Shanghai Girls (Shanghai Girls #1)

At two in the morning, we’re sent back to the makeup tent, where they daub fake blood on our faces and clothes. When we return to the set, some of us are positioned on the ground—legs splayed, clothes twisted and bloody, eyes unseeing. Now the dead and dying lie around us. As the Japanese soldiers advance, the rest of us are supposed to run and scream. This isn’t hard for me. I see the yellow uniforms and hear the stomp of boots. One of the extras—a peasant like me—bumps into me, and I scream. When the fake soldiers run forward with their bayonets before them, I try to get away, but I fall. Joy scrambles to her feet and continues to run, tripping over corpses, getting farther away from me, leaving me. One of the soldiers pushes me down when I try to get up. I’m paralyzed with fear. Even though the men around me have Chinese faces, even though they’re my neighbors dressed up to look like the enemy, I scream and scream and scream. I’m no longer on a movie set; I’m in a shack outside Shanghai. The director yells, “Cut.”

May comes to my side. Her face is etched with concern. “Are you all right?” she asks as she helps me up.

I’m still so upset that I can’t speak. I nod, and May gives me a questioning look. I don’t want to talk about what I’m feeling. I didn’t want to talk about it in China, when I woke up in the hospital, and I still don’t. I take Joy from May’s arms and hug my baby tight. I’m still shaking when the director saunters over to us.

“That was terrific,” he says. “I could have heard you scream two blocks away. Could you do it again?” He eyes me appraisingly “Could you do it several more times?” When I don’t answer right away, he says, “There’s extra money in it for you, and the kid too. A great scream is a speaking part as far as I’m concerned, and I can always use a face like hers.”

May’s fingers tighten on my arm.

“So you’ll do it?” he asks.

I push the memory of the shack out of my mind and think about my daughter’s future. I could put a little extra money aside for her this month.

“I’ll try,” I manage to say.

May’s fingers dig into my arm. As the director strolls back to his chair, May pulls me away from the others. “You have to let me do this,” she implores desperately under her breath. “Please, please let me do it.”

“I’m the one who screamed,” I say. “I want to make something worthwhile come out of this night.”

“This could be my only chance—”

“You’re only twenty-two—”

“I was a beautiful girl in Shanghai,” May pleads. “But this is Hollywood, and I don’t have much time left.”

“We all have fears of getting older,” I say. “But I want this too. Have you forgotten I was also a beautiful girl?” When she doesn’t respond, I use the one argument I’m sure will work. “I’m the one who remembered what happened in the shack—”

“You always use that excuse to get your way.”

I step back, stunned by her words. “You don’t mean that.”

“You just don’t want me to have anything of my own,” she says forlornly.

How can she possibly say that when I’ve sacrificed so much for her? My resentment has grown over the years, but it has never stopped me from giving May everything she wants.

“You’re always being given opportunities,” May continues, her voice gathering strength.

Now I understand what’s happening. If she can’t have her way, she’s going to fight me. But I’m not going to give in so easily this time.

“What opportunities?”

“Mama and Baba sent you to college—”

That’s going way back in time, but I say, “You didn’t want to go.”

“Everyone likes you more than they like me.”

“That’s ridiculous—”

“Even my own husband prefers you to me. He’s always nice to you.”

What’s the point in arguing with May? Our disagreements have always been about the same things: our parents liked one or the other of us more, one of us has something better—whether it’s a better flavor ice cream, a prettier pair of shoes, or a more companionable husband—or one of us wants to do something at the expense of the other.

“I can scream just as well as you,” May persists. “I’m asking again. Please let me do it.”

“What about Joy?” I ask softly, attacking my sister’s vulnerable spot. “You know Sam and I are saving for her to go to college one day.”

“That’s fifteen years away, and you’re assuming an American college will take Joy—a Chinese girl.” My sister’s eyes, which earlier tonight had sparkled with pleasure and pride, suddenly glare at me. For an instant I’m thrown back in time to our kitchen in Shanghai when Cook tried to teach us how to make dumplings. It had started out as something fun for May and me to do and had ended in a terrible fight. Now, all these years later, what was supposed to be an enjoyable outing has turned bitter. When I look at May, I see not just jealousy but hate. “Let me have this part,” she says. “I earned it.”

I think about how she works for Tom Gubbins, how she doesn’t have to stay confined in one of the Golden enterprises all day, how she gets to come to sets like these with my daughter and be out of Chinatown and China City for a while.

“May—”

“If you’re going to start in with all your grudges against me, I don’t want to hear them. You refuse to see how lucky you are. Don’t you know how jealous I am? I can’t help it. You have everything. You have a husband who loves you and talks to you. You have a daughter.”

There! She said it. My reply comes out of my mouth so fast, I don’t have a chance to think about it or stop it.

“Then why is it that you spend more time with her than I do?” As I speak, I’m reminded of the old saying that diseases go in through the mouth, disasters come out of the mouth, meaning that words can be like bombs themselves.

“Joy prefers being with me because I hug and kiss her, because I hold her hand, because I let her sit on my lap,” May snaps back.

“That’s not the Chinese way to raise a child. Touching like that—”

“You didn’t believe that when we lived with Mama and Baba,” May says.

“True, but I’m a mother now and I don’t want Joy to grow up to be porcelain with scars.”

“Being hugged by her mother won’t cause her to become a loose woman—”

“Don’t tell me how to raise my daughter!” At the sharp tone in my voice, some of the extras peer at us curiously.

“You won’t let me have anything, but Baba promised that if we agreed to our marriages I would get to go to Haolaiwu.”

That’s not how I remember it. And she’s changing the subject. And she’s confusing things.

“This is about Joy,” I say, “not your silly dreams.”

“Oh? A few minutes ago you were accusing me of embarrassing the Chinese people. Now you’re saying it’s bad for me but fine if you and Joy do it?”

This is a problem for me and one I don’t know how to reconcile in my mind. I’m not thinking properly, but I don’t think my sister is either.

“You have everything,” May repeats as she begins to weep. “I have nothing. Can’t you let me have this one thing? Please? Please?”

I shut my mouth and let the heat of my anger burn my skin. I refuse to believe or acknowledge any of her reasons for why she—and not I—should have this part in the movie, but then I do what I’ve always done. I give in to my moy moy. It’s the only way for her jealousy to dissipate. It’s the only way for my resentment to go back to its hiding place while giving me time to think about how to get Joy out of this business without creating more friction. May and I are sisters. We’ll always fight, but we’ll always make up as well. That’s what sisters do: we argue, we point out each other’s frailties, mistakes, and bad judgment, we flash the insecurities we’ve had since childhood, and then we come back together. Until the next time.

May takes my daughter and my place in the scene. The director doesn’t notice that my sister isn’t me. To him, it seems one Chinese woman dressed in black trousers, smeared with fake mud and blood, and carrying a little girl is interchangeable with the next. For the next few hours, I listen to my sister scream again and again. The director’s never satisfied, but he doesn’t replace May either.





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