Page 59 of Never Thought I'd End Up Here
So I take a deep breath, like I’m about to dive headfirst into the ocean, and continue, knowing as I do that it’s really a lost cause now. I might as well be offering him my heart on my palms, holding out hope he’ll be tender with it.
“It’s really twisted, but it’s like, the more worthless they make you feel, the more determined you are to prove your worth to them. I tried to take on all their criticism and change myself. They told me to tone my legs, so I did those stupid diets and threw myself into my workouts. They told me I had to grow my platform, so I made all these social media posts and obsessed over my numbers and wore myself out trying to keep up with the trends. But I still didn’t have that mainstream appeal they were after, and it took me forever to figure out what they actually meant bymainstream.”
Because it was also what the boys who dated me really wanted, even if they didn’t directly admit it. They’d whisper things like,You’re the first Asian girl I’ve ever been with, or,You’re so gorgeous—I can’t believe you’re Chinese, as if I was meant to feel special or grateful to be some kind of exception, and once their interest in me fizzled out, they would turn their attention back to the gorgeous blonde girls in our class. I looked nothing like them, and I never would.
“I regret it now,” I say bitterly, “but I did whatever I could to blend in. I copied their makeup style that wasn’t suited for me at all, and I never volunteered my Chinese name if I could help it. Even if I was never going to be mainstream, I—I just wanted to be closer to it. I felt like I had to, or else nobody would want me. Then all of a sudden, people were saying that it was trendy to be Asian. It wascool. I booked more jobs within a couple months than I had in a full year. And then they asked me to do a photo shoot for this magazine—I don’t know if you’ve heard ofAmalia—”
“The one with the hot-pink logo?” he asks. “I think I’ve seen it before.”
“That’s the one. It has a pretty good reputation, so obviously I said yes. I was genuinely excited going in; I thought that it was my moment. That I would become, like, a real, proper model after I did it, and everything would be worth it, because that’s how it goes in the movies, right?”
I don’t realize I’m tugging at my hair until I feel the pain prickling my scalp. I force my fingers back down to my side, my gut churning as the memories bubble up like acid. This is the part I’ve blocked out. The part I haven’t even let myself think about for too long.
“You don’t have to explain anymore,” Cyrus says softly.
“No, it’s okay.” And it really is. For once, I just want to be honest about all the ways it hurts. I could never have done that, before. When you sign up for this industry, you give up more than just your image and your name; you give up your ability to cry out to the people who are hurting you.
You’re told to put your head down. Stick it out. Grit your teeth until they break. Shut up and be grateful. Remember that you’re living out every girl’s dream, and nobody wants to hear about the nights you lie awake hurting, so hungry you could gnaw on your own hand. Because there’s a literal line of people waiting to replace you the moment you tire, and they’re all prettier than you, or prettier in a different way, and they won’t complain.
“From the second I walked into that photo shoot, everything felt off,” I say, finding my voice again. “The whole theme was meant to tie back to ancient China, but I was the only person there who was even Chinese. And then the backdrop just looked … It looked like someone with thevaguestidea of where Asia was on a map had thrown it together overnight, and the clothes they asked me to put on were supposed to be traditional robes, but they didn’t even remotely resemble what I was wearing earlier tonight, and the skirt was so much shorter than I was comfortable with, and I just felt so—exposed. In every way.”
“Leah, I’m sorry,” Cyrus tells me, his features tight, like he’s in pain thinking about it. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that. You shouldn’t have had to.”
When he pulls me to his chest, I feel something inside me fissure.
Everything I’ve been forcing back, every memory I’ve buried, all the hate I’ve harbored, the blame I bore.I’m so sorry you had to go through that.Here, at last—someone to understand and smooth my hair with his palm and hold me tight, tight enough that the memories retreat to the edges and I let myself sink into him. I never even told my parents exactly why I left. I didn’t tell anyone, because I thought, foolishly, that I could digest the shard of glass in my stomach given enough time.
“I just couldn’t do it anymore,” I whisper against his shirt. “The day after the photo shoot, I woke up and I thought:I can’t go on like this.And that was it. I couldn’t. I didn’t have the strength to.” I swallow. “Does that make me weak?”
After all, there was a certain narrative prevalent in the documentaries I watched: the rise and fall and inevitable rise again of the hero. The shocking pain of the fall itself was only relevant because it paved the way for their return to the spotlight, their grand victory. Everyone loves an underdog, so long as they ultimately win in the end. Otherwise, the story isn’t complete.
But for every singer or actor or model who’s achieved the kind of breathtaking ascent people dream of, how many have simply disappeared like me? Quit halfway through? Changed courses?
“No,” Cyrus says, his fingers threading through my hair. “No, you’re not weak at all. If something costs more than it’s worth, you let it go. If anybody dares make you feel bad for it, then screw them.”
I make a sound that’s part sob, part laugh, and it feels like a page turning. Like stepping out into the summer rain, letting the water run down my face and wash everything away.
My whole body feels lighter as we join the others in the stands for the night show.
Impression of Liu Sanjie: A Folk Song Story.It’s set entirely outside, the sheer scale of it shocking, unlike anything I’ve been to before. The stage is the Li River itself, the twelve peaks of the mountains behind it forming the natural backdrop. A soft breeze floats through the gathered crowds, people squishing into the front rows of the green-shrouded terraces, some already getting their cameras out.
There’s not much room left, but Cyrus shifts back, giving me more space to stretch out my legs. Which is a very nice, chivalrous thing to do, except I don’t really want any space from him.
“Are you cold?” he asks me.
“Not cold enough to need a jacket,” I say, and lean toward him, my head resting against the crook of his neck. “This is good.”
What I mean is: This is perfect. It feels like the grand finale—the last night of the trip, the last part of the competition. We just have to write an essay describing tonight’s show, and then it’ll all be over.
The night deepens, turning everything into shades of blue. The moonlight shines down over the water like a spotlight, and the mist rolls in over the river, and I’m mesmerized. It’s like the show is the world, or the world is a show; performers float in on rafts, seemingly descend from the sky dressed in silver and silk, the music rising like the hills.
It’s a love story, I soon realize. A girl sings to her lover from across the river, her movements in trained harmony with the dancers around her, her voice floating up to us, clear and sweet and luminous. Then the scene changes to gold, the performers rowing forward with hundreds of fishing lights.
I’m so transfixed that I don’t notice the whispers in the beginning. Not until they pick up over the music, spreading fast. Not until I hear my name.
“… god, what was she …”
“… thought she looked familiar …”
