Gorgeous Gruesome Faces, page 6
Past experiences have brewed in me a heavy suspicion toward anyone trying to get close to me. But in this moment, I think I would have said yes to anything Faye asked.
“Sure,” I agree. “Good idea.”
Faye squeals again and practically lunges across the table to hug me.
* * *
All the practice rooms are full except for one. I peer into the rooms that have windows, the girls inside whirling like windup dolls in glass displays.
“Everyone is so talented,” Faye says as we flip on the lights in the empty room. The space is large enough for a small group to comfortably practice a routine together, with a full stereo system and a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. “The choreo is so hard, I don’t know how they all learned it so instantly. It really makes me want to push myself, you know?”
Just as Faye gets the music set up, the door to the room swings open. A group of girls stroll in, laughing together like they’re already lifelong best friends sharing a priceless inside joke. When they see us, the expressions on their pretty faces shift sharply from humor to annoyance. I recognize a few of them from the table openly discussing me during lunch.
One girl steps forward—tall, stunning, an armor of bold assurance draped across proud shoulders. The leader. The other girls promptly fall in line, troops rallying behind their commander. She looks at Faye and me like we’re pieces of gum caught beneath her red-soled designer shoes.
“Hi, Eugenia!” Faye greets her hurriedly with an uneasy, forced cheer.
Eugenia Xin, I remember. One of the top three.
“You have to sign up for these practice rooms to use them,” Eugenia says.
Faye’s already petite, but standing in the attack path of a domineering queen bee, she looks like a tiny critter cowering at the feet of a predator. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I—I forgot.”
“It’s my fault,” I say, stepping up to Eugenia. “I thought the rooms were first come, first served.”
Eugenia is nearly a head taller than me, and she uses every extra bit of height to her advantage, staring down her chiseled nose at me.
“Were you not listening during orientation? Or do you think the rules don’t apply to you just because you know Ms. Tao?”
She’s practically taking a Sharpie and writing nepotism across my forehead.
I used to be obsessed with converting every hater to a fan, convinced that I needed everyone to like me, and felt absolutely crushed when they didn’t.
After the scandal, I’ve learned that no matter how many backflips I do to please the critics, there will always be people who loathe me like it’s their full-time job, and I will never win the hearts of people who enjoy being cruel.
“You’re right.” I shrug. “I’m very close to Ms. Tao. She’s practically my godmother.” I say the lie as confidently as I can.
“She must be disappointed, then.” Eugenia’s lips pull into a mock pout. “That was really rough this morning. Honestly, I was embarrassed for you. But let’s face it, everyone knows you can’t dance. You’re always going to be remembered for the way you threw yourself at someone else’s boyfriend.”
On cue, the assembly behind her snickers.
Word must have spread that drama is going down; there’s now twice the amount of people crowded around the doorway, waiting to watch the show unfold.
“You do realize it takes two people to cheat, right?” I’m ashamed of what I did, but there’s no need to deny what happened. “I’ve suffered the wrath of both Jin-hwan and Brailey’s fans for two years now. At one point they had three different ‘cancel Sunday Lee’ hashtags trending. I’ve had my life threatened by stalkers. So if you’re trying to intimidate me, you need to step up your game, Eugenia. You can’t scare me just by acting like a huge bitch.”
Eugenia’s eyebrows shoot up into her angular bangs. “What did you call me—?!”
“—I’m done with my practice room, if one of you wants to use it.”
Heads turn toward the new voice, and bodies part to reveal Candie standing in the hall. She glances at me for the first time all day, and suddenly I’m angrier at Candie than I am at Eugenia.
It’s so like her to give me the cold shoulder just to swoop in for a rescue when I’m at the end of my rope like she’s doing me a huge fucking favor.
Eugenia opens her mouth to speak, but I’ve exhausted my fight reflex.
“Come on, Faye.”
I brush past Eugenia, past Candie, muscling my way through the crowd into the hallway.
Chatter immediately breaks out over my shoulder, but I don’t look back. The only things I focus on are the sound of my furious footsteps and Faye’s voice bouncing off the walls behind me.
“Oh my god, I can’t believe you said that!”
Chapter 8
NOW
This isn’t how I wanted my reunion with Candie to go.
I wasn’t expecting an emotional reconciliation where we admit to all our mistakes, make up in a tearful embrace, exchange “I’m sorry” and “No, I’m sorry” for a few rounds, and bury the horrors of the past into the ground where a pristine, unsullied relationship will spring anew. Too much has happened. Too many things we can’t erase, can’t take back.
I don’t know what I was expecting. But it hurts that Candie is treating me with so much indifference, like I’m just another person in the crowd, like we don’t have all this grisly, convoluted history between us.
“You always seemed so nice and cheerful; I had no idea you were this much of a badass!” Faye exclaims as she follows me up the staircase to the third floor, away from all the practice rooms.
“That’s…”
Not who I am anymore. I’m not a nice, cheerful person. Most of the time I feel numb. The rest of the time I’m angry.
“… I’m used to dealing with bullies by now,” I explain.
“Her face, though! God, I wish I had my phone to take a picture!” Faye cackles at the memory. “I’d make extra-large prints and send them out as Christmas cards.”
“You don’t have to let people like Eugenia push you around,” I tell her. “They’re just cowards looking to prop themselves up by making everyone else feel small.”
“Maybe, but … I’d never have the guts to say something like that to her.” Faye looks like she’s ready to snip off a piece of my hair to make a talisman, or pledge her firstborn to me in exchange for protection.
“Don’t worry. I got your back,” I promise. “We’ll stick together, all right?”
Faye’s ecstatic smile lights up her entire face.
“Sorry we didn’t get to practice. Let’s try again tomorrow.” I roll my achy shoulders. “I think I’m going to turn in. See you in the morning?”
Faye looks a little down when I tell her I’m cutting the night short, but she perks up again quickly, nodding. “See you at breakfast! Good night!”
She bounds down the hall, and I turn and make my way back to my room—our room—kicking off my shoes before collapsing onto the bed. From the other side of the room comes a faint whiff of citrus body mist. I turn my head, my gaze landing on the empty desk, the neatly made bed.
And I wait.
* * *
I’m halfway done wrapping my ankle with athletic tape when Candie finally comes through the door.
She slides off her shoes wordlessly and drops her bag next to her bed. Walking over to her desk, she sets her water bottle down and pulls the elastics out of her messy bun, letting her waist-length hair tumble free past her shoulders and down her back.
We’ve spent countless hours in close quarters like this, sharing our meals, schedules, hotel rooms, tampons. We’ve seen each other at our most disheveled and unpolished—without a stitch of makeup on, retainer pressed into gums, massive eye bags, extensions falling out, every pockmark, blemish, and ingrown hair that otherwise gets covered up or airbrushed away. Grief flares unexpectedly when I’m reminded of how close we once were.
Candie spins her chair toward me and sits down. We stare at each other steadily from across the room. Candie speaks first.
“If Eugenia bothers you again, I can—”
“I’m a big girl now.” I cut her off before she finishes the offer. “I don’t need you to fight my battles anymore.”
“I can see that.”
There’s a note of incredulity in her voice, and I relish the fact that she’s realizing she doesn’t know me as well as she used to. That the Sunny who trailed after her all day long like a dumb puppy, who she spoiled then abandoned, has come back to her with longer claws and sharper teeth.
“People change, Candie. I’m sure you’ve changed more than just your hairstyle.”
I’m mocking her a little, and she picks up on it immediately.
“I’m trying to be nice.” She frowns.
Like how you ignored all my calls and texts? That was real nice. The heated words fill my mouth, but I swallow them back down.
“Why are you here?” she asks me again.
“I told you. Same reason you are.”
Candie shakes her head. “You and I both know you’re not cut out for this business.”
I try not to let the hurt show on my face at her easy dismissal. She always knew exactly what to say to build me up, and with a single sentence level me to the ground again.
“I’m happy to see you again. I am.” Her tone softens for a brief moment. “But after everything that happened, I think it’s best that you drop out.”
“After ‘everything’?” I let out an unkind laugh. Even she can’t bear to put it into words. “You mean after what we did? What you’ve done?”
I had wanted to find the most opportune time to talk openly about our past. But instead, the accusation comes rushing out. The shutters slam down hard over Candie’s expression. Her jaw tightens.
“I’m telling you this for your own good,” she says.
“I think my days of letting you dictate what’s good for me are over.”
“I’m not kidding, Sunny. You should leave.”
“Or what?” I know I’m getting close to crossing the line, but I push toward it defiantly. “You’re going to make me?”
Candie’s eyes harden into flints.
It’s the same admonishing look she used to give me, and it elicits the same response—I recoil a little, fighting the instinctive urge to give in to her.
She still thinks I’m weak. That I’m a pathetic people pleaser. That I’ll do as I’m told, satisfy her every whim, that I’ll let others use me for their own amusement, then get on my knees and thank them when they toss me aside.
That’s not who I am anymore.
“You said I was your family, once. But in the end your promises meant nothing. I’m not giving up what I want again just because it doesn’t align with what you want,” I tell her. “I want to win this thing. I’m not going anywhere.”
“If that’s how you feel, then there’s nothing left to say.” The pitiless chill of Candie’s words scratches down my spine. “You’re right. Things are different now. You might not be scared of Eugenia, but you know better than anyone what happens to people who get in my way.”
I’m shocked into silence.
No matter how tense things got between us, she never directly threatened me. I realize that I’ve successfully struck a nerve. I’ve upset her.
Candie pushes up from the chair, turning away sharply as she retreats to the other side of the room to ready herself for bed.
I do know better than anyone. I saw it. The brutal horrors Candie inflicted upon another person. The ease with which she did it. The satisfied gleam in her eyes when they screamed.
The thought of Candie being my enemy, of standing toe to toe against her on the same stage, fills me with deep dread. And at the same time, a secret, feverish thrill.
Chapter 9
THEN
Four years ago
Sweet Cadence is a massive hit.
Our characters are strategically named using our real-life nicknames so it’d be a seamless transition when we debuted as a pop group—
Candie: the perfect immigrant daughter, excels at academics, training to be a classical musician but secretly desires to be a pop idol.
Minnie: the undiscovered talent, an introverted outcast who’s hiding her ambitious dreams and a powerhouse voice.
Sunny: the bubbly cheerleader, torn between wanting to fit in with the school’s popular crowd and embracing her love of Asian pop music.
The plot follows our journey from regular teens to idol stardom while balancing friendship woes, family expectations, and romances in what critics call a “positive and nuanced” portrayal of Asian American girlhood.
After only a few episodes, several of our featured songs are topping the streaming charts, and by the time season one is wrapping up, fans are recognizing me on the street, at the mall, in movie theaters, restaurants. Once someone shouted at me from their car while I was stopped next to them at a red light.
The sponsorship and merchandise deals come pouring in, and suddenly I’m being shown prototype lunch boxes and pajamas with my face on them. Candie’s manager, Ms. Tao, took over as Sweet Cadence’s music manager, and she keeps our itinerary packed with filming, rehearsals, appearances, interviews, and photo shoots.
As a fan, I’ve always wondered what it was like for idols to live such an elevated existence, where you’re no longer a person but a symbol, a living embodiment of obsession. And now that I’m on the other side of the television screen, I finally have the answer.
It’s a lot. Like fireworks and parades going off on an hourly basis, like waking up and going skydiving every single day. It’s tens of thousands of strangers embracing you at once, telling you that you’re beautiful and talented and special, that you are so, so loved.
It’s the best feeling in the world.
But with the incredible highs come sharp falls. Large swaths of people are suddenly convinced our show is either too pandering or too whitewashed. Multiple opinion pieces are published about how the writing tries to paint a pretty face on the ugly realities of the pop-idol industry, and how our characters actually enforce harmful Asian stereotypes. And then come the calls to boycott, people bombarding us with messages ranging from Go back to your country to You should be ashamed to participate in the commodification of our culture.
And then there are the creeps. The gross DMs. The uncomfortable comments about our bodies. The middle-aged men counting down the days till we’re legal. Mina’s strategy is to block and ignore, and I know that Candie doesn’t read her messages, but I can’t stop myself. I read every comment, try to respond to every concern; I want so badly to please everyone, but I only end up digging each hole deeper, and everything I post spurs another round of fiery debate until Mina has to threaten to put me in phone jail.
Candie and Mina both have huge fan bases, and I try to remind myself that’s how it was designed to be. Candie is the beautiful idol princess, Mina the down-to-earth sweetheart, while my persona is the “baby” of the group, and I’m starting to worry that I come across as the inferior little sister trying to crash my much cooler older sisters’ party. The envy has me constantly scrolling through my mentions and browsing the hashtags to see what’s being said about me.
Every once in a while, though, I get a really nice message from a fan that makes my entire week.
I smile to myself as I type out a reply.
“—I was thinking that when we’re back in the studio next week, we could try … Sunny. Are you listening? Can you get off your phone for a second?”
“Uh? What?” I look up from typing and am greeted by Candie’s aggravated face.
“I was talking to you,” she says.
“I’ve been listening to people talk at me all day; my brain is a pile of mush right now,” I groan, sliding my phone away.
The clean edges of her brows knit together, and I brace myself for the incoming lecture, but it’s my lucky day and Candie simply turns away to continue packing up her things. I breathe a covert sigh of relief.
We’ll get there together.
Candie has kept her word. She’s always ready to do that extra round of practice and runs lines with me anytime I want. She doesn’t seem to share any of the insecurities I have about whether people like me, whether I’m good enough. Candie doesn’t compare herself to anyone.
Working alongside Candie has been a dream come true, but it has also meant getting to know the real Candice Tsai: the critical, temperamental, obsessive perfectionist.
I watch Candie collect the last of her belongings, her expression faraway and stormy—the face she wears when the cameras are off and she doesn’t think anyone is looking. The slope of her shoulders spells loneliness, a withdrawn solitude shadowing her frame. She’s the beloved star of a hit show with legions of fans who hyperventilate at the mere sight of her, but Candie rarely seems … happy.
I think about the first time we met, about Candie’s pink eyes, her quiet sobs.
I wish there was something I could do to make her happy.
“Minnie’s coming over to my house tomorrow night to watch a movie,” I tell her. “Want to join us?”
She turns to face me, the solemn look already wiped clean, replaced by what I now know is her practiced false smile. “Maybe next time.”
I frown. “You’re busy?”
“Yes.”
“Doing what?”
She doesn’t answer, and I lean forward conspiratorially. “Seriously, why do you always turn us down? Are you double-booked because you’re living some kind of real-life Hannah Montana situation?”
She huffs out a dry, placating laugh.
“Or maaaybe you’re in a forbidden relationship with a K-pop star, forced to only meet up in secrecy because of the dating ban?” I gasp, putting on a scandalized expression.
“Yep. That’s it. You caught me,” she says, deadpan.
“I’m totally onto you.” I point my finger at her, swirling it around in the air like I can bait her into giving me her secrets. Candie rolls her eyes and bats my finger out of her face.
