This is why Sam’s not sure about me. I look like Fangli but I haven’t learned how to command a room like she does. Because of her fame, Fangli—even without the diamonds—is the cynosure of most occasions. Mom told me being the center of attention was to be avoided. Now it’s my job to make attention my bitch.
Mei didn’t address that in particular, but Sam the Master is here to learn from.
Keeping my face friendly but aloof, I watch him and have a tiny epiphany. It’s not what he or the rest of the crowd are saying. It’s how they act. I’m at the zoo watching the animals jostle for dominance and Sam is at the apex. He decides who to speak to. He never approaches; they come to him.
But they look at me as if waiting for me to move first. When we do get closer, they get a little too in my space. Is it because they sense a lack of strength in me? Would they do the same to the real Fangli?
I can’t afford self-doubt right now. Luckily, escape comes in the form of the gentle nudge from Sam that I know is my cue to start actively appreciating art. To my pleasure, what I see is far more accessible than Fangli’s collection, and I move to a mannequin surrounded by barbed wire decorated with twinkling shards of mirror. The artist has written “mine” in tiny letters on every centimeter of the mannequin’s skin in a hundred different languages. A bloodred poppy rises from her head. I know this isn’t Fangli’s style—she doesn’t do installations—but I walk around so I can see it at all angles and read the statement.
Around me, the collectors are making utterly impenetrable comments. It’s like listening to a code designed to weed out the culturally ignorant. Which is me, but only Sam and I know that.
As I lean in to see better, a man across the room squints at me. I do my best to control my breathing but Sam turns swiftly. “What?” he murmurs, eyes trained on my face.
“Nothing.” I channel a sloth, moving unhurriedly to avoid the attention of the potential predator. It’s hard because almost the entire room has one eye on us as if monitoring our location at all times. The stress of trying to emulate Fangli’s poise is in part drowned by a more acute worry: Ex-manager Todd is in the room across from me.
I shouldn’t be surprised; I’ve heard him brag about his father’s art collection. He’s with a blond woman who wears a smile that never wavers and I wonder if she knows, or cares, what kind of a man he is. I bend in to Sam and he curves down over me like a hero from his period dramas. “How long do we need to stay?” I whisper.
“At least another hour.”
“Can we go to a new room? Is this the only one?”
In response, he puts his hand on the bare skin of my back and guides me through a door I hadn’t noticed into another exhibit. I’m so disturbed I barely even clock the warm comfort his touch gives me. We might not be friends, but in this moment, he’s the one in my corner. To my relief, the new room is a video installation with the light dimmed until it’s almost difficult to see. The cave-like ambiance deepens when I stand next to the wall and Sam comes close as if guarding me.
“Gracie,” he murmurs. “Tell me what’s happening.”
He used my name, my real name. When I don’t answer, he draws me in and tilts my chin up to analyze my face. “Do you need to leave? We can.”
I shake my head and he frowns. “You’re sure?”
Simply knowing he’s there is enough to calm me since I don’t think Todd will try to approach me with another man there.
The truth comes crashing down on me. I’m not Gracie. I’m Wei Fangli right now and Todd has no power over me. He can’t touch me. He can’t fire me and he can’t intimidate me without having Sam or the organizers taking action. I’m protected because I’m now a famous person of value. I’m seen here.
I toss my head and Sam shifts away as if giving me space. “I’m good,” I say.
He looks at me for a long moment, then nods. “I trust you to tell me if you need out.”
Sam follows as I examine the videos, all featuring Anpanman, the Japanese superhero. The artist has put the character, who has a pastry for a head, in food-based situations such as cooking shows and grocery stores. His usually cheerful face looks by turns worried and menacing.
Fascinated, I thumb the controller to bring up the next video.
“You like these?” Sam asks.
I keep facing the screen so no one can see me speaking, thus negating my laryngitis story. “My dad went on a work trip to Japan once and brought me an Anpanman figure that I loved. I never saw the show. I guess they’re not like this?” The video we’re watching shows Anpanman tearing off part of his head to give to a hungry cat before being viciously attacked by a flock of seagulls at an outdoor food court.
Sam leans in beside me to watch the video. “Much less violent but Anpanman does give parts of his head away to people in need. Then Uncle Jam bakes him a new one.”
“Is it selfless if you can get a new head when you need one?”
Sam shrugs, his arm brushing against mine. “I know people who could have ten heads right beside them ready to go and not give a crumb.”
So do I, at that. The video ends and we both turn at the same time. His face is so close to mine that if I moved half a step… His eyes dip from my eyes to my lips and a shivery wave rolls through me.
I could move that step. Prickles run down the backs of my thighs from the tension. Sam might move. Might he? Does he come a bit closer? My feet are nailed to the ground but inside I’m whirling like a tornado.
“Mr. Yao?”
Sam stands abruptly when he hears his name and I blink, hard, and turn back to Anpanman with unseeing eyes. This night is giving me the mental equivalent of whiplash as it yanks me between emotional extremes. Impersonating Fangli. Todd. Sam, so close to me.
After Sam’s conversation finishes, we leave the room by mutual silent agreement, weaving in and out of the crowd and only pausing for Sam to engage with people every few feet. News of my voicelessness must have spread because I’m spared any chatting besides hopes that I get better soon.
Despite my newfound confidence, I don’t want to meet with Todd, so I do my best to steer Sam away. It’s nerve-racking to know he’s there, and my core tightens so hard I shake. Sam’s hand returns to my waist, fortifying me, and the muscles relax enough to let me stop clenching my teeth.
Exactly an hour later, Sam tells the organizer goodbye and we pose for a few more photos which I think I handle like a pro. We’re almost out the door when a call comes from a small group near the tiny gift store. It takes me a moment to react since I forgot Wei Fangli is my name tonight.
I turn with my most effervescent smile. They push forward a young woman with long black hair tied in a neat, high ponytail as their spokesperson, and suddenly I know I’m not at all ready for the fresh hell that’s about to open below me.
Dear God, she talks to me in Mandarin. The dark pit to the underworld expands exponentially and flames lick the edges.
“An autograph?” Sam jumps in with English.
The flames burst over the edge. Double dear God. I have no idea what Fangli’s writing looks like and there is zero, and I mean zero, chance I’ll be able to manage faking the Chinese characters. Time stops as the young woman holds out a notepad with hopeful eyes.
I automatically take it and then look around for a place to put it down and forge Fangli’s signature. Why didn’t I fake a broken wrist? Sprained finger? Sam talks to me in Chinese, which, since it is not about being hungry or how to get to the store, I’m at a loss to interpret. My bright smile hurts my cheeks as I trail Sam to a high cocktail table.
He puts the notepad down and then steps behind me, hiding me from view. “Pretend you’re writing,” he murmurs.
My hand trembles as I do as he says, but now it’s not because I’m about to get my cover blown but because he’s pressing against me, his hard body against mine. I know it’s to hide us from the girls watching but my knees are weak. I curse and hope he doesn’t notice because I’ll never live it down.