Page 19
My whole body feels lighter as we join the others in the stands for the night show.
Impression of Liu Sanjie: A Folk Song Story. It’s set entirely outside, the sheer scale of it shocking, unlike anything I’ve been to before. The stage is the Li River itself, the twelve peaks of the mountains behind it forming the natural backdrop. A soft breeze floats through the gathered crowds, people squishing into the front rows of the green-shrouded terraces, some already getting their cameras out.
There’s not much room left, but Cyrus shifts back, giving me more space to stretch out my legs. Which is a very nice, chivalrous thing to do, except I don’t really want any space from him.
“Are you cold?” he asks me.
“Not cold enough to need a jacket,” I say, and lean toward him, my head resting against the crook of his neck. “This is good.”
What I mean is: This is perfect. It feels like the grand finale—the last night of the trip, the last part of the competition. We just have to write an essay describing tonight’s show, and then it’ll all be over.
The night deepens, turning everything into shades of blue. The moonlight shines down over the water like a spotlight, and the mist rolls in over the river, and I’m mesmerized. It’s like the show is the world, or the world is a show; performers float in on rafts, seemingly descend from the sky dressed in silver and silk, the music rising like the hills.
It’s a love story, I soon realize. A girl sings to her lover from across the river, her movements in trained harmony with the dancers around her, her voice floating up to us, clear and sweet and luminous. Then the scene changes to gold, the performers rowing forward with hundreds of fishing lights.
I’m so transfixed that I don’t notice the whispers in the beginning. Not until they pick up over the music, spreading fast. Not until I hear my name.
“… god, what was she …”
“… thought she looked familiar …”
I sit up straight, alert, and squint around. Most people in the crowd are still watching the dancers, but then I see Sean holding up his phone, whispering furiously to the girl sitting next to him, who shakes her head. Then they both look straight at me. The hairs on my arms stand up. They’re all looking at me—practically everyone in our group. It’s dark here in the stands, but I swear I can see the disbelief in their expressions.
Cyrus turns around and frowns. “What’s going on?” he whispers to me.
I shake my head, my stomach tightening.
And that’s when I spot the photo displayed on Sean’s phone, right as he flips it over to show it to someone else. A violent buzzing fills my skull, as if a swarm of wasps have suddenly rushed in through my ears.
It’s me.
It’s me, but not how I would ever want to be seen. Me with bright, bright red lipstick and heavy blue eyeliner and cheap tassels draped over my skin. That nightmare of a photo shoot, the very thing I had confided to Cyrus less than an hour ago. It makes my aunt’s comment about me at the wedding seem almost generous. Ignorant foreigner. Because who else would agree to a photo shoot like that? I hate that girl, hate that photo, and it should’ve stayed buried in the past, but it’s here again, haunting me. Of course. No matter how hard I run, I can never escape the versions of myself I used to be.
But that doesn’t explain how people found those photos of me, unless—
As if in tune with the dread roiling through me, the music in the background changes, the string instruments shrieking, the drums clapping louder.
I jerk away from Cyrus. “Did you tell them?” I whisper.
“What?” His eyes are wide, but I don’t know if it’s from confusion or guilt. If it’s only an act.
“The photo shoot,” I say, my voice trembling. Even my hands are shaking, the stands swaying beneath me, everything cracking apart. There’s nothing for me to hold on to, nothing to steady my heart against. I want to vomit. “You—you’re the only person I told.”
“Of course I didn’t,” he says quickly. “You know I wouldn’t.”
Do I really? Once the voice sneaks into my thoughts, I can’t shake it out. I’d wanted to think that Cyrus was different from the other guys. I’d been so willing to trust him, to accept his apology about the past, to hand my heart over to him. But it’s like I’ve been doused with freezing water, left gasping as the chill sets into my stomach. My mind spins with images of the boys I’ve been with before: the unexpected flash of the camera when I leaned in to kiss one of them, documenting a private moment so they could share it with their friends; the boy who bragged about making out with me before my lipstick had even dried on his mouth; the ones who only remembered to text me back when I posted a pretty photo of myself in a tight dress. All the boys who’d charm me and kiss me and lose interest right after, the thrill of the chase expired.
What if Cyrus isn’t any different? What if his kindness was a ploy all along, his tenderness something I’d made up inside my head just because I wanted him? More questions crowd forth, racing one another toward the worst-case scenario.
It’s all just too much of a coincidence. I’d offered him the one piece of my life I’ve hidden from everyone else—and almost right away, this happens.
“Leah,” Cyrus says, but I can barely hear him over the loud, incessant buzzing in my eardrums. “Leah, please—”
“Why should I trust you?” I demand. Oh my god, I think I’m really, actually going to be sick. I’m so stupid . If I weren’t about to burst into tears, I’d laugh at myself, at everything I was thinking a few minutes ago, fantasizing about a grand love story with the boy who’s already proven himself capable of destroying my life. Such naivete, such disgusting optimism , thinking I’d finally found someone who knew me, who would protect me, keep my secrets safe.
I should’ve known better.
Then Sean holds his phone up, his eyes locking with mine, the accusation in them clear. “Leah, is this you?”
Everyone from our group is watching me. Waiting for an explanation, or maybe simply waiting for me to confirm that I am a terrible person, a fake, a sellout, a slut, someone complicit in the fetishization of their culture. Even Oliver is frowning at the photos, his mouth puckered with what must be distaste or pure disgust. A recent memory rises like a sepia-toned scene from an old film: laughing in the bus seat next to him, our fists raised in mock toast, to friendship .
Now there’s no mock toast, just self-mockery. What friendship? These people barely know me; we’ve only spent a total of two weeks together. Traveling on the same tight schedule to the same pretty places might have bred the illusion of intimacy and comradery, but that can’t change the age-old curse: The more people know about me, the less they like me.
“I—I didn’t want to do it,” I try to explain, and I’m talking too loud now, but it’s like I’ve lost control over my mouth, lost the ability to breathe. “I really didn’t—I mean, it’s me but I—”
A woman from higher up in the crowds shushes me, silencing my desperate attempts to win over the jury after the verdict has already been reached.
It’s like the Incident all over again.
But it feels like I’m the one falling from the stairs, the ground giving way underneath me, the breathless, terrifying tumble and the violent, rib-cracking jolt of the landing. So much for fresh slates, new beginnings, shots in the dark at happiness. I can feel all the layers that had sloughed off hardening around my heart again.
I stumble onto my feet. Squeeze past the people in the stands, mumbling apologies under my breath. I have no idea where I’m going. My feet are moving on their own, faster and faster, taking me up the stairs, to the exit, back out onto the road, my heels clapping against the stone pavement. I can’t think about anything except the fact that I need to leave. Now.
There’s a sharp, sour feeling stuffed in the back of my throat and nose, like when you choke on a mouthful of water, and the more I try to blink away the tears, the harder they press against my eyes, until finally, the invisible rope that’s been tying me together snaps, and everything goes blurry. The pale light of the moon wobbles in my vision, the stars streaking silver across the sky, and I’m still walking, hugging my arms around myself, crying so hard that I can’t even breathe.
My whole body heaves as the tears trickle down my chin, the taste of salt seeping into my mouth.
I’m alone , I realize. I’m so hopelessly, utterly alone—the road ahead is empty, and around me there’s nothing but rice paddies rippling in the breeze like the waves of the sea, the dark streams running between them, and the layered, indigo shadows of the mountains. I can never see the people from this trip again. I’ll have to buy an early plane ticket to LA and run back to my parents and—
And then what?
There’s nothing for me.
I repeat the words in my head, and then out loud, sobbing them over and over to myself like I’m trying to build up immunity, but it cuts deep enough to bleed each time. Hurts in new, different ways. There’s nothing for me. There’s nothing for me anywhere. There’s nothing left. I wasn’t good enough at the only thing I’m good at. Everything I did was for nothing. Everything I gave up just landed me here, alone at the very bottom.
I wipe my eyes roughly with my sleeve, my ribs aching, the weeds tickling my bare ankles. I’m walking so fast that I almost don’t notice the cow crossing the road.
I stop, rub my eyes again, my surprise freezing my tears in place. The cow stares serenely back at me under a trickle of moonlight, its large brown eyes following me as I step forward. It occurs to me that I’ve never really seen a cow up close before, and there’s something majestic about the way it lifts its heavy head to the stars, the gloss of its deep brown fur. It’s chewing grass, its mouth moving in a slow rhythm, like it has all the time it needs.
And for a moment, I forget that my world is ending.
“Hello,” I say softly, through sniffles.
The cow’s ears flicker toward the sound of my voice. Another breeze ruffles the paddies, their surfaces darkening with movement, and the night air turns cooler, the scent of it sweet and laced with Osmanthus. The landscape flows around the creature like a poem, and I’m stunned by how readily my heart makes room for beauty, even at a time like this.
“Did my cow startle you?” An elderly woman walks over from the same place the cow had appeared, wisps of silvery-white hair floating around her bun. She has the sort of face you would stop to ask for directions in a foreign city: Her broad features are kind, her eyes crinkling when she says, “Don’t be afraid. She doesn’t like to bite people.”
“I—I know. I’m not afraid of her,” I say in Chinese, reaching out to the cow. She meets me halfway, bumping her nose gently against my hand, her fur so much softer than I expected, and warm, as if she had been lying down in a sunny orchard just before.
“Then why are you crying?” the woman asks.
My throat threatens to close up again. I could blame it on something else, anything: allergies, a sad movie I watched, a silly argument with a friend. But it’s like I’ve forgotten how to lie and act nonchalant, or maybe I’ve just never been good at indifference. The instinct—the impulse—to tell the truth is overwhelming. “Because I failed.”
“You failed?” she repeats, her voice free of judgment. There’s only concern and more patience than I deserve. “At what?”
“Everything,” I say tearily, not even bothering to hold together the last cracks in my composure anymore. I fumble for the right words in Chinese. “My life. I—I have no idea what to do or where to go. Everyone else has their own talents, like a sport or an instrument or a subject in school, and they’re all heading off to college with some idea of what they want, and it’s like they were all made for something. But I’m not smart enough, and I’m not athletic, and I’m not particularly likable, and I’m not that funny or interesting, and I don’t even have a five-day plan, let alone a five-year plan. Maybe I’ll never be better than this,” I whisper, still patting the cow. It’s the closest thing to comfort that I have right now. “Maybe I’m just not cut out for anything.”
If I were the woman, and a stranger had just given me this deeply depressing speech while using my cow as their emotional support animal, I would probably be fleeing into the distance.
But she smiles at me, and with a sharp pang, I remember how my nainai would smile across the dinner table at me while I ate the chicken soup noodles she’d cooked, like I was the most precious thing she had ever seen. Like the simple fact that I existed was a joy.
“It’ll work out,” she tells me.
My voice trembles. “But—what if it doesn’t?”
“Look at the sky,” she says.
“What?”
“Look at the sky,” she repeats steadily.
I do, and at first I have no idea what I’m meant to be looking at. There’s nothing. But then the sky opens up. The stars are brighter than I’ve ever seen them, like pinpricks in the velvet darkness, letting the light in. Entire constellations lie above me, endless, eternal, and there’s a feeling I can’t name stirring deep inside my chest, like reaching the bridge of your favorite song. The fresh gash of the memory doesn’t disappear from my mind, but it’s just one star of many, glistening in the night.
Slowly, I breathe out.
“Leah?”
I spin around at the sound of Daisy’s voice. She’s stopped a yard away from me, her arm half-outstretched, hesitant, like she’s not sure what to do next, but maybe that’s just because I’m standing next to a cow. Then she sees the tears dampening my face or maybe just the look in my eyes and she rushes forward.
The old woman steps politely to the side, leading the cow out of the way.
“Are you okay?” Daisy asks, squeezing my hand.
I’d been expecting plenty of questions, from Why didn’t you tell us you were a model? to What the hell were you thinking when you did that photo shoot? But not this one.
“Why—why are you here?” My voice catches.
“What?” She looks confused by my confusion.
“That photo shoot … you saw it, everyone saw it. And I’m not even a model anymore,” I babble, aware that I’m probably making zero sense. “You don’t gain anything out of being friends with me, so why did you follow me?”
Daisy stares at me, stunned. Then, very slowly, she says, “Leah, have you never had a real friend before?”
A real friend. My mind browses through the years and comes back empty-handed. You have plenty of people you hang out with at school , I try to remind myself . Hundreds of numbers in your phone. People who compliment you all the time and invite you to things. But how many of them can I actually call? Someone like Cate would drop me in a heartbeat if I ever made a scene the way I did just now. With her, everything is conditional, transactional.
“No, not really,” I whisper. It’s so humiliating to admit that I can’t even look at her when I say it. The mirage is gone now, the beauty filter switched off, the makeup removed. It doesn’t matter how pretty or popular I make myself—I’m always going to be the girl nobody wanted to sit with at lunch.
“Okay, well, now you do,” Daisy says. She sounds more sure of herself than I’ve ever heard her, and I jerk my head up in surprise. “I don’t know exactly what you’ve experienced in the past,” she goes on, louder, raising her voice for the first time since we met at the airport, “and there are a lot of horrible people and horrible situations, but you can’t keep holding on to that for the rest of your life. You have to believe that there are people who will genuinely like you, and care about you, and worry over you when something’s wrong.”
I swallow thickly. “I … I’m just …” Bone-tired. Unbelievably, extraordinarily sad. Guilty. Betrayed. Heartbroken, heart-shattered, heartsick. All of the above, and yet, that still wouldn’t even begin to cover it. Every emotion I’ve ever pushed down in the past few years has reappeared, breaking past my ribs.
“Also, for what it’s worth,” Daisy adds, “Sean’s an asshole.”
“Sean?” I repeat, confused.
“He kept insisting that he recognized you from somewhere, and then he basically stalked you online for proof …”
I barely hear the rest of what she says. “ Sean was the one who found the photo shoot?” I ask, my pulse skipping.
She nods.
“Not Cyrus?”
“Cyrus?” Her brows scrunch. “No, I don’t think any of us have even spoken to him since lunch.”
“You’re certain?”
“Certain … that he didn’t find the photo shoot?” Daisy asks, looking bewildered that I’m even confirming this with her. “Of course he didn’t. You should’ve seen him after you ran off—he was … Well, let’s just say that I don’t think you should be worried about anyone spreading those photos around.”
The wasps in my head finally go still. It had been instinct to distrust him. Instinct to assume the worst. If you were to suffer a blow to your stomach every time you walked down a road, you would automatically start tensing before you’ve even taken the first step, bracing for the pain. You wouldn’t dare believe that one day, you’ll be able to walk right down, and someone will be waiting at the end of it, smiling gently up at you.
“I need to talk to him,” I say, but not before I pull Daisy into a tight hug. She’s so much shorter than I am that I’m scared of crushing her, but she hugs me back just as hard, pressing her head to my shoulder. “Thank you,” I whisper. “For coming after me. For being on my side.”
“I’ll always be on your side,” she says, and I believe it.