Because Sam, to my utter surprise, has become invaluable. Whenever he’s not at the theater, we practice until it feels like second nature to turn to him with a smile and to see his affectionate look. Even if it’s not an act, I’m no longer so naive and desperate to see it for anything but what it is: support for a friend. He’s doing this for Fangli and her career. I’m only a tool. This hurts less than I thought it would, probably because now that I think about it, the idea of sweeping Sam Yao off his feet with my joblessness and lack of fame is so laughable.
It’s too bad that his new friendliness makes him more appealing. Not physically, because you can’t improve on perfection, but simply as a person. This Sam isn’t cold and distant but goofy and charming. He’s addicted to 1990s Brit pop and sang all of Oasis’s “Wonderwall” with me one evening to Fangli’s great delight, complete with overly emotive air guitar.
His jokes are terrible, like on the level of dad jokes, which is revealed when he sees me jotting down some notes. “Gracie, do you know why you shouldn’t write with a broken pencil?”
“What?” What’s he talking about?
“Because it’s pointless. Have you heard the one about the sheet of paper?”
“Sam, are you okay?”
“Actually, it’s pretty tearable.” With a beatific smile, he turns away, happy to have delivered two of the worst jokes in the world.
He’s a fucking amazing dancer, which I find out by accident one day when I try to figure out how to do a fad dance I saw on social media. He watched it through once and then repeated it flawlessly as I gaped at him.
He shrugged it off. “My mother says I have good bodily kinesthetic intelligence. From her, naturally.”
“There’s no way I can do that.”
“Sure you can. It’s all in the hips.”
Only after he spends a futile five minutes trying to teach me to do a body roll does he give up. Thank God, because if I had to watch him thrust his hips at me while tracing his hands down his distressingly toned chest one more time I would have exploded. He doesn’t notice the impact he’s having and sits on the couch. “What were you doing before trying to dance?”
“Watching The Pearl Lotus again.” I decided that it would be good to have another viewing now that I was a little more used to being Fangli.
“May I join you?” This Sam, too, is scrupulously polite compared to the old one.
“Sure, but you have to tell me the behind-the-scenes gossip.” I start the movie, then pause it. “Do you find it strange to watch yourself on-screen?”
“I never used to watch my own movies,” he says. “Do you want popcorn?”
“Yes.” He gets up to nuke a bag and I wait for him to continue. “Well?”
“Well, what?” Sam bends down to open a cabinet for bowls.
“Acting. Watching yourself. You never used to but you do now?”
“It’s an incredibly uncomfortable experience,” he says as sharp little pops come from the microwave. “Every scene can be improved but there it is, forever. My idiot expressions. How stupid I look in a costume. I couldn’t stand it for ages.”
“What changed?”
“My friend Chen pointed out that if I never see my own work, I can never improve. It made sense and it’s become easier.” The microwave dings and he grabs the bag, swearing when he opens it and the steam burns his hand. “That being said, it’s hard when I’m sitting with someone taking the mickey.”
“Taking the what?”
“It’s a term my tutor used. It means to make fun of someone.”
“I would never!” I’m affronted he thinks me that mean.
Sam brings over two bowls and hands me one. “A bit of a joke… I know you wouldn’t.”
We start the movie again, and a few minutes later, he pauses it. “Do you see that?”
I squint at the scene, which takes place in the throne room under a golden dragon with ruby eyes. “Is that a Starbucks cup?”
“No one would admit to leaving it there.”
“It was yours, wasn’t it?”
When he laughs, his whole face lights up with mischief. “That trended on social media for days. I couldn’t tell anyone. Too embarrassed.” Then he pats his pocket and pulls out his vibrating phone. His face hardens and he very decisively rejects the call.
He sees me looking. “My mother,” he says.
I do some rough mental calculations. “Isn’t it five in the morning or something in Beijing?”