my movie. It doesn’t help that the same little voice is also pointing out how interested Eric was in hearing about my movie and how he asked questions. I shut down the voice with ruthless determination and focus hard on making the appropriate noises every time Ken pauses in his narrative.
Finally, he wraps up and asks me about the movie. “Busy but good.” I want to tell him about my struggles with Jake, my fear about letting Eilene down, and my worry that Sonia is still too flat and one-dimensional. Except that Ken was so weird about me taking the role in the first place that I don’t want to give him more ammunition to criticize the movie. Butterfly might be flawed, but it’s still my breakout role.
“Have you gotten to see Beijing yet?” he asks.
Inwardly, I groan. That’s an even worse topic of conversation. I stop pacing, flop down on the couch, and brace myself to leave out key details. “Just today. I saw the Forbidden City.” I’m tempted to tell Ken about Alyssa, but that feels too wrapped up in meeting Eric to be a safe topic of conversation. You’d think that being an actress, I’d be a great liar. Unfortunately—that’s not true at all. I’m a terrible liar.
Left with no other choice, I tell Ken a little about the movie. None of my concerns . . . just how great it is to work with Eilene. Which is completely true.
“That’s awesome,” Ken says.
My spirits lift. Just one supportive comment and I already feel better about us. “The food is amazing! I wish I could bring you back some egg tarts.”
“I love those,” he says, “but they probably won’t keep. Can you even bring them through customs?”
“Maybe not. You’ll have to settle for whatever touristy, nonperishable souvenir I pick up.”
“I’ll like anything you give me.”
“Paper fan?” I tease. “Postcard with ancient poetry in calligraphy? Key chain that says ‘I’ve been to the Great Wall’?”
“Anything,” Ken says firmly.
“You have a seriously low bar for presents.” I’m so relieved to be back in the rhythm of chatting and joking normally with him.
“But a high bar for a girlfriend,” he says in a low, sexy voice.
Girlfriend. Warm fuzzies fill my whole body. See? You were being totally paranoid about what Ken’s doing on a Friday night without you. So what if he’s not great at staying in touch? What matters is how well we click when we do connect. “I suppose, then, that for my boyfriend, I can step up my gift-giving game. We’re talking a miniature of the Great Wall here. Or maybe a pair of those little doorway guardian foo dogs.” Foo dogs are “shi shi” in Chinese, which actually means stone lions. I have no idea why they’re known as “foo dogs” in English.
“Now I’m going to be disappointed if I don’t get a foo dog!” I can tell Ken’s grinning even if I can’t see it.
“I’ll try not to disappoint you.”
“You’d better not.” He laughs. “Don’t break my heart, Gemma.”
Guilt floods the happiness away like icy water poured over my head. “I won’t.” My words and tone are too solemn for our banter, but Ken doesn’t seem to notice.
Once we hang up, I fling my phone aside and roll over onto my back on the bed and stare up at the smooth white ceiling. What’s the big deal? So I met a guy I can’t stop thinking about. It’s not like anything is going to happen . . . and even if something did, it wouldn’t mean anything. Ken is a long-term relationship. Eric is a temporary infatuation.
Still, I could tell Glory and Camille about Eric. It would be nice to get some advice. I pick up my phone again and start a group thread to my roommates.
Hey! Had my first day off and went sightseeing. Finally.
Camille is the first to respond. Ooh! What did you see? Pics plz!
I send them a selfie at a food stall. My finger hovers over the unsmiling picture of me at Tiananmen Square, but I end up not sending it. That’s way too hard to explain.
Glory chimes in. Nice! Glad you got out! How’s the film going?
Awesome! I add heart emojis for emphasis. There isn’t an emoji for “I love being an actress on a real movie set, but it’s way harder than I thought, and I’m afraid of letting down my mentor and totally blowing it, plus the director doesn’t like me.” So I add a wow emoji instead.
Camille texts back. Meet any interesting people yet?
Perfect time to mention Eric. But what do I say? Met a cute guy. Enemy of my newly discovered family. We met when he thought I was my cousin. She warned me to stay away from her family and then paid for my hotel upgrade. So . . . yeah, some interesting people.
Miss Ken. I add a sad emoji to my text and send it off.
We all text a bit more about what Camille and Glory are up to, and then I sign off. It’s getting late, and I’ve had an exhausting day. Time for bed.
Then my phone buzzes. It’s my mom. For just a second, I consider letting it go to voicemail, but then she’ll just call again. And again. I answer the phone. “Hi, Mom.” My mouth clenches around a million questions threatening to spill out of me. Why were you kicked out of your family? Why would you need to go all the way to the United States to get away from your family? Why won’t you even talk about your family? Why did you forbid me to come to China? What the hell did you do?
“Gemma, this is your ma.”
“I know.” Here we go—the familiar phone-answering ritual. My heart is beating so loudly that I’m afraid she can hear it.
“Why haven’t I heard from you? No time to call your mom?”
“Sorry. I’ve been so busy with work.” I like to stick as close to the truth as possible. Like I said, I’m a terrible liar. Though I seem to be getting plenty of practice lately. How did I become the kind of girl who lies to her parents and her boyfriend? This isn’t me.
“You’re acting at night? When I call you at night, you don’t answer.”
Crap. Nighttime for her in Illinois is daytime for me in Beijing. “I’ve been . . . out.” Again, not technically lying.
“Oh?” Sly speculation slips into her voice. “Out with anyone special?”
How the hell does she do that?! Mother’s intuition is a scary-real thing. “Um, maybe?”
“Zhong Guo Ren?” She’s trying to sound casual, but I can hear the underlying hope as she asks me if this “special” person is Chinese.
I’ve never dated anyone Chinese before, so she’ll be over the moon about a Chinese boyfriend. “Mom, don’t make a big deal out of this—but yes.”
There are muffled squeals on the other end of the line, and she’s probably doing a happy dance right now. So much for not making a big deal out of it. “What’s his name?” she demands when she’s done squealing.
“Eric.” Immediately horrified, I yell out, “No! That’s not right! Ken. His name is Ken.”
I tell myself that it means nothing that my overtired brain landed on the wrong name initially.
“What happened?” I hear my dad ask. “Is Gemma going to college?”
“No.” Mom sounds like she’s come back to earth a bit. “She’s dating a Zhong Guo Ren. Someone named Ken. Or Eric.”
“Ken,” I say firmly.
“Hao,” Dad says. Good. That’s what he says to everything. Except for me not going to college. He probably wouldn’t approve of me going against their express wishes to stay away from Beijing either.
“Is there an Eric?” Mom asks shrewdly.
“Oh, he’s just a guy I met today.” I hope my mom doesn’t ask how I met Eric because I can’t come up with a lie off the top of my head.
“As soon as I met your ba,” she says mistily, “I knew he was the one.”
My face heats up. It’s embarrassing, but also endearing, that my parents are still head over heels in love with each other after decades of marriage. Dad murmurs something in Chinese to Mom so softly that I can’t make it out. No doubt he’s saying something revoltingly adorable.
OK, I have to try. “So, where did you and Dad meet again? Was it Hong Kong?” I take a deep breath. “Or Beijing?”
A vast silence greets me. The only thing I hear is my own shallow breathing. Just when I think I’m going to drown in the rivulets of sweat pouring from my forehead, Mom speaks at last. “I told you that we both went to college in Hong Kong,” she says coldly.
“Yes, I know, but—”
“And why do you ask now?” Her voice is sharp and suspicious.
Shit. “No reason,” I mumble. How can I be so bad at this? You’d think I’ve never done improv before. Pull it together, dammit! I’ve got to change the subject fast—otherwise, that scary Mom-intuition will kick in, and she’ll somehow find out I’m in Beijing. But what will deflect her from her suspicions? “It’s just . . .” Then a brainstorm hits. “You know how it is when you get to know another Chinese person? We end up talking about our families and where they’re from.” Luckily, this is true. Ken and I did have this conversation. And nothing will distract Mom like the topic of my new Chinese boyfriend.
“Oh.” Mom pauses, and I hold my breath. “You and this Ken were talking about your families?”
“That’s right.” I let my breath out slowly so she doesn’t hear the relief in my voice. “So, you knew Dad was the one, huh?”
Mom doesn’t let herself get distracted. “Is this Eric Zhong Guo Ren too?”
“Yes,” I admit. I don’t add that Eric is Chinese, as in a citizen of China.
“Ah.” The tone of maternal satisfaction in that one syllable makes me smile despite the earlier close call. It must be making my mom delirious with happiness that I have not only one but two Chinese romantic interests. It’s a win-win for her. Then she says, “Even if this Eric is not Chinese, it doesn’t matter. I can tell that he’s the one for you.”
What? This is mind-blowing on many levels. First, Mom is super practical and not at all romantic (except when it comes to my dad). This is the woman who’s always told me that I should never let a boy get in the way of my education and that I should have a career so I’ll never have to rely on a husband to support me (not that I disagree with her). Second, Mom hasn’t ever said that she wants me to date someone Chinese. But it’s kind of obvious. Paul, my boyfriend in high school, was white, and she never thought much of him. Then again, maybe she didn’t like Paul because he was a bit of an ass, and not because he was white.
“How can you tell that I like Eric? Because I don’t. Not in that way.” Another lie. That damnable little voice is back.
“I know these things. Ken may be a nice boy, but you obviously forget him too easily. This Eric—you can’t forget him. You want the one you can’t forget. I know because you are just like me.”
There are worse things than being just like my mom. After all, she’s a smart, successful art director at a nationally famous museum, and she married a great guy. Still, I can’t let her think she’s right about Eric. “I haven’t forgotten Ken. It was just a little slip of the tongue. Ken’s wonderful—you’ll see when you meet him.”
“When will that be?” she asks, switching gears so fast it makes my head spin. “This is a good time for us to visit. Your dad’s still on summer break from teaching at his college, and I have some vacation time I could use.”
“Winter,” I say resolutely. “You’ll meet Ken when you visit during the winter holidays.” Filming should be wrapped up by then, and I’ll be back in LA with my parents none the wiser about where I’ve been.
“And will we meet Eric too?”
“He won’t be in LA over the winter holidays.” Well, that much is true. Eric will be in China, and I’ll be thousands of miles away. I should keep that in mind. Ken is in LA. Eric isn’t. “Besides,” I say with a certainty I wish I felt, “there is absolutely nothing going on between Eric and me.”