This Time It’s Real

Dear Eliza,

I hope this email finds you well!

My name is Sarah Diaz. I had the tremendous pleasure of reading your viral essay “Love and Other Small, Sacred Things” last night, and I found myself extremely moved by your love story (a rare thing for a cynic like me). At times I laughed aloud; at other times I wanted to weep, in the best kind of way. All of this is to say that I think you have real potential, and I’d love to offer you an internship opportunity with us here at Craneswift. This will be a paid position, for a total duration of six months, and I’d be most pleased to write you a letter of recommendation at the end of it, should you choose to accept …

I read over the email for what must be the hundredth time on the car ride home, my breath caught in my throat.

Craneswift.

I’m scared that if I exhale, the words will dissolve. That the people at Craneswift will send me another email, telling me it was a huge mistake, that they’ve read over my essay again and realized their judgment was wrong.

Because this—this is everything I’ve ever wanted. I mean, I didn’t even know I wanted it, since I never would’ve dared dream of getting to intern at Craneswift. The publication behind some of the most successful writers in the world.

And Sarah Diaz is one of the best writers they have. Maybe one of the best writers I know. I have a whole notebook filled with annotated quotes from her published essays and articles alone, carried it with me from city to city. Two years ago, she’d offered up a thirty-minute writing consultation for some kind of auction, and the highest bidder had paid over five grand for it. That’s how badly most aspiring journalists crave her feedback.

If she really wants me to work for her—to work with her—then how could I say no?

But what am I going to do about my made-up relationship if I say yes?

“Jie, why are people at school saying you have a boyfriend?”

My head snaps up.

Emily is watching me curiously from the other side of the back seat. It’s only the two of us in the car right now, plus Li Shushu, who’s busy listening to his favorite Peking opera radio station.

Thank god. I’m not sure what I would say if Ma or Ba were here.

“I don’t know,” I tell her, attempting to laugh it off as a joke. “Don’t listen to them.”

“But do you have a boyfriend?” Emily presses, eyes wide.

“That—that’s none of your business.”

Wrong thing to say. Emily loosens her seat belt and edges closer toward me, despite my protests.

“It is so my business,” she says, drawing herself up to look taller, more important. “I’m your sister. You have to tell me.”

“You’re only a kid.”

She shoots me an indignant look. “I’m ten years old.”

I snort despite myself. “My point stands. And also, you’re nine.”

“I’ll be turning ten in less than half a year,” she argues, her voice bordering on a whine. “It’s the same thing.”

“Still doesn’t change the fact that I’m older than you.”

She goes silent at that, but I know the conversation isn’t over. She’s just taking her time to think up a good counterargument; we’re both like Ma in that way.

I’m thinking too—thinking about how I should handle this, what story I should feed her. The good news is that Emily isn’t allowed to use social media until she turns thirteen, so she can’t know the details of my essay. But people at school will continue to talk …

I lean back against the soft leather seat and close my eyes. I can feel a stress migraine forming.

When I open my eyes again, Emily is taking out a packet of matcha-flavored Pocky from her schoolbag, a very triumphant expression on her face.

“What?” I say.

“Nothing.” But she’s smiling now. A dangerous sign. “It’s just that … you might not have to tell me, but you’d have to tell Ma and Ba, right?”

My pulse jumps. “Emily—don’t you dare …”

“Then just answer my question,” she insists, ripping the packet open. “I’ll keep it a secret. Cross my heart.”

I clench my jaw, weighing out my next move. I essentially have two choices: bribery or blackmail. Then my gaze lands on the Pocky sticks in her hand.

Perfect.

“I’ll explain when I’m ready,” I say. She opens her mouth to argue, but I continue, louder. “Until then, you have to promise not to speak a word about this at home. I’ll buy you ten packets of Pocky if you do.”

She falters, mouth still half-open. If there’s anything Emily’s willing to make a compromise for, it’s food.

“Fine,” she bites out eventually, and I let loose a small, silent sigh of relief. At least that’s one less thing to worry about for now. Then Emily crosses her arms over her chest, jutting her chin forward. “But I want fifteen packets, and I want the cookies-and-cream-flavored ones too.”

I frown. “You’re getting thirteen. Cookies-and-cream only if they’re available, plain chocolate if not. And that’s final.”

It’s not until I see the happy gleam in her eyes that I realize she was planning this all along—that she probably only wanted twelve or thirteen packets in the first place. I’m going to have to be more careful around her when she gets older. She’s already picking up on some of Ma’s negotiation tactics.

Unsure whether to be annoyed or impressed, I hold out my palm.

“Um, are you going for a handshake?” Emily asks.

“No. I’m asking for a Pocky; I barely had lunch.” On cue, my stomach grumbles. As good as the roujiamos were, I only had a few bites in the end. After I received Sarah Diaz’s email, I was too busy freaking out to eat anything else. I mean, the opportunity could change the course of my whole career—my whole life. Just thinking about it now makes me a little dizzy.

“That’s not my fault,” Emily protests, holding the snack packet close to her chest. But after a beat, she grudgingly hands me three Pocky sticks.

“Thanks, kid.” I grin, and she pulls a face at me. She hates it when people call her that.

We’re both quiet for the rest of the drive, Emily because she’s eating, and me because I’m trying to draft a reply to Craneswift. After about a dozen attempts, I end up sliding my phone back into my pocket, email unsent.

I don’t know what to say. That’s the problem. I don’t even know what the internship itself would entail, what the consequences will be if my story is anything but airtight.

All I know is that I need a proper plan—and soon.

•    •    •

I spend the rest of the afternoon trying to formulate a plan while completing my math homework, and the only things I end up with are a bunch of most definitely incorrect answers and a worsening headache.

So after dinner, I decide to give myself a break and join my family in the living room.

This is our routine: At around nine o’clock every night, the four of us huddle together on the couch with a bowl of cut fruit or roasted sunflower seeds, and watch one episode of a C-drama.

“So,” I say as I get comfortable, draping a thin blanket over my legs. “Whose turn is it to choose?”

Emily beams. “Mine.”

Ma sighs from beside me. “You’re going to pick something with a xiao xian rou as the lead, aren’t you?”

Xiao xian rou is one of those trendy terms I learned only after we moved back to Beijing. It literally means “little fresh meat,” which I realize sounds somewhat carnivorous, but it’s used to describe most attractive male celebrities in their teens or early twenties.

“What do you think?” Emily says, her smile widening. Then, seeing Ma’s expression of relative despair, she adds, “Don’t worry, Ma. You’ll get your pick next time.”

“When will it be my turn?” Ba grumbles, rubbing his eyes. “You know how I feel about those romance dramas; why do people keep crashing into each other? And why do the female leads keep telling themselves to jiayou? Nobody talks like that.”

“It was your turn last time,” I remind him. “Remember that torture scene with the blood and guts everywhere? Emily complained about not being able to fall asleep afterward?”

Ba blinks, then sinks back in his seat. “There was hardly any blood—”

Emily and I burst into loud protests at the same time.

“Oh my god, Ba, there was so much blood—”

“The floors were bright red—”

“You couldn’t even see the actor’s face—”

“My eyes were bleeding just watching it—”

“And everyone died at the end.”

“Okay, okay,” Ba says hastily, exchanging a swift, amused look with Ma. “You girls choose.”

Emily lifts her chin and sniffs. “As we should.”

We have something of a system going, since all our tastes are so different: Ba loves those old war dramas where all anyone ever does is scream “traitor” at the top of their lungs and get hit by an unnecessary amount of bullets in slow motion; Ma prefers her business dramas, even though she spends half the time scoffing and yelling things like “That’s not how CMPs work!” at the screen; and Emily and I will watch pretty much any idol romance featuring a good-looking lead.

I have a theory that Ma secretly likes her idol romances as much as we do, though. I made everyone watch The Untamed when it was my turn, and she seemed more invested in the characters than any of us.

Emily snatches the remote and starts streaming this cute campus romance drama. Ba’s eyes glaze over a little, and Ma grumbles something about how all the opening credits look the same these days, but I lean closer to the TV. This is exactly what I need right now: pure, joyful escapism.

We’re about two minutes into the first scene (which, predictably, involves the protagonist and love interest crashing into each other in the hallway and getting their phones mixed up) when I realize the male lead looks familiar.

Very familiar.

He has the same sharp jaw, the same dark gaze and perfectly rumpled raven-black hair. The same elegant cheekbones and tall nose. And even though his character’s posture is different—for once, he’s not slouching or leaning on anything—his expression, the way he’s looking at the protagonist with that disarming mixture of exasperation and amusement, is all too familiar as well.

Caz Song.

I’m watching one of Caz Song’s dramas.

Well. So much for escapism.

I try to act normal about this revelation—I mean, far more surprising things have happened today—but I can’t describe how weird it feels to see one of your classmates flirting with some famous actress on the TV screen in your own living room. It somehow feels like an invasion of privacy, though I’m not sure if it’s his privacy or mine. Maybe both.

“He’s hot,” Emily comments as the camera zooms in on Caz’s eyes, then on his full, naturally pouted lips.

I almost choke. “Don’t—don’t say things like that, Emily.”

“What? He is.” Emily turns to Ma for support. “Isn’t he good-looking, Ma?”

Ma studies the screen carefully. “Mm. Better than most of the xiao xian rous I’ve seen.” Then, catching Ba’s eye across the couch, she adds with emphasis, “But obviously your father is the best-looking guy out there.”

“Of course I am,” Ba says.

Emily snorts. “Su-ure.”

“Well, I don’t think he’s that hot,” I grumble, pulling my blanket up to my chin. On-screen Caz is stroking the girl’s cheek now with one thumb, and I can feel my own cheeks growing warm. “It’s probably just makeup. And filters.”

I know for a fact that it isn’t makeup or filters, because Caz looks like that every time I see him at school, but there’s no way I’m admitting he’s attractive out loud, to my family.

“Your standards are way too high, Jie,” Emily says.

“She’s right,” Ma agrees, patting my knee. “You’ll never find a boyfriend if you don’t even want someone like him.”

Emily opens her mouth as if to make a correction, and my heart almost stops. But then she winks at me and mimes zipping her lips shut. I read somewhere that sisters develop their own kind of telepathy, which must be true, because I’m one hundred percent sure I know what silent message Emily is sending me: Remember the Pocky.

Of course I remember, I send back with a glare. Just keep quiet.

Got it, she replies. By the way, can you get me some water?

I roll my eyes, but I get up and pour everyone a glass of warm water from the kettle, then cut up a mango just to be nice. As I sit back down, I can’t help reading over Sarah Diaz’s email on my phone again. It’s still there, still real, tangible evidence that Craneswift wants me to work for them—but also that I can’t possibly keep up my lie on my own. My eyes fasten on one of the internship requirements:

It would be wonderful if your posts could share more details about your relationship, and provide photos of you two together …

Where the hell am I supposed to get photos? Do I hire someone from those dodgy rent-a-boyfriend sites? Photoshop some random guy into a selfie? But no, neither option sounds reliable. And with how fast the internet moves, I’m pretty sure everyone would find out the truth within a day. It has to be somebody I actually know, somebody convincing …

“Jie, are you even watching?” Emily calls.

“Huh? Oh—yeah. Of course.” I snap my head up just in time to see on-screen Caz Song invite the female lead onto the back of his motorcycle. As I watch the two of them ride through the city, the artificial sunlight moving over them, I’m struck by an idea.

A ridiculous, absolutely laughable idea. An idea that might complicate everything further.

But an idea that might just work.

•    •    •

Later that evening, when everyone’s asleep, I turn on my laptop. Suck in a deep breath. Then, feeling weirdly self-conscious and almost nervous for some reason, I search “Caz Song” on Baidu.

The results come up at once.

There are even more relevant articles and interviews than I expected, because—to my slight dismay—Caz Song is somehow even more popular than I expected. He has over five million followers on his official Weibo account alone, a ridiculous number of fan pages declaring their undying love for him, and a whole series of professional photo shoots and special campaign shots with sponsored brands. In each one, he’s so beautiful he looks fake. It’s almost offensive how perfect he is, a teen fantasy made flesh.

There’s something bizarre about the idea that this one guy in my class, who I see around the lockers and cafeteria and suffer through math pop quizzes with every day, is known by millions of people across the country. Not only known, but liked. Adored to the extent that someone left a six-paragraph comment under a video of him, asking him to sleep well and stay hydrated and take care of his houseplants.

Then I remember that my writing has been viewed by millions of people too, that all those people now know me by extension, and my head just about implodes. Which brings me back to why I’m doing this in the first place.

Why I need to do this.

Before I can lose my nerve, I start with the basics: Caz’s Baike page.

It’s basically the equivalent of Wikipedia, in that it’ll give you all the biographical information you want on a famous person, divided up into nice, neat categories.

Some of the stuff I’ve already been made to know against my will, just from overheard conversations at school. Like how he was born in America but moved to Beijing when he was nine; or how his parents are both doctors, both originally from a tiny town in South China; or how he’s professionally trained in martial arts, about ten different instruments, horse riding, and archery.

But there are other details listed too, important things I’ve definitely missed—

Like the fact that he lives in my compound.

My heart leaps. It’s perfect. It’s almost too perfect, as though designed by fate, or maybe God himself, if God were interested in the petty drama of awkward teenagers.

I scroll further, faster, moving on to the more gossipy, fan-made sites.

The most viewed article dates back to only a couple weeks ago. Apparently, there’d been something of a scandal at a huge awards ceremony, all because Caz Song had failed to help an older, well-respected actress into her seat. The comment section below is, of course, a war zone. Some are so enraged by his behavior one would think he had shoved the actress down the stage and laughed in her face or something. I’m sorry, but I simply can’t stand him any longer, one user wrote. I used to imagine he’d be the thoughtful, chivalrous, perfect-boyfriend type, but clearly he doesn’t have even the most basic manners. Goodbye, Caz. It was good while it lasted. Other hard-core fans have jumped out to defend him: But maybe he didn’t see her! Or: If he’d helped her, all the antis would’ve blamed him for not respecting her personal space. There’s literally no winning.

The whole thing’s absurd, yet what’s wilder is that a massive cosmetics brand actually dropped Caz Song after the backlash, claiming that all their ambassadors ought to be “thoughtful” and “sensitive” and “courteous,” and demanding an explanation for his behavior. Someone’s even made a video analyzing the situation, which I click on. It’s followed by another video, titled “All of Caz Song’s Interviews Pt. 1” …

I don’t notice how deep I’ve wandered down this particular rabbit hole until I find myself watching a twenty-minute, fan-edited video compilation of Caz Song drinking water.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter to myself, promptly slamming my laptop shut. “I’m being ridiculous.”

For a while, I just sit there in my own silence, listening to the apartment breathing around me. The birds singing in the night’s distance. The dull tangle of piano chords drifting from some floors down below, by some neighbor I know of but have never met before.

Then I grab my phone. Read over the email I’ve pretty much etched into my brain by now.

I had the tremendous pleasure of reading your viral essay “Love and Other Small, Sacred Things” last night, and I found myself extremely moved …

And resolve hardens inside me. I open my laptop again and pull up a blank PowerPoint, suddenly grateful for all the times Ma asked me to look over her work before delivering a presentation to her company. This shouldn’t be too different from that.

In big, bold letters, I type out the first slide: A Strategic, Mutually Beneficial and Romantically Oriented Alliance to Help Further Our Respective Careers.