Tara’s response arrives almost immediately.
Thanks,
she writes.
A fact-checker will contact you ASAP. This will run next Thursday.
I lean back in my chair, eyes drooping with exhaustion, heart thumping with excitement. It’s late, I should sleep, a whole weekend’s worth of tardy
Beijing NOW
articles await me. But…I’m going to be in the
New York Tribune!
Me, Isabelle Lee! I want to feel the fizz of champagne on my tongue, crank up my iPod and dance around the apartment, or at least talk to my best friend. I dial Julia in New York, but after several rings her line goes to voice mail. I imagine her at lunch with an editor, enduring three courses and a dry sprinkling of small talk.
I glance at the clock: 2:00
A.M
. Too late to call anyone else. Only Jeff would be awake and…oh, Jeff. I’ve been so busy this week I haven’t had time to think about him, much less apologize for my careless text dump. Geraldine said he was furious with me, and I can’t blame him. Now, I stare at my empty bed, overcome with guilt. What if he’s alone and depressed, still wounded by my careless text breakup? I pick up the phone only to put it down again. Calling him isn’t the answer.
I loosen my hair from its ponytail, pull on a pair of pajamas,
slip between the clean sheets, and close my eyes. Sleep comes eventually, filled with dreams of Max Zhang’s crisp voice as he directs a new movie. Jeff stars as a German shepherd, watchful and possessive, with a pointy muzzle. When he tries to get too close to the camera, someone dressed as a St. Bernard leads him away. Upon closer inspection, it’s Charlie, his eyes peering out large and mournful from behind a furry mask.
T
hursday. Gray morning light shines weakly through my bedroom curtains. Gosh, it is early. Can’t say I’ve been up this early since…well, since that morning I needed to sneak Jeff out of the apartment. I bet Claire’s been up for hours, simultaneously checking her BlackBerry, calling New York, and practicing her downward dog. Anyway, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t be up this early. Catching the worm. I leap out of bed to log in to my computer, checking the Internet first thing, just as I always do. Today’s no different. Okay, here we go,
New York Tribune
website…arts page…movie section…where is it, where is it…
It’s not there.
A
t work, I sip from a mug of weirdly acidic coffee that only makes my stomach churn. Why, oh why, did I mention the article to Ed? He just bellowed across the newsroom, asking me if it’s appeared, and I had to say no. Oh well, it’s still Wednesday evening in New York, only 9:00
P.M
. They probably haven’t uploaded Thursday’s stories.
A
lmost lunchtime, thank God. I check the
Trib
’s website one last time before Geraldine and I head out to the corner noodle
shop. Fresh burst of hope when a special section on Asian filmmakers appears on the
Trib
’s website. Followed by gasping punch in the stomach when I can’t find my story.
A
fter lunch. My eyes are starting to droop, encouraged by the huge bowl of starchy ramen in an ocean of salty broth I just slurped up at Mian Ai Mian. I inhale deeply in an approximation of yogic breathing while simultaneously checking the
Tribune
website. It’s still not there. It’s never going to be there.
O
utside, the hazy gray afternoon has darkened into pitch-black night. My thoughts feel as bitter as the scent of coal that lingers in the cold air. The article is really never going to appear. I’m going home where I can cry without Ed hovering over me. I know he’s worried about me, but his pity is almost harder to bear than his usual gruffness. Besides, I’m going to develop lockjaw if forced to maintain this calm expression any longer. And no, I do not want another motherfucking cup of tea! Or any more shots of vodka!
S
hit. Halfway home, I’m indulging in a few tears in the taxi, when I remember I’m supposed to meet Claire for dinner at S’ Silk Road. Ssss ssssilk road. Allegedly her favorite restaurant in Beijing. “You’ll like it, I promise,” she said. The last time I heard those words she’d dragged me to a ladies’ tea, which actually turned out to be an Amway recruiting session. “I thought we were at least free from Amway in China,” I whispered to her.
“I know,” she whispered back, equally horrified. Then, as we went around the circle introducing ourselves, she ducked out,
claiming a work emergency. For three hours I listened to Amway spiel, too mortified to leave.
Now, I brace myself for an evening Claire-style: tiny servings of carb-free food, lots of air-kissing, and not enough booze to wash it all down. Could this day get any worse?
I find Claire waiting outside the restaurant. “I’ve had the most wretched, wretched day,” she says, kissing my cheeks before fastening her eyes back on her BlackBerry. “The closing date for Axon’s takeover got moved up and I spent all morning scrambling to review the paperwork. Then my tailor Xiao Fang called to say she needed me for fittings
today
if I want my clothes to be done by the time I go to Gstaad. So I had to skip lunch, which doesn’t really matter because I’ve had absolutely no appetite all day—I must have caught a touch of food poisoning last night…I just hope it’s not salmonella. Jacqueline Yang got salmonella poisoning last year and they had to medevac her back to San Francisco. She was forced to move back in with her parents for six months! Can you imagine?”
“Mmm.” I’m sticking to monosyllables until that lump in my throat dissolves.
Inside, we climb a spidery staircase to the sleek dining room, all poured concrete floors, clean-lined furniture, and jewel tones. A young hostess jingles up to us, the tiny bells on her embroidered robes tinkling with each step.
“Isn’t her outfit wild?” says Claire as we follow her to a table. “It’s from the Miao minority, or maybe Dai…You know, one of the fifty-five ethnic groups that aren’t Han? They live in Yunnan…”
“Yunnan?” I croak. “I thought this was a Middle Eastern restaurant.”
“No, it’s Chinese.”
“Chinese food? You hate Chinese food.”
“Not all of it,” she protests. “It would be difficult to hate a cuisine that spans five thousand years, 1.3 billion people, 3.7 million square miles…Why, hello.” Claire stops suddenly in front of a table where a couple sits tucked into a narrow booth. When I see who it is, my skin prickles: Tina Chang. And Jeff.
Why here, why tonight? And…wait a second, why are they together? Oh shit, they’ve seen me. Too late to hide. I straighten my back and hope my eyes have lost their puffy redness. Claire nudges me.
“Hi there,” I say, forcing a smile to my face.
Tina leans into the table and looks up at me with a twinkle. “Oh, hello Isabelle. What a treat to see the Lee sisters out together. It’s like spotting a wild panda!”
“Well, seeing you and Jeff together is like catching two wild pandas mating,” Claire shoots back, smiling sweetly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tina threads her arm through Jeff’s, knocking the table and rattling the dishes. “We’re back together,” she says in a stage whisper.
“And the satellites aren’t even cold yet from Iz’s text messaging,” murmurs Claire.
“What?” says Tina sharply. “We’re both over the moon with happiness.”
I sneak a glance at Jeff, who is staring determinedly into the distance, a sullen expression darkening his handsome features. A pang of guilt shoots through me at his hurt and anger. I open my mouth to apologize but snap it shut at Tina’s possessive glare. Today is not the day to clear the air with Jeff. Not when I feel as if my heart might splinter, speared by disappointed ambition.
“Well, we shouldn’t interrupt your special evening any longer.” Claire turns away and I follow her.
“Iz!” Tina calls out before we can escape. “When’s that Max
Zhang piece going to run? His manager’s been bugging me about it.”
I freeze. Does she know? I open my mouth but I’m horribly afraid that sobs, not words, will emerge.
“Any day now!” says Claire, firmly leading me to a table on the other side of the room. I struggle to regain my composure as she confers with the waitress over the menu. “What was all that about? Are you okay?” she asks finally.
“I’b find,” I say through my stuffed nose.
“Really? Because you don’t seem fine. You didn’t even glance at the menu and you let me do all the ordering. You’re not upset about Jeff, are you? He’s definitely not worth it. Anyone who could be in a relationship with Tina Chang is one chopstick short of a pair, if you know what I mean.” She flaps a hand at me. “Besides, darling, you certainly showed him! Texting…” Her gaze is admiring. “You’re so innovative. I wish I could be that firm with Wang Wei.”
I shake my head. “It’s not Jeff.”
“Then what? Is it work? Did Ed fire you? Don’t worry, he’s all bluster. He doesn’t mean it.”
“It’s not Ed.”
Claire looks at me expectantly.
“I was supposed to have an article in the
New York Tribune
today, but it didn’t run,” I say as quickly as I can.
“The
Tribune
?” Claire clasps her hands together. “Oh, Iz, that’s so exciting!”
“It didn’t run,” I say dully. “I killed myself over it and it wasn’t good enough. It wasn’t any good.” I cover my face with my hands.
“Iz!” She leans forward and grabs my arm. “Pull yourself together. Anyone could see you! Besides, you don’t know why it
didn’t run. There could be a million reasons that have nothing to do with you.”
I close my eyes. “It was dumb of me to even try. Now everyone’s going to be disappointed. Not just me, but Max Zhang and—”
“Max Zhang? Wait a second, your thing on Max Zhang was for the
New York Tribune
?”
“Yes, but it doesn’t really matter who it was for. It sucked.”
“Actually, I thought it was a really nuanced, balanced profile. That story about his younger brother’s death was so raw, so tragic…You really drew together the connection between his personal life and his
oeuvre
.” She scrapes the French word over the back of her throat.
“Wait a second…You read it? How—”
“You left a copy on the kitchen counter. I like to read in the morning while I’m microwaving my oatmeal.”
“Well, thanks,” I shrug. “But it got spiked all the same.” I slump back and stare out the window at the blinking red lights as a line of cars inches its way through traffic.
“You should send it to some other magazines. Don’t just give up!” She leans forward with an enthusiastic gleam in her eye, and there is something about her perky confidence that sends me into a rage.
“That’s easy for you to say,” I say furiously. “You’ve always been perfect at everything—National Merit Scholar, law review, your firm’s youngest partner ever. I’m not like you. I’m not talented and bright and charming. I can’t just swan in to some magazine and expect great things to happen to me.”
“Are you kidding me?” Her voice rises in disbelief. “My whole life, ever since you were born, Mom and Dad have lavished attention on you. They let you do whatever you want. Go to NYU?
I
wanted to go to NYU. Get a job in magazines?
I
wanted to get
a job at a magazine. But no, I had to be the stable one. Go to law school. Set an example. I’m sick of setting a good example!”
Her words flash through me so hot and angry that I want to put up my hands to shield myself. “Mom and Dad didn’t hold a gun to your head and force you to become an attorney,” I snap.
“No,” she retorts, “they just told me they’d cut me off financially if I didn’t go to Yale.”
“Well, if you were a writer, I’m sure you’d be on staff at the
New Yorker
by now. You’d find a way to be the best, just like you do with everything else.”
“Do you think it’s been easy for me? You think I just snapped my fingers and became editor of the law review, or partner, or—or whatever? You think that’s all it took?” She crosses her arms. “Get real, Isabelle. I didn’t have anything handed to me on a silver platter. I
worked
. Hard work. That’s why I’m the best.”
“I worked my ass off on this article.”
“Yeah, well keep working. Writing is only part of it. Now you have to sell it.”
“You don’t know anything about journalism.”
“I know enough to tell you’re giving up. For God’s sake, for once in your life just stop. Stop. Stop being afraid of failure. No one cares if one of us is the good daughter and one of us is bad. Only you care.”
I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. All my life I’ve heard my parents’ friends whisper about us, differentiating us as the smart one and the funny one, the one who went to Yale and the one who didn’t. Could Claire be right? Could those comparisons have only been in my head? Surely she can’t be right.
Claire glances around the room and lowers her voice. “Look, the truth is, I don’t totally mind being an attorney. I’m good at
arguing. And it keeps me in Manolos.” She laughs bitterly. “But you. You’re not cut out for law school—”
“Thanks a lot.”
“I’m not saying this to offend you. You’d make a terrible attorney. But you’d be a great writer. You
are
a great writer.”
The waitress arrives to set down the plates of food, but I’m too stunned by Claire’s words to lift my chopsticks. “I didn’t know that Mom and Dad—”
“Please. Let’s not get all messy and emotional.” Claire turns back into her polite and proper self, whisking away her feelings with a snap of her starched napkin. “It happened. It’s over. I moved on. It took years of therapy for me to even think about it. I don’t need to rehash it now over dinner.”
As much as I want to probe her further, I know it’s no use. When Claire decides she’s done with an argument, she is done; she will not revisit it, no matter how much she is pushed. It’s probably why she’s such a good lawyer.
Instead, I turn to the food. Paper thin slices of ham, salty and raw-cured like prosciutto. Small white squares that look like tofu but are pleasantly chewy, like mozzarella.