The Stand-In(41)

As expected, my first attempts are terrible because I have awful handwriting in any language and even my own name looks like a wiggly line decorated with a dot that hovers between the c and the e but rarely right over the i. Sam looks up from his phone to see my progress.

“That’s not very good,” he observes.

I hand him the pen. “Do it again,” I say. “Slower.”

This time, I watch as Sam dips the pen down and writes Fangli’s name on the paper. He hands the pen to me and I chew on my lip as I analyze it. Tracing the characters into muscle memory might help, so I try to remember where Sam started the character.

“Here.” He takes my hand and guides it to the beginning. His touch is warm but I shiver.

“I have it.” I grab my hand back. When I trace the line, I’m ashamed to see it’s shaky. I’m reading more into his casual touch than he means, and it makes me react badly.

“I can do this on my own,” I say, standing up from the table and whacking my thighs against the edge. Ow. Back down I go.

“Clearly not. Sit down and keep trying.”

This makes me stiffen and forget the stripe of pain across my legs. “You’re not my boss, you know. I can handle this.”

“What would you have done on your own? Fake a last-minute broken wrist like you did a sore throat?”

“That was a good solution to the problem.” Or…I could have explained that I’m only speaking English while in Canada, like I was supposed to. The pressure made me forget what we had planned for this exact situation.

He shoves back from the table. “Wrong. You were hired to do a job and you didn’t do it. Mei spent hours with you, hours she should have been spending doing her goddamn job, and you threw it away.”

I never thought that Mei also had work to do full-time for Fangli. “Part of her job is to help me.”

That’s a jerk thing to say, and I know it the fucking second it comes out of my mouth. Embarrassed, I double down, stick my chin out, and go on the offensive. “None of you mentioned autographs. I was unprepared.”

He looks at me in honest surprise. “Are you unable to think independently about what might come up and plan for it?”

“Hey, sorry I’m not rich and famous. People don’t go around asking for my autograph. You should have told me.”

“That people ask for autographs is only common sense.”

“Not to me and apparently not to Mei.” Digging myself in deeper.

“Don’t blame Mei.” Sam puts one hand on the table. “You’re not even trying. This is more than pulling on a wig. You need to make an effort. Acting is work, and it doesn’t matter if you’re on the stage or attending that party.”

Sam’s about a meter from me and I can see the muscle in his jaw twitching. “I am trying,” I grit out.

“This matters,” he snaps. “I told Fangli this was a fucking terrible idea but she was sure you could do it.”

I hear the unspoken words loud and clear. Look at how wrong she was.

“I can do it.”

“Tonight was your chance and you faked losing your voice.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “How did you think that was a reasonable solution?”

I look down at the table. “I lost my nerve, okay? I admit it.”

He doesn’t give me the sympathy I’m fishing for. Sam adjusts his jacket and I have to look up to see his face, which is stern. “There’s no room for you to lose your nerve. Do better.”

With that, he brushes past me and out the door. I lunge after him and throw all three locks so he can’t get back in because I forgot to get the key off him again. Right now, though, that’s the least of my worries.

I rip off the jumpsuit and throw it into the corner before I pick it up, smoothing out the wrinkles in the fabric with my hand. Sam’s right and I hate him for it because it highlights how I failed. I took a risk and I screwed it up. That’s all on me, even though I gutlessly tried to pin it on Mei. I was an idiot to think I could do this.

For Fangli and Sam and Mei, this is real and it has an impact. I like Fangli. I’m sorry for her. I’m deep in the throes of the Benjamin Franklin effect—I like her more because she asked me to do her a favor. Even if it was for money.

I throw myself on the bed and start peeling the miserable plastic disks off my chest. It’s a bad day for my body hair because much like the face mask earlier, the boob supporters are doing an excellent job of epilating any skin they’ve been in contact with. After trudging to the bathroom and double cleansing my face, I look in the mirror. My face and chest are covered with red blotches and I sigh.

Ever since I had to put Mom into the home, I’ve made a pleat here and a crease there to origami my life to become small and manageable. Although I was never as bold as Anjali, who once quit her job and started her own business to see what it was like, I was brave enough to want to live instead of settling for existing. Before Mom got too sick, I sought out experiences. Not like I was going to bungee jump out of a plane or anything, but I took an art class and forced myself to be social. I went for dinner by myself because I wanted to. I joined Anjali on a last-minute trip to Cuba. No big deal for some people but enough for me to feel like I was reaching out of my middle-of-the-road comfort zone. Now I’m as vulnerable as a snail without a shell, an easy mark for the Todds of the world to come by and sprinkle salt on me like an unpleasant child happy to flex what little power they have.