The Stand-In(68)

I love walking around a city as it wakes up, the doors and windows winking open as if they’re the eyes of the street. A few people are out even at this early hour, yawning over cups of coffee clutched in lazy hands. A woman walks down the middle of the sidewalk wearing last night’s dress and a satisfied smile. She’s limping a bit in her high heels and then she pauses, balances herself against the wall and unstraps them. When she passes me, she’s walking barefoot and swinging her shoes as she hums this summer’s Drake song.

“Gracie?” A man dressed all in black with a ball cap stops and pulls out his earbuds. It’s Sam, sweaty from a morning run. “You’re up early,” he says.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

He peers at me and takes off his hat as if that will help him see better. “Are you well?”

Now. I should tell him right now so he can prepare Fangli. “Sam, I need to talk to you.”

“What about?” He looks apprehensive, probably since nothing good ever comes after we need to talk.

A happy bop bursts from his hand and he lifts his phone. “Mei,” he says. “Strange, she usually texts. Do you mind if I answer?”

I wave permission; I’m curious as well and this will give me time to think of how to phrase what I want to say. I need to get it out before I can feel bad about leaving them in the lurch. The key is to make it clear there’s no changing my mind, that it’s very unfortunate but there’s simply nothing to be done about it. Sympathetic to the situation but matter-of-fact in how it’s going to end.

Sam’s expression darkens and I can hear a faint echo of Mei’s voice. “Hao,” he says. They talk for another minute and he disconnects.

“We have a problem,” he says. “Fangli is sick.”

“Like with the flu or something?”

He moves his phone from one hand to the other as he inspects the street. “Were you going back soon?”

I turn around and we start walking north back to the Xanadu. When the sun appears in a ball of orange-yellow at the cross street, I raise my hand to shadow my eyes. Sam fishes around in his pocket and hands me a pair of painfully stylish aviators. “Here.”

They’re gigantic on my face, which is exactly how I like them. He glances over and nods. “Nice,” he approves.

“Why do you have sunglasses stuffed in your pocket when you’re running?”

“In case it gets too sunny.” He looks at me as if this should be obvious and coughs. “You look good. Keep them.”

“I can get my own but thanks for the loan.” I wriggle them up my nose until my eyelashes brush the lenses before pointing to a convenience store. “Let’s grab some orange juice if she’s sick.”

He holds me back. “It’s not that kind of sick.”

There’s a sinking feeling in my gut. “What do you mean?”

“Mei says she won’t get out of bed. She won’t answer besides saying she’s too tired to work.”

“Has she done this before?”

“Once during a movie but she wasn’t due on set for a few days and she was better by then.”

“What happened to make her better?”

He looks puzzled. “She said she needed sleep. That’s it.”

I’m so angry on Fangli’s behalf I can barely breathe. I know Sam is doing the best he can, or says he is, but it’s not enough and I think he knows it. That I’m complicit is not making me feel better.

He checks for traffic and steps into the street. “We need you to help us.”

“No.” I don’t need to get any deeper into this. I made my decision.

“Please. You don’t need to take her place onstage. We have an understudy and there’s no show today.”

I goggle at him. “Oh, good.” Like that was ever going to happen.

“We were due to film a promo spot for the play for the second phase of the marketing campaign. It has to be done today.”

“Why can’t they use a clip like everyone else?”

He makes a face. “They want it live. It’s part of a segment they do that has good social media reach. We’re committed. There’s not a lot of dialogue and you’re quick enough to get it.”

He might think I’m quick but I’m slow right now. “Are you saying you want me to pretend I’m Fangli to promote her own play?” This is too much. This is more chutzpah, cojones, and big bitch energy than I can conceive of, let alone muster.

“Yes.”

“There’s no way.”

“You can do it. I’ve been watching you with people at the events.”

“Sam, it’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard.”

“Fangli needs time.” He hesitates. “Please. I need your help.”

That activates my inner people pleaser, a practiced muscle that can flex stronger and faster than my fledgling vow to be better. God fucking damn it. My plans to give up my contract disintegrate but I grasp onto something I can do that might mitigate some of my dismay at being a lying liar who lies. This is it, I promise myself. Once this is over, I’ll tell them I need to break the contract.

“On one condition.”

“What?” Even in his desperation, he’s cautious.