CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It’s been two weeks, and I’ve talked to Ken only once more after our first phone call. The second conversation was brief because he was off to a rehearsal and I was needed on set. The few emails and texts that I have gotten from him have been a little . . . lacking. Not cold exactly. Just not warm. But mine haven’t been much better. Maybe we’re both just busy. Or maybe we both have something to hide. The thought fills me with worry about what Ken might be hiding and guilt over what I am hiding.

In those two weeks, I also haven’t heard from Eric. Given the whole “our families are enemies” situation, Eric’s probably waiting for me to make the first move. But I don’t. Part of the reason is the weirdness of it all, but the other part is the sixteen-hour days on the set of Butterfly. By the time the weekend rolls around, I’m totally wiped out. The other actors go out together on the weekends, and although I get along well with them, they don’t invite me to join them. I have a feeling they think of me as their kid sister.

I did consider texting Eric last weekend, but decided against it. Instead, in a stroke of genius (if I do say so myself), I booked a tour to see the Great Wall. A tour for Americans. No one expects to see Alyssa Chua sightseeing with a group of American tourists. It was just as awe-inspiring and grand as I had imagined. But a little lonely to be seeing the Great Wall with a bunch of strangers.

The whole time I was there, I had a little daydream running through my head of Alyssa and me—racing each other up and down the steps of the Great Wall, strolling arm in arm, and catching up on the lives we led without each other. But I haven’t heard anything from Alyssa since her pink note warning me about Eric.

I shove aside this silly fantasy of becoming friends with Alyssa. For tomorrow, I’ve booked a tour at the Summer Palace, like Eric suggested. I’ll see it on my own, and I won’t waste a single minute thinking of what it would be like with my cousin at my side.

But first . . . one more day on the set. We’ve mostly been shooting on location in the suburbs of the city, but today, we’re back in the studio. My pulse races. I have to admit that I’m excited about today’s shoot. Today is the first day I get to play Sonia in her Song male drag.

Beijing is hot in late August, and the air conditioner in my dressing room trailer is broken, so there are fans everywhere, blowing my hair into my face and melting my makeup. Liz is in despair, but at least I don’t need as much makeup as usual today.

While Liz does my makeup, my mind turns to the original M. Butterfly play. I’ve been reading David Henry Hwang’s script for inspiration. The play spans decades, but the most fascinating time period in it for me is the Chinese Cultural Revolution that started in 1966. It was a time when art was outlawed—except for revolutionary art approved by the Communist Party—because that art was seen as the trappings of the elite, ruling class and possessing any of it was considered proof of being a counterrevolutionary. Even owning classical art or Beijing opera recordings was a crime punishable by public humiliation, imprisonment, and . . . worse. But there wasn’t much worse than actually being an artist.

There’s a scene in the play that haunts me. Two dancers enter upstage to the sound of relentless percussion. They’re dressed as revolutionary Red Guards who go from house to house—looting and burning cultural artifacts—in a mockery of a communist revolutionary performance. Then the dancers drag in Song Liling from the wings to be sentenced to hard labor in a commune. He is no longer Butterfly—the beautiful, elegant opera singer. But he is no less graceful in a Mao suit as he kneels before his comrade-turned-accuser. Then, with brutal suddenness, Song Liling is beaten and forced to confess his “crime” of being an actor and performing “perverted acts” with another man. It’s a chilling scene that I can’t imagine replicating in a rom-com. Fortunately, however, I don’t have to.

The current Butterfly isn’t set during the Cultural Revolution, so my only concern is doing justice to my character. The original Song Liling/Butterfly is strong in a time of terror, and although Butterfly is a modern-day story set in today’s China—Sonia/Song should be just as strong. That’s how I’ll play my character.

Liz finishes my makeup and then stuffs my flyaway hair into a short wig. I sneak a peek at my reflection in the mirror. Huh. With this movie’s budget, I’d think they could do better than straight, bowl-cut bangs. It’s a cute haircut on a five-year-old, but it just looks silly on an adult. Maybe Liz is going to style it now. She always does wonders with my hair.

But Liz gives the wig a final pat and asks, “Ready for costuming?”

“Oh, OK.” Should I say something about the wig? No. I shouldn’t second-guess my hair-and-makeup person. Maybe the bowl cut is all the rage now, and I’m just an unsophisticated American who doesn’t know any better. I stare in the mirror and silently tell my reflection, You will rock this bowl cut.

Liz wheels out the rack with a single garment bag hanging on it and leaves to give me privacy. I unzip the bag and perk up immediately at the sight of the neatly pressed black suit and white dress shirt. Oh, this is going to be fun! I put on the shirt first and button it up. Then I tuck the long tails into the pants and finally button the jacket over the pants. Anticipation bubbles up in me . . . and fizzles out again at the first glimpse of my reflection in the full-length mirror.

The jacket hangs loosely around my shoulders, and the hem of the pants is too long, as are the arms of the jacket. The shirt is made of some kind of stiff material that won’t lie flat against my collar bone. The shirttails are so long and the pants so oversized that the material is bunching around my waist in weird little bulges. Dismay fills my throat. This can’t be right. A tailor was brought in to take my measurements, so how is it possible that this suit fits so poorly? With the bowl haircut and misfitted suit, I look utterly ridiculous.

I sigh. Jake’s probably going to fire whatever poor sod is responsible for this costume.

I’m reluctant to leave my trailer and face Jake’s formidable wrath, even when it’s not directed at me. But the heat in my trailer is heaving at me like a living thing, and today’s shoot is taking place in an indoor set with a working air conditioner.

I walk the short distance to the studio, and as soon as I get inside, my makeup starts to solidify, and my scalp itches a little less under the wig. I exhale in relief as I approach the set, a sterile office with black leather chairs and lots of chrome. We’re shooting the scene where Ryan hires Song as a lawyer for his company, not knowing it’s really Sonia, his ex-girlfriend.

Jake, Eilene, and Aidan are already there.

The relief I feel at the cool interior fades as I wait for Jake to explode. Instead, he looks me over and says, “OK, you look the part of Song. Now you’ve got to act the part.” My eyes widen when he doesn’t say anything about my costume. But my surprise doesn’t end there. Jake proceeds to tell me what “acting the part” of Song means. “Gemma, when you walk in, I want you to trip over your pant legs. Be awkward. Make it clear you’re uncomfortable in menswear.”

Wait a minute. . . . “But I’m not—” I protest.

Eilene straightens in her director’s chair. “Not what?”

“I’m not uncomfortable in menswear.” I gulp in a lungful of air because Jake’s glaring at me, but I make myself go on. “Or at least I wouldn’t be uncomfortable if this suit fit right.”

Jake speaks very slowly and carefully, like he’s talking to a small child. “This is a rom-com we’re shooting. That means we need some laughs. Some physical humor. So you’re playing someone who has trouble acting like a guy. Because you’re really a girl. It’s supposed to be funny. Got it?”

Oh, I get it all right. Ken’s words pop into my head. All the Asian men in that film will be sexless and nerdy. The bowl haircut, the ill-fitting suit, Jake’s directions—it all makes sense now. Whether Jake realizes it or not, he wants me to play Song as a comedic stereotype of an effeminate Asian man. Because, of course, it’s hilarious to think that an Asian man could possibly be a real man. And how can he drive home that point? By having a woman play an Asian man in drag. A sick feeling worms into my stomach. No way can I be part of that. Before I know it, words are pouring out of my mouth. “What if I do this differently? What if I play my character in a way that’s not so . . . um . . .” stereotypical, offensive, racist. I edit out all that on the fly. “. . . awkward?”

Jake sighs. “Eilene, explain it to her, please.”

By the appalled look on Eilene’s face, I can tell that she’s just had the same realization I had. I expect her to step in the way she had before when she suggested a script rewrite, but instead, she says, “I’d like to hear more of what Gemma has to say.”

My heart drops. I really wanted Eilene to say what I can’t say. Or am too afraid to say.

Jake repeats what he said before, except even more slowly, enunciating each word.

Your character is strong, remember? It’s not like I’m a criminal actor facing down the Red Guard. I’m just up against Jake—asshole director.

Desperately, I muster all my courage and try again. “How about if I play Song as, uh, hot?” Eilene nods at me encouragingly. “Ryan could be attracted to Sonia as Song.” Quickly, I add, “But he’s not freaked out! Because homophobia isn’t funny, and that’s not what we should go for.” Jake is staring at me in disbelief, and I start talking way too fast, stumbling over my words. “But maybe Ryan’s bi, and maybe Sonia never knew that Ryan was bi, and that makes Ryan seem less stiff and uptight than she thought he was, so then she’s attracted to him again, plus she’s really into the whole outside-the-gender-binary dynamic between them, but she can’t act on it as Song without revealing who she really is, which is ironic because she dressed up as a man in the first place to stop, not start, sparks from flying again.” I pause to take a breath and add weakly, “It’s funny.”

Jake is now looking at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “You can’t be serious. It’s just not believable for Ryan to be attracted to Song as a man.” He waves a hand at Aidan. “Anyway, Aidan will never go for it.”

“Actually,” Aidan says, “I like it.” Thank you, Aidan.

“I do too,” Eileen says.

“Well, I don’t,” Jake says. “We’re hoping to capture the Asian market as well as the U.S. market with this film, and the Asian market, especially a country as traditional as China, will never go for a film with such overt gay content.” Then, almost gently, he says, “It’s not a bad idea, Gemma. It just won’t fly.”

I glance pleadingly at Eilene. This is where she offers to rewrite the script again. But instead, she says, “Why don’t we see what Gemma’s vision looks like.”

“It’s a waste of time.” Jake’s mouth sets. “So, can we please get on with this scene now?”

Eilene looks at me calmly. “Well, Gemma? How are you going to play this?”

I let Eilene’s double meaning sink in. That and the fact that she’s not going to save me. The weight of this whole impossible situation settles into my back muscles, making them feel tense and tight. What does she expect me to do? What can I do? I’m just a newbie actress who badly needs to make a good impression. “Trip over my pants,” I say dully. “Got it.”

Eilene comes by my trailer after I’ve taken off the horrible suit and changed into a sundress. The air conditioner still hasn’t been fixed, and my hair is plastered to my forehead with sticky moisture. I’m bad-tempered from the humidity and my failure to make a difference in the film. Jake seemed reasonably satisfied with today’s shoot, but I’m filled with disgust by selling out and playing my character as a cheap racial caricature.

“Why didn’t you show Jake your vision of the scene?” Eilene asks at once, shutting the door of my trailer behind her. Then she visibly recoils as the stifling heat hits her. “Are those fans doing anything but redistributing hot air?”

“No,” I say sullenly, answering the second question and ignoring the first one.

Eilene perches on a spare stool and contemplates me for a moment. About a ton of sweat pools between my shoulder blades as the silence stretches out between us. Unfairly, Eilene looks as cool and collected as always.

Finally, she says, “Did you ever hear the story of what Michelle Yeoh did on the set of Crazy Rich Asians?”

I nod. Michelle Yeoh is right up there with Eilene as someone deserving my undying adoration. So I can guess where she’s going with this. Michelle Yeoh famously refused to accept the role of Eleanor Young if she were written as an Asian tiger mom stereotype. As a result, Eleanor is one of my favorite characters—layered and multifaceted. The way I picture the scene in my head is like this:

Michelle Yeoh: I’ll take the role, but it has to change.

Everyone involved with the film: Yes, oh goddess! Whatever you want!

But I’m not Michelle Yeoh. I’m a mere mortal. Worse than a mere mortal—a debut actress.

“You have a promising career ahead of you, Gemma,” Eilene says. “You’ll work with directors who might be a lot worse than Jake, and it’s not always certain that there will be anyone on your side. Actors do have the power to change a movie for the better. But you’ll never learn how if I swoop in every time you start to stand up for yourself.”

I wipe furiously at the makeup on my face with a towel soaked in makeup remover. “So, you’re saying that I’m on my own?” The makeup remover burns across my skin like a swarm of fire ants.

“I’ll be there to back you up.” Eilene stands. “But you’re the actress. You’ve got to figure out who your character is. Then you’ve got to fight for her.”

Who my character is? I don’t even know who I am anymore. I’m lying to my parents, confused about my feelings for Ken, wondering just what’s going on with Eric, worried about disappointing Eilene and pissing Jake off. Oh, and let’s not forget that my cousin is a socialite celebrity running around Beijing with my face.

I toss my towel onto the dressing table. “You saw how Jake shut me down when I tried to suggest a change to Sonia’s character today!”

“I didn’t say it would be easy.” Eilene smiles without humor. “We’re actresses. We’re supposed to play roles that other people create for us. But I call bullshit on that.”

The shock of hearing profanity from Eilene makes me almost fall off my chair. I’m paying attention now.

“The people who’ve created characters like Sonia—and every character I’ve ever played—have no idea who we really are,” Eilene says. “That’s why you have to make Sonia your own. If you don’t—then you’re sunk.” Heat smolders in her eyes. “You’re not just fighting for your character—you’re fighting for yourself.”

I swallow hard. It’s clear that Eilene is speaking from her own experience. And isn’t this what I wanted—to learn from my idol’s wisdom?

Yeah, but that was before her advice boiled down to: Sink or swim. And if you sink, I won’t save you.