The Stand-In(55)

I sit—very straight because of the dress—in a chair. “Fangli?”

“Doesn’t know,” he says. “She won’t.”

“Her team knows that can’t be her,” I argue. “She wasn’t here.”

“It’s the perception. The photo names her as Fangli.”

“What about you?” I go red as I look at the photo again. “I’m so sorry.” For the first time, I understand what he means by always being vigilant. I thought I was being careful by keeping my face pointed down to avoid getting caught on the security cameras, but I now see that I have no idea of the real scope of damage that can be caused by a simple accident. Fangli can’t have accidents, and by extension, neither can I.

But I did, and now I can only trust that Fangli’s team can contain it. A fury builds in me at the man who took the photo. What was he hoping to accomplish? Some upvotes at the cost of other people’s reputations.

Fangli’s voice comes to me. I’m a product, not a person.

“It’s not your fault.” He kneels down so we’re level and peers into my face. “I need you to know you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Look at this.” I shake the phone at him. “You told me to be careful.”

“I did and you are. It was an accident.”

My eyes go back to the photo and he gently takes the phone away.

“We’re dealing with it.” He holds out his arm. “Are you ready to go?”

“We’re going?”

“This isn’t our problem to solve. We have people for this. Your job right now is to make Fangli shine so no one will believe that garbage.” He tilts his head. “Can you?”

Hell no, says interior me. I ignore that voice and lift my chin as I rise out of the chair. I’ve got a job to do. I turn to Sam. “Let’s go.”





Twenty-Two


“There will be cameras,” Sam reminds me for the fourth time as the car pulls up to the theater on King Street. “Remember our signal.”

We’ve decided Sam will take the lead, not in a draggy-caveman way, but an easy quarter-step ahead so I know where to stop and deliver a Fangli moment for the photographers.

He watches me fidget with the row of bracelets on my arm before laying a gentle hand on my fingers. “Are you ready?”

Seeing the photo has increased my anxiety but I try to dislodge the negativity and make space for the more imminent issue of the red carpet. “I was born ready.”

This makes him shake his head—but he’s smiling—before he gets out and leans back in to help me exit, providing cover as I do my best to keep from flashing the world because of the slit in my skirt. It’s a good thing this absorbs most of my attention, because by the time I’m out with my smile on, I only have time to make out a blue carpet before it dissolves into a seizure-inducing barrage of camera flashes. It’s not only the photographers who line the carpet, but every person there is calling my name and Sam’s and taking photos.

Nothing Sam told me warned me for the physicality of this experience. The cameras aren’t passive instruments used to capture moments in time; they’re active and hostile participants.

I freeze, nonplussed but smile fixed, and Sam leans down slightly to slide his arm around my waist. He smells like sandalwood this time and I sniff, feeling the scent calm me. I’d picked Coromandel, a rich patchouli that boosts my confidence. Only bad bitches and hippies use patchouli, a fragrance that can go from distinctive to overwhelming in a moment. I’ve never had the nerve to wear it.

“You’ve got this,” he murmurs.

It all becomes a blur. I smile and pose with my hand on my hip and my chin down and slightly to the right, which Mei reminded me multiple times is my best side. My face aches and my eyes tear up when I forget to blink. Earlier today I worked out a series of moves to casually change poses, and I work through them like a Beyoncé backup dancer.

I thought this would be the most thrilling thing that ever happened to me because walking the carpet is the epitome of movie-star glamour but the flashes and screams press up against me in the most maddening way. It’s layered with the knowledge that a single wrong move—a stumble or frown or silly look—can be seen around the world before I even notice I’ve screwed up. Or that someone could point and yell, “That’s an imposter!” emperor’s-new-clothes style.

“Breathe,” Sam murmurs and I take in a short gasp, then another longer wheeze. My chest feels cinched from fear and Spanx, but his hand grips my waist and I manage to get a real breath.

Sam guides me to the end of the carpet and into a main lobby filled with well-dressed people milling around giving air-kisses. Unlike at the art exhibit, the attendees range from formally gowned to downright eccentric. As Sam tucks his hand under my arm and I worry the sweat I feel beading on my upper lip is about to burst through my thick layer of foundation, a man walks by in a chartreuse polka-dotted shorts suit, panama hat tipped low over his eyes. Apparently both style and wealth are appreciated here.

Since I don’t have much of either, it doesn’t calm me.

“Ah, there he is.” Sam waves at someone behind me.

“Sammy!” A short man with a high man-bun comes over, a huge grin on his face. I know who it is because this time I did my research and checked the IMDb for director Eddy Freedman before coming. “Your agent wouldn’t confirm but I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”