But the attitude is different in the room. Since my convenient laryngitis means I can’t talk, I listen in on the conversations. Every single person there has an expectation that they’ll be heard. They all take up space. I watch a man adjust his lapels before he moves across the room and how the servers melt out of his way without a word.
This is why Sam’s not sure about me. I look like Fangli but I haven’t learned how to command a room like she does. Because of her fame, Fangli—even without the diamonds—is the cynosure of most occasions. Mom told me being the center of attention was to be avoided. Now it’s my job to make attention my bitch.
Mei didn’t address that in particular, but Sam the Master is here to learn from.
Keeping my face friendly but aloof, I watch him and have a tiny epiphany. It’s not what he or the rest of the crowd are saying. It’s how they act. I’m at the zoo watching the animals jostle for dominance and Sam is at the apex. He decides who to speak to. He never approaches; they come to him.
But they look at me as if waiting for me to move first. When we do get closer, they get a little too in my space. Is it because they sense a lack of strength in me? Would they do the same to the real Fangli?
I can’t afford self-doubt right now. Luckily, escape comes in the form of the gentle nudge from Sam that I know is my cue to start actively appreciating art. To my pleasure, what I see is far more accessible than Fangli’s collection, and I move to a mannequin surrounded by barbed wire decorated with twinkling shards of mirror. The artist has written “mine” in tiny letters on every centimeter of the mannequin’s skin in a hundred different languages. A bloodred poppy rises from her head. I know this isn’t Fangli’s style—she doesn’t do installations—but I walk around so I can see it at all angles and read the statement.
Around me, the collectors are making utterly impenetrable comments. It’s like listening to a code designed to weed out the culturally ignorant. Which is me, but only Sam and I know that.
As I lean in to see better, a man across the room squints at me. I do my best to control my breathing but Sam turns swiftly. “What?” he murmurs, eyes trained on my face.
“Nothing.” I channel a sloth, moving unhurriedly to avoid the attention of the potential predator. It’s hard because almost the entire room has one eye on us as if monitoring our location at all times. The stress of trying to emulate Fangli’s poise is in part drowned by a more acute worry: Ex-manager Todd is in the room across from me.
I shouldn’t be surprised; I’ve heard him brag about his father’s art collection. He’s with a blond woman who wears a smile that never wavers and I wonder if she knows, or cares, what kind of a man he is. I bend in to Sam and he curves down over me like a hero from his period dramas. “How long do we need to stay?” I whisper.
“At least another hour.”
“Can we go to a new room? Is this the only one?”
In response, he puts his hand on the bare skin of my back and guides me through a door I hadn’t noticed into another exhibit. I’m so disturbed I barely even clock the warm comfort his touch gives me. We might not be friends, but in this moment, he’s the one in my corner. To my relief, the new room is a video installation with the light dimmed until it’s almost difficult to see. The cave-like ambiance deepens when I stand next to the wall and Sam comes close as if guarding me.
“Gracie,” he murmurs. “Tell me what’s happening.”
He used my name, my real name. When I don’t answer, he draws me in and tilts my chin up to analyze my face. “Do you need to leave? We can.”
I shake my head and he frowns. “You’re sure?”
Simply knowing he’s there is enough to calm me since I don’t think Todd will try to approach me with another man there.
The truth comes crashing down on me. I’m not Gracie. I’m Wei Fangli right now and Todd has no power over me. He can’t touch me. He can’t fire me and he can’t intimidate me without having Sam or the organizers taking action. I’m protected because I’m now a famous person of value. I’m seen here.
I toss my head and Sam shifts away as if giving me space. “I’m good,” I say.
He looks at me for a long moment, then nods. “I trust you to tell me if you need out.”
Sam follows as I examine the videos, all featuring Anpanman, the Japanese superhero. The artist has put the character, who has a pastry for a head, in food-based situations such as cooking shows and grocery stores. His usually cheerful face looks by turns worried and menacing.