He moves his phone from one hand to the other as he inspects the street. “Were you going back soon?”
I turn around and we start walking north back to the Xanadu. When the sun appears in a ball of orange-yellow at the cross street, I raise my hand to shadow my eyes. Sam fishes around in his pocket and hands me a pair of painfully stylish aviators. “Here.”
They’re gigantic on my face, which is exactly how I like them. He glances over and nods. “Nice,” he approves.
“Why do you have sunglasses stuffed in your pocket when you’re running?”
“In case it gets too sunny.” He looks at me as if this should be obvious and coughs. “You look good. Keep them.”
“I can get my own but thanks for the loan.” I wriggle them up my nose until my eyelashes brush the lenses before pointing to a convenience store. “Let’s grab some orange juice if she’s sick.”
He holds me back. “It’s not that kind of sick.”
There’s a sinking feeling in my gut. “What do you mean?”
“Mei says she won’t get out of bed. She won’t answer besides saying she’s too tired to work.”
“Has she done this before?”
“Once during a movie but she wasn’t due on set for a few days and she was better by then.”
“What happened to make her better?”
He looks puzzled. “She said she needed sleep. That’s it.”
I’m so angry on Fangli’s behalf I can barely breathe. I know Sam is doing the best he can, or says he is, but it’s not enough and I think he knows it. That I’m complicit is not making me feel better.
He checks for traffic and steps into the street. “We need you to help us.”
“No.” I don’t need to get any deeper into this. I made my decision.
“Please. You don’t need to take her place onstage. We have an understudy and there’s no show today.”
I goggle at him. “Oh, good.” Like that was ever going to happen.
“We were due to film a promo spot for the play for the second phase of the marketing campaign. It has to be done today.”
“Why can’t they use a clip like everyone else?”
He makes a face. “They want it live. It’s part of a segment they do that has good social media reach. We’re committed. There’s not a lot of dialogue and you’re quick enough to get it.”
He might think I’m quick but I’m slow right now. “Are you saying you want me to pretend I’m Fangli to promote her own play?” This is too much. This is more chutzpah, cojones, and big bitch energy than I can conceive of, let alone muster.
“Yes.”
“There’s no way.”
“You can do it. I’ve been watching you with people at the events.”
“Sam, it’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard.”
“Fangli needs time.” He hesitates. “Please. I need your help.”
That activates my inner people pleaser, a practiced muscle that can flex stronger and faster than my fledgling vow to be better. God fucking damn it. My plans to give up my contract disintegrate but I grasp onto something I can do that might mitigate some of my dismay at being a lying liar who lies. This is it, I promise myself. Once this is over, I’ll tell them I need to break the contract.
“On one condition.”
“What?” Even in his desperation, he’s cautious.
“You get Fangli help. A therapist.”
His face clouds. “I’ve tried.”
“You need to try harder,” I say. “Look at her. She needs help.”
“I can’t force her.”
I stop so I can turn, take off the sunglasses, and glare at him with full force. “Weren’t you the one to tell me you were a great actor? Figure it out and convince her. Otherwise you can film this thing by yourself.”
We walk another block before Sam turns to me. “It’s a deal.”
“Good.”
We walk another block. “Sam, there’s no way I can do this.”
“We’ll run it through a few times when we get back.” He glances around, then reaches out to tug me close in a friendly hug. “There’s no one I’d trust more to do this.”
“What?” His arm feels like home.
He turns me around. “Gracie, you’ve managed to impersonate Fangli within days of studying her. You have a natural talent. I have faith in you.”
“That’s not what you said a month ago.”
Sam sighs. “What do you want from me?”
“Oh, you know. An apology?”
“I apologize.”
I think about this. “More specifically I’d like you to say you were wrong to judge me like that.”
“I was absolutely wrong. I apologize.”
“Because you didn’t know me.”
“Right, but before you get too far down this path, I should point out you thought I was an arrogant asshole.”
I frown. “What’s your point?”
“Judgment goes both ways, Gracie.”
I give him a big smile. “But you see, you were wrong.”
He bows his head. “You win. Now, will you please help me?”
“I’ll try but I reiterate that I think this is a bad idea.”
“It will be fine.” He raises his eyebrow. “Plus, I can carry you.”
“Okay.”
“You know I have an Oscar.”
“I know.”
“Best Actor. First Chinese man to win one. Historic moment.”
“Sam.”
“So. I’m that good.”
I only sigh.
Twenty-Seven
Sam tells me not to go in to see Fangli and for this, at least, I agree. During my bad days, the last thing I wanted was to have someone hovering around me and I don’t want to make things worse. Instead I send her a text of heart emojis and hugs and then a video of me blowing a kiss so she knows I’m thinking about her. After I send it, the Operation Oblivion script arrives in my email.
Start at page 47, says Sam’s message.
Luckily, I’ve already read it and seen the play. I close my eyes to remember what happened in the scene. Fangli didn’t say much, but there was a lot of looking. A lot of very sensual looking that appears extraordinarily stupid when I experiment in the mirror. I grab my phone and google “acting basics.” The first hit tells me how important it is to learn my craft.
Checking the time confirms I am capital-S Screwed. I can’t learn the craft of acting to a professional level in ninety minutes.
I throw myself down on the couch and topple over so I’m lying on my side. I’m about to humiliate myself in front of an entire film crew with no hope of it being kept a secret because the point of this fucking endeavor is to capture it for public viewing on a citywide and potentially global scale.
Why is it so hard to say no to everyone except myself? No, Fangli, I’m not going to pretend to be you. No, Sam, I’m not going to try to act in your promo. No, Todd, I’m not going to let you intimidate me. Why am I so worried about what these people, all of whom are or were using me for their own ends without a care, think about me? I no longer live on the plains where ostracism from the group will cause me to starve. None of them care what I think about them.
My phone buzzes. It’s Sam. Here.
I answer the door. “Isn’t it easier to knock? Also, this is a bad idea.”
“Texting is equally easy and then you don’t need to look through the peephole. If you don’t like the plan, I’m happy to hear an idea that results in us getting this shot today with Fangli or an appropriate designate.” He points to the connecting door. “I went in to see her.”
“And?”
“After some begging and threats, neither of which felt good or comfortable to do, Fangli agreed to see someone who makes emergency house calls. She’ll be here in two hours.”
“You did the right thing.”
He closes his eyes and leans down to rest his cheek on my head as if I’m a pillow. I freeze. “I hope so.”
When he straightens up, I leap across to the sink to fill a glass of water with the eagerness of someone escaping a desert. Be normal, Gracie. I grip the glass with numb fingers, hearing Sam speak in the disembodied, unintelligible voice of a Charlie Brown adult.
“And that should be it,” concludes Sam. I haven’t heard a thing.
At least Fangli will get help, which means I can stop being worried for her and transfer my full distress back onto me.
“Sam, I can’t act.”
“You’ve been acting for over two weeks, as I pointed out before. Are you listening? You’re not even listening.”
I’m spiraling. “That’s not acting. I’m mimicking.”