Sam Yao, the Sexiest Man in the World （officially, as named by Celebrity magazine last year）， is sitting dourly in the seat next to me.
I’m in a car with Wei Fangli and Sam Yao. Even I know—through Mom’s magazines but whatever—that this is Chinese cinema’s golden dyad. And they want something from me.
“Why am I here?” I ask. I should probably be scared at this point, but there’s something about sitting in a luxurious SUV that takes off some of the edge. If I’d been stuffed into a white van or something, I’d be way more stressed.
“You know who we are?” Fangli asks.
“I know who you look like,” I say.
“I really am Wei Fangli.” She has an unexpected North American accent. “Would you like to make some money?”
I scoot back against the car seat. “Oh, wow. Right, this was not what I expected. I’m flattered and I am very pro–sex work but that’s not really my bag.”
Sam snorts. “You think we want to have sex with you?”
He’s clearly mocking me, but hearing him say the words sex with you is enough to send my imagination into overdrive.
“No?” When I manage to speak, I don’t even know the right answer. My work angst has been replaced by a new and unusual torment—being stupidly tongue-tied in the presence of fame.
Why did Fangli want me to get into the car?
Then she flashes me a photo on her phone and I see the reason. “This is you,” she says. It’s not a question.
The phone screen shows me ducking behind a muffin. “Possibly,” I say cautiously. I don’t know where this is going.
“This, too.”
This time I’m peeking from around the muffin and under the brim of my hat like I’m checking for ghosts, and there’s no point denying it. “Some guy took a bunch of photos.”
She points to the photo credit. “I know. They thought you were me, and social media is now wondering about my new bran diet. At least your hair is covered by the hat so I don’t have to worry about explaining a pixie cut.”
“I’m sorry.” Why am I apologizing for my own hair? “I mean, I was getting coffee. I didn’t tell him I was you.” Hopefully this reassures her that it wasn’t my intention to impersonate her.
Fangli laughs. “Of course not. His name is Mikey and he specializes in trying to get candid but embarrassing photos. The other paparazzi don’t respect him, but he makes a lot of money doing what he does and it got me thinking.”
Sam interrupts. “This is confidential and if you sell this to the media, you will regret it.”
I stare at him, totally nonplussed. “Is this an improv scene? Are you playing the over-the-top villain?”
“Think of how quickly we found you.”
Hot or not, he’s being a dick and I don’t like it. Not-Starstruck Gracie roars back and hip checks Nice Gracie out of the way. I glare at him with the pent-up anger I haven’t been able to release all day. “Screw you, buddy. I’m not the one asking for favors here, in case you haven’t noticed.”
This sparks a spirited argument between Fangli and Sam. I don’t speak Mandarin so the fight is indecipherable to me, and I take a moment to get my bearings. I am in a luxury vehicle with two actors, one of whom looks enough like me to be a little freaky.
Here I admit my secret shame. You know how there’s always a celebrity that you’ll blushingly deny you look like, but you secretly think you do look like, at least after a couple drinks when you’re looking in the bathroom mirror in dim light with your hair a certain way?
Once in a while, someone who knows Chinese cinema will mention that I resemble Wei Fangli, and on my supergood days, my spectacular days, from specific angles, I think maybe I do. It’s nice to get some external validation.
Fangli delivers what must be a devastating verbal blow because Sam slams back in the seat and crosses his arms as he very melodramatically gazes out the window. She stares at him and then turns to me.
“Sam is protective,” she explains.
What does that have to do with me? Suddenly suspicious, I examine the interior of the car. Maybe it’s not a reality show but some new humiliating game show where celebrities pick putzes off the street and offer them a hundred bucks to run around naked or drink slime.
“I want you to pretend to be me for two months.” She smiles as if this is an incredibly normal thing to request of a stranger.
“Me be you? You want me to act in a movie?” I try to keep cool, remembering the exhilaration of inhabiting a character when I acted in school plays. But it’s been a long time and I assume there are significant differences between acting in a college version of The Crucible and starring in a high-budget film.