The Queens of New York, page 8
I’m doing the most exciting thing I’ve ever done right now. I’m racing forty-five jittery teenagers on a three-foot path to a large brick building. What’s in the building? Oh, just a very, very scary piece of paper. The cast list.
Valerie’s sequin shirt keeps reflecting the early-evening sun and blinding me, so I’m falling behind. We need to keep up with the pack.
“Walk on my left side,” I tell her, but she just bumps my shoulder and yells, “WHAT?” over the rumble of the crowd.
“Left side,” I repeat, “so you can stand in my shadow.”
Valerie proceeds to halt in the middle of the road, causing a domino of girls to crash into our backs. Excessive screaming ensues. It’s worse than a Wicked reunion concert.
“Everett,” she says, “I love you, but I’m not going to stand in your shadow.”
“No.” I take Valerie’s head and bring her ear to my mouth we stumble forward. “I just meant your sequins—your SEQUINS—are bouncing the light and blinding me. If you just move to the left—no, the LEFT—we can—stop poking me, Sofia, I’m WALKING—move faster. You know?”
She has no clue.
I’ve decided that the casting directors are even more dramatic than the students. Normally, the team puts up the list in the early morning, or in the middle of the night, and students trickle in and check their names when they wake up. But no, Abel Pearce decided to email us at five p.m. and tell us that he was going to unlock the theater doors precisely at six—no earlier, no later. It’s 5:59. I bet the casting team is watching from the classroom windows and cackling.
The first wave of hopefuls burst through the double doors and skitter down the hall. I crane my neck to look at the mob behind me. Cheney is trailing the mob, at least twenty feet behind the last flock of girls. How nice it must feel to know that you’ve already nabbed the lead role. There are only six guys in the entire cast, and Cheney is by far the best singer. He’s probably as chill as a jazz solo, smirking back there as he watches us run. I find this both extremely irritating and extremely hot.
Finally, Valerie and I make it in. The locusts ahead begin to swarm the list. I take Valerie’s hand and jostle our way to the front.
At first, I can’t see anything. And then, with Sofia digging into my shoulders and Valerie’s chin collapsing onto my head, I spot it. Fat black letters in the middle of the page.
CHING HO—EVERETT HOANG
Ching. Ho.
Ching Ho is one of two henchmen that help Mrs. Meers run the white slavery ring.
Ching Ho is Chinese.
Ching Ho barely speaks in English, and when he does, it’s broken and messy.
Ching Ho is not Millie Dillmount.
Valerie dives forward to fling her arms around my waist and I cough on chunks of curls and Bath & Body Works perfume.
“I’M MILLIE!” she shrieks.
She’s jumping up and down as the girls snap toward her like they just discovered that she’s the queen of Magical Musical Theater Land and they are nothing but her minions. I turn back to the list. Sure enough, there it is.
MILLIE DILLMOUNT—VALERIE JOHNSON
JIMMY SMITH—CHENEY WHITAKER ALDRICH
“Congratulations,” I hear myself say, though my head feels heavy and I’m scanning the room for any sign of Abel Pearce. He’s a bearded man in a horde of teenage girls, so he should be easy to spot.
But Abel Pearce, like any wise director, is nowhere to be found. He must be in his office. I push past the hair-whip girls and the karaoke kings and until I reach the tail end of the crowd. Cheney is standing there, staring aimlessly at the ceiling. He sees me and waves.
“So, can I call you my Millie?”
I don’t say a word. I just continue down the corridor, trying to remember which nondescript room is his. Then I see him. A blurry, faraway man reclining in a swivel chair.
I spit out one of Valerie’s hairs and knock on the door. Abel Pearce waves me in.
“Back again, I see? This is not a very fair game of hide-and-seek we’re playing, Miss Hoang.”
“You always pick the same hiding spot,” I tell him, simultaneously trying to pretend I’m not winded while gasping for breath between words.
Abel Pearce shakes his head and chuckles to himself. “What can I do for you now?”
I should have prepared a speech or something like last time. But all that’s running through my head is I am not Millie Dillmount. I am not Millie Dillmount. I am not Millie Dillmount.
So I blurt: “I just saw the cast list. It says I’m Ching Ho.”
Abel raises an eyebrow. “That’s correct.”
Clearly I’m doing great so far. A-plus, Everett. The sweat under my armpits trails down my sides. I try to wipe it with my elbows.
“Um,” I say, “yes. Okay. I was just . . . I thought my audition . . . Well, is there anything I could have done differently?”
To be Millie? is what I want to add, though we both know I can’t. I was so good in that audition. The best I’d ever been, to be honest. My high belt was clear and strong, and soared over Abel’s head just like my voice teacher said it should. I saw his face. I saw all their faces. Did I imagine their awe? Did I stumble somehow?
Abel Pearce sits forward in his swivel chair, his checkered button-down creasing at the waist.
“Everett, you received the part you were right for.” He says, “You should be pleased with the role.”
He thinks I am right for the part of a henchman in a chintzy red jacket and conical hat, singing about the American dream in halfhearted English and pinyin Chinese. And then I remember the email he still hasn’t responded to, the bullet points on Ching Ho and Bun Foo and Mrs. Meers I squished onto the page, subject header thoughts on Asian American representation like it was an essay instead of a letter to my summer camp theater director.
“Did you get my email?” I ask. “About my ideas? You know, the ones we talked about last time—”
“I remember.”
I perk up. “Great. So with Mrs. Meers, and even with Ching Ho and Bun Foo and stuff, do you think—”
“Your ideas were solid, Miss Hoang. I appreciate your passion. But I would like to stick to the spirit of the story, which adheres most closely to what Dick Scanlan and Richard Morris have written.”
“Oh,” I say. It feels like a grand piano has just plummeted down my chest. “I see.”
I should have listened to Ariel. When she picked up the phone for, like, ten minutes the other day (what a plot twist) she suggested I check in about the email I sent. She told me to write some eloquent explanation about why the show needed to change. She insisted I push even harder. But I never had to push before, not with Ms. Geringer when we did Company, or Cabaret, or even Carousel. What would Ariel do now?
I fight so hard to find the words. “It’s just—Ching Ho is Chinese. And I don’t speak any Mandarin or Cantonese or anything. You know, because I’m Vietnamese. And I just, well, I don’t know how I’m really going to play this part.”
At that, Abel Pearce stands up, his arms crossed. “Miss Hoang,” he says, “would you like to be a member of the ensemble instead?”
I think I might break into a thousand pieces and shatter all over his office.
“Oh no, like, I’m very grateful for the part, really—thank you. I just—”
“Wonderful.” He stands up, steps around me, and opens the door. The déjá vu practically smacks me in the face. “Then congratulations. Go celebrate with the rest of your cast.”
With that, I’m back in the hallway, unable to move. It’s like when our improv class plays the statue game, except I’m the only one playing.
I gulp it all down, little by little. I am not Millie. Instead in five weeks, I’ll don a satin jacket with fake Chinese script from the costume shop and a mustache they probably recycled from last summer’s production of Newsies. I’ll pretend to speak another Asian language when I don’t even know my own.
I replay Abel’s response like I’m rewinding a scene from a movie—the crossed arms, the confusing speeches, the email likely dumped in his trash folder. It’s clear to me now. Abel Pearce was never going to use my solutions. He was never going to change a thing.
And then a terrible realization sinks in. When I come home, I can’t show Jia the taped performance and regale to her every single one of my theatrical choices. How would seeing her best friend pretend to be a Chinese henchman make her feel? What if we watched it at her house and her parents walked in and thought Who on Earth is my daughter friends with? I wouldn’t blame them.
Tears nip the corners of my eyes and I swipe them away. I’m such a baby.
When I make it back to the list, everyone has left, which is honestly for the best. I want to be happy for Valerie, but right now I’d rather skip her squeals of joy as she and the hair-whip girls flounce around the courtyard. As much as I love acting, my role-playing only goes so far.
The heat closes in on me on the walk back to my dorm. Why did I come to Ohio? This is a place for gnats and corn, not for girls like Everett Hoang. I belong in Lincoln Center, where the ballerinas from Juilliard smile at you when they jaywalk at 66th, and the directors wear graphic eyeliner and funky earrings, and where old men with big empty words, and roommates from South Dakota that steal your part, don’t exist.
Oh Evie, my drama queen, my mom used to say every time I screamed so loud I woke the neighbors or scribbled on the walls with crayon. What she meant was Stop throwing a fit, suck it up, and be a big girl.
I should be a big girl. I’m seventeen years old. When I climb the three flights up to my room, I try not think about how Valerie’s voice cracked on her high note, how she’ll be the one kissing Cheney instead of me, how I was so sure I’d get the part. I was so sure.
“You’re here!” Valerie is running toward me before I even step into the room.
There are people everywhere. Sitting on my bed. Belting “Forget About the Boy” in the closet. The windows fog as drinks slosh from cup to cup.
“It’s only, like, six o’clock,” I shout as Valerie downs her drink. “The sun hasn’t even set yet.”
“Oh come on, Ev, we’re celebrating!” She flashes a smile and shimmies in circles around me.
“How did you even get this stuff?”
“Ya know, bribed an RA.” She winks while yanking Cheney toward her. “My leading man!”
Valerie collapses onto his chest, giggling. Cheney gently moves her to the side and picks up shots from the nightstand.
“I feel like you need one of these, Hoang.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.” He pulls me closer so his free hand is wrapped around my waist. “You do.”
Valerie is now jumping on my bed in her sneakers, scream-singing, “Gimme, gimme.”
I close my eyes and down the shot.
WORLDGAB GROUP CHAT
Everett: Hiiiiiiii hav i told u guys how much I luv u
Everett: hehe dats a song
Everett: wait dats a song rite
Everett: oh NO its have I told u lately that i luv u!!! there we go
Everett: well anyway i dont love anyone BUT U
Everett: trulyyy
Everett: millie sucks men suck parents suck
Everett: U R THE ONLY ONES
Everett: who make me happppppppy when skies r hay
Everett: wait its not hay
Everett: it shud be hay that better lyric
Everett: GRAY
Everett: wow im a lyric qween
Jia: Hi, oh my gosh! Are you okay?
Everett: Wut are u talking abt im more than ok
Ariel: Everett, you’re drunk. Do you want us to call you?
Everett: I PERFECT
Ariel: You are definitely not perfect right now.
Everett: ugh maybe im NOT thats why I didnt get MILLIE
Jia: You didn’t get Millie??? Ugh, I’m so sorry, Everett
Everett: IM CHING HO
Ariel: Who is Ching Ho?
Everett: A PIECE OF
Jia: ??
Everett: CRAP
Ariel: Oh, I see.
Jia: Did Abel respond to your email?
Everett: HAHAHAHAHAHA
Ariel: I’ll take that as a no. Ev, drink some water
Everett: vodka
Jia: Nope, no more vodka
Ariel: Yeah, I don’t think that’s a good idea.
Jia: Find an empty cup and fill it with water, Everett
Ariel: Yep I second that
Jia: Everett??
Ariel: You there?
15
Ariel
Even through a grainy phone screen, I can still see Everett’s vomit swirling in the toilet. She managed to prop us up against a skin cleanser bottle, so we get a shot of her blurry French braids and chunks of yellow in the toilet water. Jia does her best not to gag. Her comforter is curled up to her neck.
“That’s it,” she says, “just get it out of your system.”
I want to check Everett’s skin. Make sure it’s not too blue or too pale. That she’s not cold. That she doesn’t need to go to the hospital. She looks okay through the screen, but that doesn’t say too much. Someone at the party should be with her. Like Cheney, who can hand her five shots but apparently can’t clean up the mess.
Everett flushes the toilet and face-plants on the seat.
“Ugh,” she groans, “my head is killing me.”
“There’s a water bottle right next to you, Ev,” Jia instructs. “To your left. No, your other left. That’s it.”
I shoot Jia a grateful glance. That girl has patience that bests even the kindest of kindergarten teachers.
We watch as Everett fiddles with the cap, twisting it back and forth before she pours the water into her half-open mouth. Liquid dribbles down her chin. She gulps and tries again.
Bea used to be like this. Slouched against the toilet. Tequila and mystery juice staining her top. Gurgling water and spit. When she was in high school, I had a whole routine. I waited until the front door clicked. Then I yanked back the covers, tiptoed down the hall, and dragged her into the bathroom, careful not to wake up Umma and Appa. After she was done puking, I pressed Advil onto her tongue like she was a dog, coaxing it back with a glass of sink water. I knew which of her facial towelettes were expensive, and which I could use to wipe the smudged mascara from her cheeks. When she finally crawled into bed, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to lecture her, even though I knew she was falling asleep. I had to get the last word in. I had to remind her that she could be better, like me.
“Ariel, you okay?”
Jia’s voice is soft yet tired. In the blue phone light, I watch her forehead wrinkle.
“Oh,” I say, “yes. Sorry.”
I flit my eyes toward Everett, who’s yawning, her arms stretching toward the towel bar. I think her skin has more color.
“What were you thinking about?” Jia asks. “You kind of spaced out.”
“Nothing,” I say, and then, remembering my unsent email, their worried texts, I pause. “Well, Bea, actually.”
Jia half smiles knowingly. “She had a lot of fun too, didn’t she?”
She did. At least, I think she did. Ever since I scrolled through her Instagram the night of Bethany’s party, I’ve kept returning to it. I used to look every week but now I find myself examining Bea’s frozen face several times per day. I stare at that floral twist-tie top I’ve never seen in her closet before. I zoom in on Haejinloveslife’s hand looped casually around my sister’s waist. Bee’s neck splayed out on Carl_Kisses’s lap after a night of partying. Our last conversation burns in my brain. The knife in her voice, the way her eyes became slivers. You don’t know anything. What don’t I know, Bea? What were you hiding?
Everett clatters in the background, pulling herself up to her feet. She wavers a bit, clenching the water bottle, before straightening. She grabs her phone from the makeshift cleanser stand.
“I miss Bea,” she declares, the first coherent thing she’s said all night.
Stumbling out of the bathroom, she manages to lurch toward her dorm room. We watch her open the door and fall into bed. The sheets rustle as she rolls onto her back.
Now I hear only Jia’s breath against the microphone. The crackle of darkness. The space where Bea belongs, the city she left behind. She had too much fun, but I wish she had more. I would give away all my awards and scholarships just to pick her up from the floor every day until we turned into visor-clad, wrinkly ajummas.
“Bee,” Everett sighs in her sleep.
“Yeah,” I whisper, “I miss her too.”
16
Jia
On the last day of June, Chinatown begins to overflow. The duck bao stand and Mr. Zhang’s rolling cart have lines so long, they merge into each other. Main Street is wound with college students home for the summer, tourists sheepishly ordering in English, and locals with tote bags brimming with frozen dumplings. The mist blowing from the street vents pour over the city, coating my skin with a damp layer of condensation.
Mom and Dad don’t mind any of it though. They herd in customers like pigs to the slaughter, pushing them into booths and makeshift tables sandwiched between the massive fans and the kitchen.
I’m still yawning after a sleepless night taking care of Everett over video-chat. When I sneak downstairs to wake myself up with coffee and egg tarts, Dad hands me a bunch of menus and points to a family with three screaming children.
“Pass these out,” he instructs.
“But I have to go back up. I’m watching CeCe and Nai Nai,” I protest, my head swimming as another party of five trips past me.
Dad is already weaving through the crowds to reach the kitchen. “Ten minutes.” He turns to look at me. “So your restaurant will be successful.”
I don’t miss his slipup. Your restaurant. Not his, not Mom’s.
Janice, one of the teen waiters roped into working because her uncle is a line cook, thwacks my elbow. “Your dad’s in full boss mode today,” she chuckles.
I groan. “Scale of one to five. Five being the worst.”
“One hundred. And it’s not even noon.”
