Page 57 of Never Thought I'd End Up Here
“Leah. Do you have a moment?”
I glance back over my shoulder, squinting past the tides of people to find Wang Laoshi waving me forward. There’s a woman I’ve never seen before standing next to him—too old to be a student, too young to be a teacher, one of those bulky, professional cameras hanging around her neck. Her makeup is so perfect that it looks photoshopped, and when she smiles at me, I can’t help noticing how well her shade of lipstick suits her complexion. It’s a dark cherry tint, no gloss, sophisticated but not overdramatic.
“This is Pei Jie,” Wang Laoshi introduces us, raising his voice to be heard above the crowds. “She’s a photographer for Sima Studio. She noticed you earlier and is offering to take a few free photos of you as part of a promotional campaign they’re doing—we would also be able to use them at Jiu Yin He to promote our Journey to the East program for future students.” He clears his throat. “Now, it’s entirely up to you whether you agree to it or not. I thought it might be a worthwhile experience, and you should have enough time before we gather for tonight’s show, but I know not everyone enjoys—or is used to—getting their photo taken …”
I almost laugh at the irony.If only you knew how many photos I’ve had taken of me.
“You’re very pretty,” Pei Jie tells me in Chinese. She goes on to gush about something I can’t entirely understand, but I hear the wordsmodel, andperfect, andbeautiful, and it’s like she’s plucked them straight out of my old dreams for the future. But they’reolddreams for a reason. Abandoned, expired. Once upon a time, I would’ve jumped at this kind of opportunity to prove myself. Now, though, I hesitate.
Before I can respond, Pei Jie holds out her camera and starts scrolling through the photos she’s taken in the past. There are dozens of different styles—girls reclining on velvet couches in crimson qipaos, their lips painted crimson to match; smiling sweetly and hugging bouquets of flowers to their chests; leaning, bored, against a brick wall with lollipops in their mouths, their plaid skirts and button-down shirts designed for an alternate world where school uniforms are actually meant to be flattering; posing against an ice-blue backdrop in a stunning ball gown, pearls spilling down the sides. And though the girls themselves are all completely different from one another, she manages to capture their best features.
“Do you want to?” Cyrus asks me quietly, stepping closer to my side. “Don’t feel like you have to say yes.”
I squeeze his hand, my gratitude too deep to be arranged into words. Even though he couldn’t possibly know the real reason for my reluctance, he still sensed it. “I think it’s fine,” I tell him. “I want to give it a try.”
He scans my face for another beat. “Are you sure?”
I nod and turn to Pei Jie. “Okay, let’s do it.”
“Amazing. I promise it’ll be quick—these photos are going to turn outgreat.” She starts to usher me forward down the street, waving for Cyrus to follow. “Your boyfriend can watch,” she adds, and then, in a whisper just to me, like we’re gossiping at the back of a classroom: “Zhen shi ge shuaige ya.” Thanks to my exchange with the lettuce seller, I understand the word forhandsomein an instant.
“I guess heishandsome,” I allow, neither confirming nor denying theboyfriendcomment.
She nods discreetly to the girls in the crowd as they pass Cyrus, many of them doing double takes or elbowing their friends when their eyes land on his face. “You often see girls who are much prettier than their boyfriends, but he’s the perfect fit for you.”
I wonder what she’d say if she saw the girl I was before walking on the street next to him. If she’d still think we were a perfect fit, or if she’d assume, like my classmates had, that I was the one obsessed with him and he was only tolerating my presence.
We turn the corner near a cluster of shops selling jade pendants and grilled squid. Then she guides me down a short flight of stairs, through a somewhat sketchy, dimly lit corridor that opens up to the cornflower-blue walls of a makeup studio. It’s instantly familiar to me: the clothing racks bursting with satin and tulle and silk, the vanity mirrors set up in rows of three, the eyebrow pencils and lipstick-smeared cotton swabs lying out on dressing tables, the dolled-up girls assessing their glossy reflections with varying degrees of satisfaction and scrutiny.
“Sit here,” Pei Jie says, pulling me toward the empty table in the middle. She yells something to one of the makeup artists, who’s testing out brushes on her wrist, then pats my shoulder. In the mirror, I lock eyes with Cyrus, who stands patiently off to the side, hands in his pockets. He offers me a small, encouraging smile, like he can detect the shakiness spreading through my muscles, and I breathe in. Remind myself that it won’t be the same as last time. If I need to, I can always leave.
“Have you ever tried on traditional clothing before?” Pei Jie asks. “I think it would look incredible on you; your features are so well suited for it.”
I don’t know how to answer her, if what I had worn for that awful photo shoot would even count. The memory rattles against the back of my skull like a monster in a closet, flashes of white-hot lights and bloodred tassels, the sick feeling pooling in my stomach. I draw in another tight breath. Shake my head.
“Well, now is the perfect chance.” Pei Jie waves at another woman and points to an elaborate set of scarlet-and-gold robes hanging over the dressing room door. “Prepare to be amazed,” she says.
***
Shortly after I made up my mind to turn pretty, I fell down the rabbit hole of makeover videos.
It was the closest thing to love at first sight I’ve ever experienced. I would sit cross-legged in my bedroom, the stuffed orange giraffe my mom had brought back from a business trip for me squashed against my stomach, and watch every makeover video I could find on the internet. I wasn’t just obsessed with seeing the results, which filled me with the same sense of wonder and awe as pulling back the window shades just in time to catch a brilliant sunset, but the process itself. How a few swipes of mascara, a flattering dress, and some nice hair extensions could transform a person into a completely new version of themselves. The girls were already beautiful at the start, but by the end of the video, you could tell that they felt it too.
That was the feeling I chased in the first few photo shoots I did. I wanted to be astonished by my reflection in the mirror, to see myself in a new way. I wanted to be completely, irrefutably happy with how I looked, even though it seemed an impossible task: You stare at your own face long enough and you’ll inevitably find something to hate about it.
But for every occasion where modeling succeeded in making me feel beautiful, radiant, valued, like the girls in the makeover videos, there were a dozen more occasions where it made me feel like I was nothing. I soon learned to lower my expectations, to brace myself for the moment the makeup artist stepped back, prepare for the possibility that I would have to redo my eyeliner myself because they weren’t sure how to work with the shape.
I brace myself now as I slowly open my eyes, the shadows from my false lashes skimming the very edges of my vision. I had been too nervous to look while the makeup artist brushed my face with powders and slid pin after pin into my hair, but I feel my chest expand, my jaw releasing its grip as I blink and blink again at the person in the mirror.
“You like it?” Pei Jie asks.
I nod fast, the amber beads in my headpiece rattling like music. I’ve never looked this way before, but I also look more like myself than I ever have in the past; the tiny gems glued below my lash line make my eyes that much brighter, more alive, the rose blush dusted along my nose and cheekbones blending naturally into my skin, the vermilion tint enhancing the bow shape of my lips. It’s makeup that doesn’t try to alter my features or hide them or exaggerate them to near-satirical proportions. And suddenly there’s an embarrassing knot in my throat, delight and gratitude and raw relief at being seen, and I have to swallow hard to speak. “What do you think?” I ask Cyrus, standing up and twirling before him, the fabric of my robes swishing past my ankles.
He doesn’t reply. He’s too busy staring, his eyes wide and transfixed, like he’s not sure I’m real.
“I think you’ve left him speechless,” Pei Jie says to me, laughing.
Cyrus flushes, and takes a tentative step closer. “You’re incredible,” he breathes.
