Gorgeous Gruesome Faces, page 3
Mama’s been drilling it into me for weeks now how the show I’m auditioning for is A Big Deal. All it said on the casting call is that it’s a “K-pop-inspired musical series,” but according to my mother’s inside sources, the studio plans to use the show as a launching pad to debut a new pop group.
“It’s a tried-and-true formula, and they’re jumping on that Asian pop train before it leaves the station,” she reminded me for the third time when we showed up to the auditions. “Plus, a network show with multiple Asian American leads? Opportunities like this were nonexistent when I was going out for roles.”
After she graduated high school, Mama defied her Taiwanese immigrant parents and moved to LA to be an actress. Her dream didn’t last very long and she ran out of money in a year, but she was way too stubborn to go crawling back to my grandparents. She met my father, a Hong Kong film producer, when she was cast as a minor character in one of his movies (Female Victim 4 on IMDb). They didn’t last very long, either.
He went back to Hong Kong after the movie wrapped, and she walked away from that relationship with two things: a three-month-old me and the epiphany that rather than fighting every actress in LA for scraps, she could move behind the scenes and be the one to call the shots like my father did.
We have no contact with my father, and my grandparents never forgave Mama for rejecting the path they had paved. I know she’s under a lot of pressure. She worked incredibly hard to build a life for us, and she wants me to be successful where she failed.
Going to auditions is a treasured ritual of ours. I love to sing and perform, but what I love the most is the shining pride in her eyes, the way she gives me pep talks while she straightens my hair and paints the lids of my eyes with a soft brush.
We’ve been in a holding pattern for hours, and for the last ten minutes, Mama’s been on the phone arguing loudly with my grandmother, not giving a single damn about the bothered glances other parents are shooting her way. Every few years there’s an attempt to begin peace talks between my mother and my grandparents. So far, none have resulted in a happy reunion, and this one doesn’t sound like it’s going to go very well, either.
Mama’s speaking in Mandarin, and I can only understand bits and pieces of the conversation until she suddenly switches to English.
“—I have given you plenty of opportunities to see her. If you wanted to, you would have made it happen. No. No. Don’t turn this around!”
I shrivel into my seat when I realize they’re talking about me. More people are staring now.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” I toss out, springing to my feet and fleeing before Mama drags me into this fight and I end up on the phone trying to fumble through a conversation with my embarrassing broken Mandarin.
The convention-room floor is packed with every flavor of dazzling star: child actors who have probably been in blockbuster franchises, doe-eyed undiscovered hopefuls, pageant princesses texting on their phones, aspiring singers showing off elaborate vocal exercises, dancers posing like they’re in a music video. There’s probably some prodigy here who’s been winning music competitions since kindergarten.
I’m not a complete amateur, but my demo reel isn’t all that impressive, either. I’ve done a few commercials and lots of background work. I got pretty far in a major televised singing competition before getting the ax. Being surrounded by incredibly beautiful girls who already look like full-fledged K-pop idols, however, batters my already shaky confidence and I feel a sudden urge to run out of the building.
But I know I can’t. Mama’s waiting for me.
She believes in me, has supported me the way her mother never did for her. My mother and grandmother seem incapable of having a single pleasant conversation. I don’t want my relationship with Mama to ever become that.
I can’t let her down.
Around another corner, down a different hallway, I finally find the restroom. Right as I’m about to step into a stall, I hear muffled sniffling coming from the end of the row.
Someone is having a quiet meltdown.
I stand there for a few uncomfortable seconds, wondering if a stranger is any of my business. Eventually, sympathy overrides awkwardness, and I make my way over. Before I can raise my hand to knock, there’s a flush, and the door swings open.
The girl who emerges startles, not expecting someone to be standing right outside. I’m shocked, too, because I recognize her instantly.
A quick glance down at her name tag confirms it.
She’s Candice Tsai.
I was just watching one of her videos last night.
Candice isn’t a hugely popular influencer, but I’ve been an avid follower of hers for almost a year now. Alone in my room, I’d listen to Candice sing cover songs, try out her makeup tutorials, and when Mama worked late, I’d eat dinners in the company of her mukbangs. In most of her videos she’s just in her bedroom talking, about what she did that day, new music she’s listening to, which couples she’s rooting for in the latest drama she’s watching. And while I’m fully aware that Candice Tsai has no idea who I am, it feels like I’m meeting a dear friend for the first time.
Candice blinks her dark eyes at me, and I seem to shrink on the spot, becoming more insignificant, just another amateur wannabe standing in the presence of a genuine star. Everything from her tailored outfit to her flawless makeup to the Swarovski crystals on the tips of her nails looks like it was designed by professional stylists. Her sleek waist-length black hair shines even under the poor bathroom lighting. If not for the hint of pink at the corners of her eyes and the fact that I had just heard her, there would be no evidence that she had been crying.
“Are you … all right?” I venture.
She doesn’t answer the question, just motions for me to step aside. “Excuse me.”
“Right. Sorry.” I step back, and she sweeps past me toward the sink.
I watch her check her makeup in the mirror, then open up her clutch to pull out a mascara wand. She applies mascara to her thick lashes carefully and dabs another coat of gloss over her lips, cleaning the excess from the corners of her mouth with her pinkie.
I’m nowhere in her field of vision. I might as well be a hand dryer on the wall at this point. Even though she’s here to audition, just like me, it’s as if I’m having a chance encounter with an actual celebrity, and I can’t let a golden opportunity like this slip by.
“Not to sound like a total stalker,” I say, stepping toward her and raising my hands up in an I’m harmless, I swear gesture, “but I really love your videos.”
Candice pauses in the middle of spritzing herself with puffs of citrus-scented mist. She turns to glance at me over her shoulder.
“Your skin-care routines literally saved my life last year when my forehead was seventy-five percent acne,” I say.
When she doesn’t respond immediately, I laugh a little and try to power through the silence. “I was about to start putting toothpaste and Windex on my face; thank god your suggestions worked.”
Finally, she gives a small smile. “You’re welcome. I’m glad it helped.”
She’s clearly not in the best headspace right now, so I don’t blame her for being less friendly than she appears online, but her smile is, in fact, more stunning in person.
“Whatever it is you’re upset about, don’t let it get to you, okay? You’re an amazing singer and dancer; I bet they’re writing up your contract right now.” Her smile makes me feel warm all over, and I ramble on, emboldened. “If some asshole made you cry, I wish them failure in all their future endeavors. May they step on dog turds every day for the rest of their life.”
Her smile fades. Her shoulders tense, and her eyes shift down. I immediately realize my mistake. She was trying to have a private vulnerable moment, and here I come with my big mouth loudly exposing her. I panic and start to stutter out a retraction, but Candice snaps her clutch shut and turns away from me. “Good luck with the auditions.”
She brushes a strand of stray hair over her shoulder and exits the bathroom, leaving me standing stiffly in her wake, this dazzling girl who seems leagues ahead of me. A cold understanding washes over me. I may think I know Candice Tsai, but I don’t. She isn’t my friend at all. She is untouchable. Unreachable.
When I make it back to the waiting area, Mama is waving her arms madly at me like her jacket sleeves are on fire.
“Where did you run off to?” she shouts. “You missed the whole announcement! You made it to the final rounds!”
I can tell Mama is annoyed that I’m not displaying the proper amount of excitement. But I can’t shake the mortification of how poorly that bathroom interaction went. Candice’s videos have gotten me through some really tough and lonely days, and I wanted so badly to return the favor. Instead, I probably made her feel worse. I should have left her alone.
That night, I spend an unreasonably long time writing and rewriting a three-sentence DM. I contemplate tacking on a heart emoji at the end but decide against it.
For an entire week, I leap out of my skin every time my phone goes off. Afterward, staring at an empty inbox, I’m forced to admit how silly it is of me to expect a reply.
Candice Tsai is obviously not going to message me back.
Chapter 4
NOW
“This is it,” Mama says, cutting the car engine. “We’re here.”
We’re thirty minutes out from the city, in the heart of Y’allywood—the collection of sprawling movie lots and studio complexes that sprung up when film productions moved south.
The building before us looks like it belongs on the cover of an avant-garde architecture magazine. The facade is built out of geometric shapes slotted together at bewildering angles, with long windowpanes sliced into the walls, surrounded by wide lawns of unnaturally green grass.
This is where the SKN workshop is being held. Where I’ll be spending the next several weeks.
A personalized acceptance letter from Ms. Tao showed up in my inbox a day after my disastrous audition. Turns out, she isn’t just a judge—she’s the director of the whole workshop.
Dear Sunday,
Your submission package to the SKN workshop has been reviewed by the panel, and I’m delighted to inform you that you have been selected to join our summer workshop. While I know the audition was not your best performance, this program is about unearthing and nurturing true potential. Taking into consideration your industry experience, I believe that you deserve a second chance. Please find the full details and forms for the program attached, and don’t hesitate to reach out to me if you have any questions. I’m looking forward to working with you again.
Sincerely,
Vivian Tao
SKN WORKSHOP PROGRAM DIRECTOR
Even if this is just a handout because Ms. Tao feels sorry for me, and even though my subconscious keeps conjuring up phantoms that aren’t really there … I can’t look back now. There were so many days when all I could do was curl into myself and hide in my room where nothing and no one could ever hurt me again. Somehow, I’ve climbed out from the wreckage of myself. The answers I want from my past and the hopes I have for the future are just beyond those doors. I only need to take this one last step and unbuckle my seatbelt.
I stare out the car window at the building. My hands stay motionless in my lap.
“Go on, then,” Mama urges. “You wanted to do this on your own, right? Or do you need me to go in with you?”
I shift my gaze toward her. “Are you still mad at me for not telling you about the workshop?”
“Of course not.”
“Because you sound mad.”
“I’m glad you took the initiative.” With her sunglasses blocking the top half of her face and the bottom half frozen by a vigorous Botox regimen, it’s impossible to tell how she actually feels.
“… What if I mess it all up again?”
The question that’s been endlessly plaguing me forces itself out, looming like a foreboding omen.
“Don’t think like that,” Mama instructs. “For the next few weeks, don’t think about the past and just focus on moving forward, okay?”
“Okay.” I nod.
“Remember to drink tons of water.”
“I will.”
“And make sure to properly stretch; the last thing you want is an injury.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And don’t forget to use under-eye cream; your eyes always get swollen when you’re stressed.”
“All right, I got it,” I huff. “I’ll try my best.”
Mama adjusts her sunglasses. “I know you will.”
I consider reaching out for a hug but decide that it’s best not to ruin a good moment by testing the boundaries of my mother’s low tolerance for physical affection. But then Mama leans over and wraps her arms around me. I shut my eyes against her shoulder, and we stay like that for a few brief moments. The embrace feels surprisingly natural but also weighted with every unsaid word stored up between us over the years.
“Thanks, Mama.”
I step out of the car, pulling my little suitcase behind me, and watch as my mother drives out of the lot.
Past the set of towering glass doors, the lobby has an aggressively modern art-gallery vibe. A soaring ceiling and blinding white walls and floors so polished I can see my own nervous reflection. The reception desk looks like it was carved out of one massive piece of wood. A large painting hangs on the wall behind it—a colorful row of dancing women, their faces blurry, mid-spin. There’s nobody at the desk.
“Hello?” I call out.
My voice echoes in the cavernous space. A long hallway stretches back, leading into the building. I venture a few steps past the reception area, craning my neck, and spy someone at the end of the hallway. A girl, facing away, with her back turned to me.
Her dress is dramatic and hard to miss even from a distance. Sparkly bodice, tiers of pink-and-white skirting. It looks like a stage costume. Short black hair curves against her nape.
“Hello? Excuse me?”
The girl doesn’t turn.
That’s when I notice. Her outfit. It looks familiar. Like I’ve seen it somewhere before. The girl slips around the corner just then, the ruffled edges of her dress disappearing behind the white wall.
The urge to chase after her grips me, but I stop myself. I’m probably not allowed to go inside without checking in, and I don’t want to start my first day by setting off security alarms. I turn back toward the lobby and nearly jump out of my skin. A smiling receptionist is standing behind me.
“Welcome to the SKN workshop, Sunday.”
The receptionist has the same silky hair and airbrush-smooth features as the judges who were at the dance audition. There’s probably a certain look required to be hired here. Young, slim, pale—the devil’s triangle of Asian beauty standards.
“Please follow me,” she requests. “Ms. Tao is expecting you.”
She leads me down the hallway where I saw the girl in the pink dress. But when we turn the corner, there’s no girl on the other side, only a vast open atrium with a wide spiraling staircase at the center. I glance up at the hallways of the second and third floors, squinting against the bright rays pouring down from the skylight. White pillars blend into the white walls that extend to the white ceiling, and I quickly look down before vertigo sets in.
The receptionist heads up the stairs and I rush to catch up, listening for the other participants—any girlish laughter or excited chatter—but there’s only the tap-tapping echo of our footsteps. The atrium is silent, and so is the second-floor landing. Either I’ve arrived too early or the soundproofing in this place is amazing.
We make our way down another identical hall and through the open doors of an elegant office—sleek ivory shelves and spotless floors like the rest of the building. The rapid clacking of keyboard keys pauses as Ms. Tao looks up from her computer.
“Sunday, please, come on in.” She gestures to the cream chair in front of her desk. “We’re absolutely thrilled to have you.”
The door shuts behind me, the receptionist already gone.
“Thank you again for this opportunity,” I emphasize as I take a seat. I doubt every workshop attendee is getting a personal meet and greet with the program director. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to be here.”
Ms. Tao’s fashion choices have gotten a lot bolder. Sitting there with blowout waves, a bloodred blazer, a tight pencil skirt, and a plunging-neckline blouse, she looks like a cutthroat producer who power lunches with music execs then goes club-hopping with her much younger boyfriend.
“It’s been too long.” Ms. Tao sighs. “How’s your mother?”
Since Ms. Tao last saw her, Mama has had a slew of new relationships, including two broken engagements, and has issued one restraining order.
“She’s great. Ratings for her new show are through the roof.”
“She must be so happy that you’ve refocused on your career.”
My smile tightens. “Definitely. She’s been very supportive.”
“Know that I’m absolutely here to support your growth and healing, as well. Please don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s anything you need. Do you have any questions about the information I sent you, or the consent forms?”
“Oh, um—” I pull my phone out from my jacket pocket. “I’m supposed to give you this?”
“Ah, yes, the device policy.” She nods sympathetically. “I know that taking away a teenager’s phone is like asking them for a limb, but one of my main goals for this program is to create a space devoid of outside distractions, so that our attendees can focus all their attention on reaching their goals.”
I look down at my phone for a few more seconds before handing it over. She’s right—I don’t need the temptation to google myself or read hate comments at two in the morning.
“Don’t worry, you won’t be completely cut off, there’s a computer lab that you’re free to use during your downtime.” Ms. Tao takes my phone and sets it next to her keyboard, out of my reach. Then the cordial smile fades from her face, her eyes grow somber, and I know what’s coming.
