Gorgeous Gruesome Faces, page 12
I’m starting to believe it, too.
Filming for season two of Sweet Cadence just wrapped, and Ms. Tao tells us that the network is already discussing renewals ahead of schedule. The show’s music is being streamed everywhere, and doll versions of ourselves sit on shelves in toy aisles across the country. Plans for a national tour this summer are underway. I’m backstage in a VIP dressing room getting ready to rehearse our first award-show performance with my two best friends, and I don’t think I’ll ever be as happy as I am right now.
“Here. You’ve barely eaten anything all day.”
A massive muffin from the complimentary basket appears in my field of view, and I blink at the pastry in my face. Candie holds it out to me in offering. She’s right: I’ve been too preoccupied with rehearsing the choreography in my head.
“You’re going to do fine,” Candie assures me.
I realize that Candie can read my moods now like they’re projected on a teleprompter. She always notices when I’m worried or stressed out, and depending on the situation, she either offers me a swift kick in the butt or makes sure that I’m fed.
“Or I’m going to embarrass us on live TV and get us laughed out of the industry,” I groan.
“Negativity is a self-fulfilling prophecy!” Mina reminds me, leaning over from her chair to flick my forehead playfully.
“Besides, nobody actually eats those muffins. That thing’s probably recycled from another gift basket. I bet it’s rock-solid in the middle.” I scowl at the calorie-laden offering. “I shouldn’t have carbs, anyway.”
I thought I was prepared for it, ready to girl power it up, put my “fight the system” boots on and reject the way girls on TV need to be thin thin thin. And yet here I am, cowering in the presence of a blueberry muffin. Lately, the multitude of ways my body gets openly commented on, judged, debated, and mocked has me sweating with dread whenever I even think about stepping on a scale. And every morning when I look at myself in the mirror, I uncover new things about my face that I’ve never considered before but now adamantly dislike—the undainty angle of my jaw, the lack of volume in my eyebrows, the dull color of my lips, the slack shape of my earlobes.
“You should eat something,” Candie insists. “Here, I’ll split it with you.”
She pulls apart the muffin and hands half to me.
When I finally give in and take it, Candie smiles brightly. I change my mind on the spot and decide that I’m willing to shove the entire basket of pastries into my mouth just to keep that smile on her face.
Before I can take a bite, our dressing room door flies open. A frantic PA comes rushing in, adjusting her headset and scrutinizing the clipboard in her hands, saying, “I—I really do apologize for this.”
Mina lets out a tiny excited gasp. I glance over to see that the PA is not speaking to us, but to the five glamorous members of VIXEN filling the doorway. I nearly drop the muffin in my hand from delighted shock.
After the music video for their last single went viral, VIXEN shot to the top of the pop-music charts. They’re led by Soomin Yeom, and as one of the first all–Asian American girl groups, it’s not a stretch to say they threw the doors open for many of us. We’ve been in the industry for more than a year now, and we’ve amassed a decent fan base for ourselves, but it’s still nearly impossible to act casual during surprise encounters with artists we admire.
VIXEN’s aesthetic matches their group name—each of them is model gorgeous, sporting shiny embroidered jackets, metallic lipstick, aggressive haircuts, leather boots, and unapologetic sex appeal at seven in the morning. By contrast, Candie, Mina, and I, with our network-approved family-friendly image, look like our moms just dropped us off for a VIXEN fan event.
Mina immediately stands and bows, greeting Soomin in Korean, formal and polite in the presence of a girl with seniority. Candie and I quickly follow her lead, dipping our heads.
Soomin doesn’t look at us.
“Explain to me again why these children are getting our usual dressing room when we specifically requested that it be reserved for us?” Soomin poses the question loudly at the PA and the rest of VIXEN, as if we’re not standing right there.
“I’m not sure where the miscommunication was, but it won’t happen again,” the PA assures, looking very much like someone who is terrified that they’re about to lose their job.
“I’m so sorry,” Mina says, bowing her apology, “has there been some kind of mix-up?”
Soomin’s silver-lined eyes slide sideways. She gives Mina an uninterested once-over, then looks away again like she’s seen enough and won’t ever need to take a second glance again.
“Sit down, sweetie, the adults are speaking.”
The insult is a collective slap across all our faces.
This isn’t the first time this has happened, but each time is just as awful as the last. We’ve met actors and singers we loved, and had all our expectations shattered by nasty attitudes and unkind comments. It’s a constant reminder for me to be my absolute best self when interacting with fans. I can’t live with any of them thinking of me the way I do some of my old faves. But it cuts far deeper coming from someone like Soomin, who should be standing with us as we push back against an industry built to exclude us.
Mina doesn’t defend herself. She doesn’t even frown. She just bows again. “We’d be happy to switch rooms if you’d like.”
I know in traditional East Asian cultures, it’s a grave social transgression to talk back to people older than you. But it’s hard to stand by and watch Mina lower her head to someone who’s treating her with so much disrespect. I feel enraged. Helpless. Beside me, Candie’s face is cold and inscrutable. I know she must be angry, too. There’s nothing we can do except stand back as Mina works her people skills.
Suddenly, another member of VIXEN gets Soomin’s attention, gesturing outside while speaking feverishly in Korean. Soomin turns toward the door at once. The girls clear out of the dressing room in a hurry, the haughty looks on their faces wiped free and replaced by adoring smiles.
As they move away from us, I lean forward to see that the girls of VIXEN are talking to a boy. A very familiar-looking boy. My hand shoots out to grab Mina’s arm in excitement.
It’s Jin-hwan.
Jin-hwan Woo.
My idol obsession for the past two years.
I’ve proudly stated this fact in at least five separate interviews, and often jokingly refer to Jin-hwan as my “husband” when I’m gushing about him in private to Mina and Candie. I’ve spent so much money on his merch that my mother has threatened to cut off access to her credit card.
Since his debut, he’s risen to become a full-fledged globe-trotting sensation. I’ve been secretly hoping that we might run across him at an event for a long time now, but I’m pretty certain he’s not one of the performers for this award show.
Jin-hwan is in casual wear and sporting a baseball cap, but even the plainest of street clothes can’t contain his devastating charm. My fingers clench down against Mina’s arm as I repress an excited scream when he lets out a full and easy laugh at something Soomin says. Jin-hwan doesn’t look like he’s getting ready to hit the stage for rehearsals. And that’s when I realize. His girlfriend, pop star Brailey Corbyn, is one of the headlining acts.
Jin-hwan Woo and Brailey Corbyn are the current It couple, on the covers of every weekly tabloid, K-pop prince and America’s sweetheart, a union straight out of a romantic comedy. Dating bans are standard in a K-pop idol’s contract, but Jin-hwan was born and raised in New York, and he refused to let the entertainment agency control his private life. He made international news by going public with Brailey onstage at his own concert. Not that I’ve spent an unhealthy amount of time inserting myself into that scenario or anything.
Soomin seems to have forgotten all about us as she giggles and fawns over Jin-hwan. For a split second, Jin-hwan looks in through the doorway in our direction, and I swear that he locks eyes with me. He smiles a little and nods. Most of his hair is tucked beneath a hat, but that single perfect lock of his bangs still grazes his lashes when he tips his head.
Before I can determine if I imagined the look, he’s already moving down the hall with Soomin and VIXEN in tow, all of them chatting blithely to him in Korean. The poor PA tosses out a quick apology to us and rushes after them.
I let go of Mina and finally let out that squeal I’ve been suppressing. “Did that really happen? My husband just swooped in out of nowhere and rescued us!”
Neither of them look remotely happy or relieved.
Mina’s face is red, and I recognize all-too-familiar emotions on her face.
Humiliation. Defeat.
“He didn’t do anything.” Candie’s voice is frosty. Unimpressed. “He just happened to walk by and distracted them.”
Faced with their deep lack of enthusiasm, I swallow and rein in my inner fangirl. Now is clearly not the time.
“Well, that was nostalgic,” Mina mumbles. “Reminds me of my trainee days. People like that always think they can throw their weight around just because they’re more ‘successful.’ What they don’t realize is that, eventually, they’ll mess with the wrong person.”
Mina glances to Candie. There’s a harshness in her eyes, a complete about-face from the penitent, submissive performance she just put on.
All at once, I realize what Mina’s suggesting. Deviousness brews inside me as I look to Candie as well. “You can get them back, right, Candie?”
“If they’re treating us this way, they’re probably doing it to other acts, too,” Mina adds. “We’d basically be performing a public service.”
Candie is quiet for a while, considering our request for retribution. We crowd in around her, waiting for the verdict. Finally, Candie takes Mina’s hand in her left, and my hand in her right, the three of us standing in that symbolic closed circle.
A slow, vindictive smile spreads across Candie’s face. “She definitely messed with the wrong person.”
The three of us seek out our manager and the producers backstage.
“We have some time before our segment; we’d love it if we could watch a bit of VIXEN’s performance,” Candie requests, her face awash with an excitement so convincing it deserves acting awards. “We’re big fans of theirs.”
We’re given the okay, and a producer allows us backstage. We watch from the monitors as VIXEN takes their positions onstage.
The pounding intro beats of their latest single kick in, the stage lights blast, and massive neon letters flare behind them, spelling out their group name. The five of them weave in and out of intricate, elaborate formations that we could never pull off as a trio. Soomin’s stage presence is indisputable. She’s absolutely killing it. Her performance is so dazzling it has me reverting back to fan mode and nearly forgetting how awfully she had just treated us.
I force myself to look away from VIXEN and back to Candie.
She’s staring at Soomin with frightening intensity. An electric thrill crackles through me like a bushfire, knowing that Candie is about to drop the guillotine blade of revenge onto Soomin’s unsuspecting neck.
All at once, the VIXEN performance takes a turn. Their perfect harmonies collapse, each of their voices pitching wildly, completely off-key. The members of VIXEN at first attempt to continue but soon begin to glance frantically at one another as they can’t seem to hit any of their notes—and are also unable to stop the terrible-sounding performance.
Confusion mounts backstage as we start to hear bewildered chatter from the crew.
Mina’s face twists as she tries to hold back a laugh. I bounce on my heels in delight at this absolutely hysterical display. Candie’s mouth moves, and I watch as her lips form a single silent word. Fall.
Soomin spins to the front of their formation. Then, right in front of our eyes, Soomin’s left ankle twists. She flies forward, smashing into the stage with unnatural force, like an invisible hand rose up and shoved her down.
The crew erupts into waves of shocked gasps and exclamations. I clamp my hands over my mouth.
“My leg, my leg!” Soomin’s cries ring out through the whole theater as the producers crowd around her, bombarding the stage, blocking her from view. All I can do is stare, frozen, like I’ve just witnessed a blatant hit-and-run, unsure of what to do next.
Candie tugs us both away from the unfolding commotion, rushing us back down the halls backstage, away from the scene as though we were never there. We don’t utter a word to one another until we make it safely back inside our dressing room.
To my great surprise, Mina bursts into gleeful laughter once the door is shut. “You did it, Candie; you got her!”
“Soomin is going to be okay, though, right?” I ask, remembering how loud she was screaming.
“She’ll be fine,” Candie says breezily, without any remorse. “I only tripped her a little. The only thing that’s hurt is her ego.”
Soomin sounded like she had hurt more than her ego, but she clearly desires to be the center of attention, so maybe it’s not nearly as bad as she was making it out to be. And now she got exactly what she wanted—utter infamy, forever. This incident will be trending within the hour and will probably end up on several live-performance fail compilations.
What Candie did to the gunman was self-defense. This time, her actions were premeditated. A deliberate attack, meant to inflict damage.
A few summers ago, I saw Mama do something similar.
Mama was on location in Hong Kong scouting for a film she was producing and had brought me along. It was the only time she tried to meet up with my father. I don’t know how she got him to agree. Or maybe she misunderstood him, because we sat inside the restaurant of our hotel for hours before we realized he wasn’t going to show up.
The next day was the one free day Mama had, but we weren’t in the mood to do any of the sightseeing we had planned. We ended up walking the congested city streets aimlessly, until we passed by a row of little old ladies running booths that looked like makeshift shrines under a soaring overpass.
Banners advertising BLESSINGS HERE and VILLAIN HITTING hung above their stalls. Figurines of deities sat on the shrine shelves behind plates of fruit offerings and pots of burning incense. Every stall was busy, customers sitting on plastic stools, conferring in Cantonese with the older women. A loud racket of wood pounding against stone echoed across every booth.
To my surprise, my mother, who was in no way religious or superstitious, lined up to sit down at one of these stalls. When it was her turn, the older woman presented Mama with slips of paper—one with a drawing of a man, one with a woman. Mama wrote down the Chinese characters of my father’s name onto the drawing of the man and handed it back to the lady, who then proceeded to bash the slips of paper against a slab of stone with a wooden shoe while reciting incantations. When the beating was done, the woman lit the tattered drawings and other paper offerings aflame on a large candle in the incense pot while muttering more prayers.
“It’s called villain hitting,” Mama said, explaining the ritual after she finished her session. “The paper drawings are supposed to represent bad people in your life, and the ladies ‘hit’ them to give them bad luck.”
“Did you just pay money to put a curse on my father?” It was hard to imagine my shrewd and business-minded mother being taken in by something like this. “You don’t actually believe that’s real, do you?”
Mama only shrugged. “I’m sure it’s all a hoax. But it made me feel better.”
But what I just saw Candie do to Soomin was no hoax.
It was justice. It was power. Swift, vicious, and satisfying.
You’re safe. I won’t let anything happen to you.
I reach out to take Candie’s hand in mine, clasping it tight, and a deep calm floods my veins as I’m cradled in the knowledge that the power contained in this one slender hand can keep the rest of the world at bay.
Chapter 17
NOW
Eugenia stares me down, waiting for my response to her offer.
It takes a few seconds to identify that the lightness in my chest is relief. An irrational urge to hug her strikes me out of nowhere, and I almost laugh out loud at the impulse.
“Have you gone to Ms. Tao about that stuff in your locker?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I didn’t want to draw any more attention to myself. I threw it out.”
“You threw out the evidence?” She takes a step in toward me. “Tell me again what you were doing out after curfew last night?”
“I…” The longer I hesitate to answer, the more suspicious her eyes grow. “I have insomnia and night terrors. I just wanted to get some fresh air.”
That admission seems to put an end to her inquisition for now, even though she’s still casting me a distrusting look, as though she could tell I was only telling a half-truth. I start ushering her back out the door. “Come on. There’s still some time before curfew.”
“To do what?” Eugenia asks.
“Somebody must have used the computer lab to print those articles. Maybe we can snoop around the browser histories and find an email or Twitter account or something.”
Out in the hallway, a small group of girls pass by on the way to their rooms, chatting quietly among themselves, and I realize that I haven’t learned most people’s names, and I don’t recognize most of their faces, especially with many of the girls wearing the same trendy style of makeup.
“Have you gotten to know any of the other girls?” I ask.
“There’s not many people worth knowing,” Eugenia says.
“I’ll take that as a compliment, then,” I say, turning down the stairwell.
After looping around through a series of different hallways, we still can’t find the computer lab. I swear I was just there yesterday to send an email to my mother. Or was it the day before? Being in the studio for daylong stretches without a phone has made it entirely too easy to lose track of time.
