Thirteen
Now that we’ve come to our agreement, I prefer being with Sam more than with Mei. She is like the most intimidating executive assistant for the most demanding CEO. She’s precise, unflappable, expressionless, and perpetually unamused. Like, I know I’m not funny but isn’t it common courtesy to at least fake a smile at bad jokes?
Not if you’re Mei.
I should find her easy to deal with, like a robot, but instead I have the dual sense of being judged and anxious. At least with Sam I’m judged and anxious but I have something nice to look at.
Today Mei takes me on a deep dive into Fangli’s art collection. My art collection is two framed posters from IKEA in my living room, so there’s a lot of information to cover. This is worse than an exam, and I tap out after three hours of art that I have no idea how to interpret.
“Time for a break,” I say, slapping the bound booklet on the table and going to the fridge. “Do you want some water?” I drink water. Wo he shui. I better make time to listen to my app today so I can get to good things like talking about the weather.
“Bu yao.” Mei doesn’t look up.
I get the tone if not the words. It’s a hard no.
“I thought I’d go see my mother this afternoon,” I say when I return to the table. “After all, I’m not a prisoner.” The last is a little too defensive because if I’m a prisoner, it’s a pampered one taken out for meals in exorbitantly expensive restaurants.
“There is no time,” Mei says. Her voice is smooth. “You have a facial booked and are then going shopping.”
“What about the clothes in there?” I point at the huge closet.
“Mr. Yao and Ms. Wei feel you would benefit from picking out some of your own things. I have an appointment set for an acceptable brand.”
“Fangli says they come to her.”
Mei doesn’t change expression. “They are coming here.”
It’s time for lunch and I think she thaws a bit when I ask her to eat with me. It’s sashimi today, and I dig in after cracking open a Diet Coke. “Have you worked with Fangli for long?” I don’t know anything about Mei personally.
“Two years.” She’s a delicate eater and I slow down a bit out of shame.
“What did you do before that?”
“I worked in the studio doing odd jobs.”
“Where did you learn English?”
“I taught myself.”
I wait for any questions from her side or even a follow-up answer but she’s content to eat in silence. Ball’s in my court. “Does Sam have an assistant as well?”
She pauses. “Deng is ill and Mr. Yao decided to make do.”
“That’s too bad. I hope he gets better.” The polite words come automatically.
No reply. I decide to get some external confirmation of what Fangli said the night before. “When I was doing research, there were a lot of pieces about Sam and Fangli being a couple.”
“Yes.” Her voice is wooden. I can’t read this chick worth beans.
“Is it true?”
Mei’s cheeks pinken. “Mr. Yao and Ms. Wei are good friends. I believe Mr. Yao’s attentions are elsewhere.”
He has a girlfriend. I stuff some ruby-red tuna into my face. This is disappointing and should not be, not by a long shot. He’s rich, famous, and incredibly handsome. He’s a UN ambassador. It should be Amal Alamuddin Yao instead of Clooney.
Mei is now fully red and I wonder what gossip she has that she’s not sharing. I shouldn’t put her on the spot so I change the topic. “Are there plans for tonight?”
“An art exhibit.”
That’s why I’ve been crammed full of knowledge today. My heart thumps. “I have to talk?”
“About art.” She glances at her watch. “Time for the facial.”
* * *
I know about art now, I text Anjali.
She sends a photo of the Mona Lisa smoking a blunt.
It’s good to text with Anjali, a bit of normalcy in what is turning out to be a whackadoodle week. She tells me about work; I tell her about how to walk upstairs in a miniskirt. (Apparently the key is to angle your body to the side.) We’ve been talking more since I’ve been living at the Xanadu. Anjali says she wants to live like the one percent vicariously through me but it’s obvious she’s checking in to make sure I’m safe. Her concern touches me more than I thought it would, and I make an effort to text her every day so she knows I’m alive.
Then she’s off to a meeting and I prepare to be pampered.
The aesthetician comes to the room and sets up shop with bottles and vials and bright-white towels before inviting me to lie down with a smile filled with teeth so bleached they’re blue. Then comes an hour of cosseting, from cold masks to face rollers from the top of my head to the tops of my boobs or, as the aesthetician calls it, my décolletage. There are many creams and smells. My multiple imperfections are poked and prodded and eventually eradicated under the skillful hands and tweezers of the aesthetician. It finishes with a face mask that warms and tightens my skin as ten fingers rub and scratch against my scalp. If I’d been a cat, I would have purred. I think I purr anyway because I am a gooey, limp jellyfish with no visible pores. The aesthetician assures me this is a new process so I can go out right away instead of letting my skin settle. I take her word for it.
I lie there in a blissful daze of relaxation until she starts to pull off the mask, which has cemented itself to my face. At my mewl of protest, the aesthetician pauses. “This shouldn’t hurt,” she says.
I would have answered had I been able to move my lips, but the mask has glued them in place. The woman tugs at the mask and lifts my head right off the table.
“I haven’t seen this before,” she says in a thoughtful tone.
There are certain times I don’t want to hear that I’m special. The first is from any healthcare professional. A close second is from a woman who’s slathered me with goop she can’t get off my face. Mei materializes beside me like Porella, the Avenging Angel of Skincare, as the woman slowly peels the mask off. I swivel my eyes to her face and see the droplets of stress sweat on her upper lip as Mei murmurs a stream of low-voiced encouragement that the aesthetician and I both interpret as thinly veiled threats.
I’ve never been flayed but I have ripped off adhesive bandages. I imagine this experience is somewhere between the two. I’m no yeti but whatever hairs were on my face bid my skin an unwilling farewell as she detaches the mask millimeter by millimeter and I try not to squeal. It’s hard.
When she gives a final rip, I screech.
The door bangs open. “What the hell’s going on?”
A lot of things happen at once. Sam comes through the door in a dark blur. Shocked, I pop up from the table like a jack-in-the-box, forgetting that I’m only wrapped in a towel that immediately falls off. Sam makes eye contact with me before his eyes dip down to my gigantic heart-polka-dot granny panties and he freezes before he slaps his hands over his face and stumbles back making inarticulate sounds. I scramble to pick up the towel, in the process knocking the portable table with my butt. It slams into the poor aesthetician, who is gawking at the beauty that is Sam Yao. She falls back and then lets out a high keening sound as her hand plunges into the pot of whitish devil goo that has made such a mess of my face.
Mei rises up and gets us organized without a single word. Sam is sent to wait in his room. I’m directed to get back on the table with a finger jab. She gives a look to the aesthetician—a marvel of expressionless eloquence—who wipes her twitching hands with a towel.
All that beautiful relaxation has gone. How could I have forgotten to get the key from Sam? My face, the skin much thinner than it was ten minutes ago, burns with shame. How much did he see? Once I’m not dressed in a towel, we’re going to have words, but now I’m a beaten human sprawled across the table with Mei bending over me shaking her head and the aesthetician poking at me with cautious fingers.
“Nothing a cooling mask won’t solve,” she chirps finally.
I catch Mei’s eye and we have a moment of communion as I beg her through an interpretive eyebrow dance to save me.
“We’re due for another appointment,” she says smoothly.
“Then I’ll use a toner and…”
“I’m good!” I swing my feet down and slide on the thin terry cloth slippers. I finally manage to back out, holding the towel around me. Mei follows me into the bedroom, me poking my head around the door to make sure it’s Sam-free, and we both look in the mirror to survey the blotchy patches that cover my face like an infectious disease.
I crane my neck to the side and suck in my cheek. There’s a patch that resembles Australia. “It’s not that bad,” I say. “A little sore, maybe. That’s the point of exfoliation, right? To get rid of dead layers to get your skin softer?” I’ve never done more than a crushed-apricot-seed scrub, so this is out of my realm of experience.
I splash cold water on my face to relieve some of the burn and then dampen a towel to press against my cheek. There’s no point getting angry at the aesthetician, who probably did the best she could, so I keep my mouth shut and try to look on the bright side. Mei watches me in the mirror. “Did she ask about your skin type? What medications you’re on? If you had previous allergies?”
“What does that matter?” I move the towel to the other side.
“It’s her job and she failed if she didn’t check.”
“Well, it’s too late now. I’m sure she did her best.” I don’t want to get her in trouble. I grab a vial of hotel moisturizer and slather my face with the smell of vanilla and nutmeg. I read a study that said that men like women to smell like sweet foods but I don’t think this is what they had in mind. I now smell like a bakery prepping for the holidays.
Perfect.
* * *
I decide to ignore Sam’s spectator status in my latest disgrace and pray he’ll do the same. There’s no need for either of us to relive that moment of grooming chaos, and now that we’ve called a détente, it would be rude of him to try to lord it over me.
Mei puts the shopping visitors off for an hour as she works over my face with a solid inch of foundation.
“Whoa.” I lean over and inspect the space where Australia used to be. Nothing. “You did a fantastic job.”
Mei says nothing but packs away the brushes and paints with the grim satisfaction of a woman who has accomplished the impossible. Then she hands me the wig.
“Am I Fangli for this?”
“Yes.”
I tuck my short hair in and let the wig fall down my back. Maybe I’ll grow my hair out. I wonder if Sam prefers long hair or short.
Nope. No, I do not wonder that, not at all. It is a matter of utter indifference to me what Sam prefers.
Mei takes me back into the main room of the suite where rolling closets have been set up. I stop dead in the door as a man and a woman pop out. They’re dressed identically but in opposites, his white shirt and black pants offsetting her black shirt and white pants. Both have long black hair in braids that frame appraising pursed lips and cheekbones that can be seen from the stratosphere. I’m almost certain they’re multiracial and I stare without shame because it’s such a thrill for me to see people who look a bit like me and who are around my age. If only I had known more people like me growing up. Or even now. Anjali once told me she could go home to her parent’s village and be surrounded with people who looked like her, spoke her language, and knew her history for generations back.
Maybe it would be stifling. I’ll never know because there will never be a place like that for me, a community of people who share my history and family.
But this isn’t the time to dwell on the lived experiences of individuals creating a biracial identity in modern North America, because these clothes are my jam. If Fangli’s closet is timeless luxury, these two are also high-end but with an edge. I can tell they run the sort of store that has three shirts hanging on a rod and a DJ. I’m intimidated by their coolness even as I’m panting to see what they have. “Local designers,” says Mei. “Trace and Hendon from House of Swing.”
I can handle this as long as they don’t ask too many questions. We shake hands and then the woman, Trace, jumps in by asking about my design philosophy.
“My design philosophy,” I echo.
“Right,” she encourages me. “What do you want to accomplish?”
Besides not being naked? I struggle for an answer before I remember one of the artist’s statements in Fangli’s art summary. “I value the ability of line to arouse the emotive state,” I plagiarize.
They contemplate this before Hendon smiles. “Good. Now tell us…”
Before I’m forced to elaborate on whatever the hell I said, Sam comes into the room. I really need to get that key from him, number one, and why is he here, number two?
“When Fangli told me you were coming, I wanted to stop by,” he says. “I admire your work.” Both Trace and Hendon straighten up and smooth their hair. Sam has that effect on people when he tries, and for some reason, he’s trying now. Or is he genuinely interested in fashion design? I think he might be, because in less than a minute, he has them talking about their own philosophy and pulling out clothes that illustrate different factors.
I’m left to my own devices, which is good because I can browse through the racks as they talk. I pull out an elegant dress, a black-and-white sheath that drops straight down from the shoulders, and rub the material between my fingers. It feels like a thick satin but without the shine.
I look over my shoulder to see Sam watching me. He turns from the conversation to pick out a hanger. “Try this,” he tells me. He’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt and his biceps flex as he hands me the mass of black fabric. Both Trace’s and Hendon’s eyes are glued to his arm. I tear my gaze away.
“I like this dress,” I say.
“You can try on both.” Then he directs that smile at me. “This will suit you.”
It’s an easy request and I really have no reason to not try on the…whatever it is he’s holding out…but I balk. I don’t want him dressing me and thinking he knows what suits me better than I do myself. But Trace and Hendon nod in approval and I bend. I don’t want to embarrass anyone. Plus, Fangli would probably try on the damn thing.
I take them both and a few other items that catch my attention and bring them into the bedroom. The first thing that goes on is the sheath dress I chose. I frown. Although it looked good on the hanger, once on, it hangs and weighs me down, forcing me to wriggle under the heavy material pulling against my shoulders.
Fine, it’s a no-go. I pull on high-waisted wide black pants with little buttons on the hips and a black shirt and then, joy of joys, slip into a pair of closed-toe flat slides. So comfortable. No heels. I bite my lip as I wonder whether I’m supposed to go out so they can see. I guess I should? Would Fangli normally? Mei isn’t around to ask; she disappeared when Sam arrived.
I’ll go out as if I want to match another shirt to the pants. Then they can see me and comment but it’s not like I’m seeking suggestions. Fangli wouldn’t need advice. She probably legit has a design philosophy.
All three make an identical approving expression when I come out but Sam is the one I focus on. He tilts his head to the side, then reaches out for a pale-pink shirt. I try to not make a face because I never wear pastels. He gives it a shake and I take it back into the room.
Damn Sam, I think when I pull it on. The shirt is perfect. Once on, the color becomes more of a mood. I feel…pretty? Yes. It’s a very pretty look. I look at the mirror appraisingly. I’ve never been pretty. Cute was about as high as I ever rose in the looks hierarchy, which, according to me, goes:
Gorgeous/Stunning
Beautiful
Pretty, and on the other side of the spectrum, Handsome
Striking
Attractive
Cute
[Then, way down]
Unique
Yet this pink is magical. I come out with a little bit of swagger, and Trace and Hendon both say “Yes” in unison. Sam doesn’t say anything but the look in his eyes reminds me of that first day when he walked across the room, looking at me like I was the most important woman in the world, the only person who mattered to him. Right now, his attention is focused on me and only me, but unlike last time, it doesn’t seem like a challenge.
It’s overwhelming. I go back to the room and untangle the black thing Sam gave me, which turns out to be a jumpsuit that’s tight around the ankles with a collared top and an open back. No way to wear a bra. Huh. I give a bit of a jump and decide I’ll have to find those plastic disks you glue to your boobs to keep them in place.
Since I don’t have them now, I’ll have to own it. I walk out and the designers both come over to start fussing over the fit. Sam crosses his arms but he looks in my eyes, not at the neckline or the free-flying girls. It’s as if he sees me, Gracie, and I wonder if it’s truly me and not Fangli, or something between them that could never be.
It puts me off-balance and I drop my eyes first.