Yellowface

about their career trajectories, just in case someone else shows them up. They hate even more to share details about their works in progress, terrified that someone will scoop their ideas and publish before they can. It’s a world of difference from my undergraduate days, when Athena and I would crowd around a library table late at night with our classmates, talking over metaphors and character development and plot twists until I couldn’t tell anymore where my stories ended and theirs began. Perhaps that’s the price of professional success: isolation from jealous peers. Perhaps, once writing becomes a matter of individual advancement, it’s impossible to share with anyone else. I stand by the window of Mimi’s perhaps longer than I ought to, watching wistfully as my students joke around. One of them—Skylar— glances up and almost sees me, but I duck my head down and stride quickly off toward the dorms. I’M A FEW MINUTES LATE TO CLASS THE NEXT MORNING. THE LINE AT the campus Starbucks was moving at a glacial pace, and I discovered why when I got to the counter, where a girl with pink hair and two nose piercings struggled for nearly five minutes to input my very simple order. When I finally reach the classroom, all my students are crowded around Skylar’s laptop, giggling. They don’t notice as I walk in. “Look,” says Skylar. “There’s even a sentence-by-sentence comparison of the first few paragraphs of both stories.” Christina leans forward. “Noooo.” “And there’s an NLP comparison—look, here.” I know without asking: they’ve found Adele Sparks-Sato’s blog report. “They think all of The Last Front is stolen, too,” says Johnson. “Look, the paragraph right after. There’s a quote from a former editorial assistant at Eden; she says it always felt fishy—” “You think she took it right out of her apartment? Like, the night she died?” “Oh my God,” says Skylar, delighted and horrified. “That’s diabolical.” “Do you think she killed her?” “Oh my God, don’t—” I clear my throat. “Good morning.” Their heads pop up. They look like startled rabbits. Skylar slams her laptop shut. I stride cheerfully to the front of the room, Starbucks in hand,

trying my hardest to keep from trembling. “How’s everyone doing?” I don’t know why I’m doing this oblivious bit. They all know I heard them. Their faces have turned a uniform scarlet; none of them will meet my eye. Skylar sits with her hand pressed against her mouth, exchanging panicked looks with a girl named Celeste. “That bad, huh?” I nod to Johnson. “How was your evening, Johnson? How’d the homework go?” He stammers out something about Dickens’s verbosity, which gives me time to decide how I want to handle this. There’s the honest route, which is to explain to them the details of the controversy, tell them the same thing I told my editors, and let them make up their own minds. It’ll be an object lesson in the social economy of publishing, in how social media distorts and inflames the truth. Maybe they’ll walk away with more respect for me. Or I could make them regret this. “Skylar?” My voice sounds more like a bark than I intended. Skylar flinches like she’s been shot. “It’s your story we’re critiquing today, isn’t it?” “I—uh, yeah.” “So where are your printouts?” Skylar blinks. “I mean, I emailed it to everyone.” I requested in the workshop guidelines that the subject of critique bring printed copies of their story to class. We’ve been using laptops since last year, though, and I know it’s unfair to rip Skylar for it, but it’s the first knock I can think of. “I made my expectations very clear in the handouts. Perhaps you don’t think the rules apply to you, Skylar, but that attitude won’t get you very far in publishing. Keep thinking you’re the exception, and you’ll end up like one of those creeps who corner editors in bathrooms and slide manuscripts under doors into hotel rooms because they don’t think the industry guidelines apply.” This wins me a couple of snickers. Skylar’s face goes white as paper. “Are you going to corner editors in bathrooms, Skylar?” “No,” she drawls, rolling her eyes. She’s trying to play it cool, but I can hear her voice quiver. “Obviously not.” “Good. So print your manuscript next time. That goes for all of you.” I take a long, satisfying sip of my Very Berry Hibiscus Refresher. My knees are still trembling, but this verbal putdown gives me a rush of hot, spiteful

confidence. “Well, let’s get to it. Rexy, what did you think of Skylar’s story?” Rexy swallows. “I, uh, liked it.” “On what grounds?” “Well, it’s interesting.” “‘Interesting’ is a word people use when they can’t think of anything better to say. Be specific, Rexy.” That sets the tone for the rest of the morning. I used to think that mean teachers were a special kind of monster, but it turns out that cruelty comes naturally. Also, it’s fun. Teenagers, after all, are unformed identities with undeveloped brains. No matter how clever they are, they still don’t know much about anything, and it’s easy to embarrass them for their ill-prepared remarks. Skylar gets the worst of it. Technically her story—a whodunnit set in San Francisco’s Chinatown, in which none of the witnesses will cooperate with the police because they have their own secrets and community codes of honor—is not bad. The writing is strong, the conceit is interesting, and there’s even a clever twist at the end that makes you reevaluate every previous word uttered by the characters. It’s very impressive for a high schooler. Still, her inexperience shows. Skylar’s exposition is clumsy in parts, she makes use of quite a few contrived coincidences to move the story along, and she hasn’t figured out how to toe the line between tense and histrionic dialogue. I could gently correct these tendencies while encouraging Skylar to think up the solutions herself. “And then, again, there’s a lawyer on the scene out of nowhere.” I tap the page. “Do lawyers grow on trees, Skylar? Maybe they have a spidey sense for marital discomfort?” Then: “Do Chloe and Christopher have a weird incest thing going on, or is that just how you’ve chosen to portray all of their sibling interactions?” Then: “Does every single Chinese person in this neighborhood know each other, or did you just find that convenient for the plot?” Then: “I wonder if there’s any better imagery you can use for sexual tension than literally biting into a strawberry.” Then: “‘She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.’ Really?” By the end of it I’ve convinced most of the class that Skylar’s story is horrible—whether they agree, or whether they’re scared of invoking my ire,

I don’t care. We’ve picked her voice and style to shreds. Her metaphors are unoriginal, her dialogue is wooden (at one point I even make Johnson and Celeste act out a scene, just to highlight how cringey it sounds out loud), her plot twists are all borrowed from readily recognizable pop-culture sources, and she overuses her em dashes and semicolons to the extreme. By the end of our session, Skylar is close to tears. She has stopped nodding, frowning, or reacting to any bits of criticism whatsoever. She merely stares out the window, lower lip trembling, fingers twisting the top page of her notebook into tiny pieces. I’ve won. It’s a pathetic victory, sure, but it’s better than sitting here and suffering their mocking glares. That hot, vicious satisfaction stays with me through the rest of the morning. I conclude the critique circle, assign homework, and watch them flee wordlessly out the door. I’ve only made things worse, I know. Now I’ll have to sit before their resentful, condescending faces for another week and a half. I’m sure that, behind the scenes, they’ll bitch about me endlessly until this workshop is over. I’m sure they’ll join the chorus of Juniper Song haters online. But I’ve at least made myself into a terror rather than a punch line, and for now, I’m all right with that. Once they’ve left the classroom, I pull out my phone and Google “Candice Lee Juniper Song Athena Liu.” Johnson’s words have been stuck in my mind all morning: There’s a quote from a former editorial assistant at Eden; she says it always felt fishy. My breath quickens with fear as the results load. What does Candice have on me? But the relevant article—another tiresome Adele Sparks-Sato hit piece —contains nothing new. Candice offers no damning evidence, no new shreds of proof that haven’t been overanalyzed to bits by the internet already. Just a vague quote that means nothing much at all. I close the article and scroll through her social media accounts. Candice’s Instagram is private; her Twitter has been inactive since last March. Her LinkedIn, however, announces she’s recently taken on a new job as an editorial assistant at a small press based in Oregon. My fear dissipates. No new developments, then. My line of careful deniability still holds, and Candice’s quote is just the vague finger-pointing of a jealous ex–publishing insider.

Also, Oregon? I can’t help but do some petty Googling. Candice’s new employer puts out maybe ten litfic titles a year, none of which I’ve ever heard of, and none of which have broken even a hundred reviews on Goodreads. Half of them aren’t even proper novels; they’re chapbooks. They can’t possibly be selling enough copies to stay afloat—she might as well be working at a vanity press. It’s a drastic step down from her former job at Eden. I doubt she’s even making a full-time salary. Well, at least there’s some cosmic justice in the world. It’s a tiny victory, but it’s the only thing just then that helps this rage in my chest cool down. PEGGY CHAN GIVES ME A RING LATER THAT AFTERNOON. “Several students complained about your behavior in workshop today,” she says. “And, June, based on some of the reports, I’m concerned—” “It was a heated workshop,” I say. “Skylar Zhao is a talented writer, but she doesn’t know how to take criticism. I wonder, actually, if this is the first time she’s had to confront the fact that her writing isn’t as wonderful as she thinks it is.” “You didn’t say anything untoward to the students?” “Not that I recall.” “A few of the students said it seemed you were bullying Skylar. June, we have a very strict antibullying policy in this workshop. There are things you can say to adults that you can’t say to high school students. They are fragile—” “Oh, they’re certainly fragile.” “If you’re available, June, I’d like you to come to the office—” “Actually, Peggy . . .” I pause, then sigh. A few possible explanations flash through my mind. Skylar is oversensitive, she’s making things up, she’s the one who provoked me in the first place, she’s turned the class against me. But then I take stock of the whole situation, and it’s astoundingly pathetic. I don’t need to engage in a she-said, she-said battle with a seventeen-year-old. I’m too big for this. “I think I’m going to have to leave,” I blurt. “Sorry, that’s probably not the news you were expecting. But my mother—I’ve just heard that she’s not doing so well—” “Oh, June. I am very sorry to hear that.” “—and she’s been asking if I can come visit, but I keep putting it off for work, and I thought, Well, she’s not always going to be around . . .” I trail

off, rather astounded by my brazen lie. My mother isn’t sick at all. She’s doing fine. “So perhaps it’s the stress of that situation that is affecting my conduct, and for that I truly apologize . . .” “I understand.” Peggy doesn’t seem the least bit suspicious. If anything, she sounds eager. Perhaps she, too, has been secretly hoping I would quit on my own. I egg her along. “I’m sorry to leave the class . . .” “Oh, we’ll figure it out. There are some local writers in the area. We’ll have to find a substitute for tomorrow, soI might ask Rachel from the office to step in . . .” She trails off. “Anyhow, we’ll deal with it. We’ll tell the class you had a family emergency. I’m sure they’ll be disappointed, but they’ll understand.” “Thank you, Peggy. That means a lot. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.” “You take care, June. I’m sorry again.” I hang up, then flop back onto my bed and groan in relief. That was agonizing, but at least I’m free. I once read somewhere that Asian people are so polite because they have this cultural concept of letting each other save face. They might be judging the shit out of you on the inside, but on the outside, at least, they’ll let you walk away with your pride intact.

Nineteen AS IT TURNS OUT, I DO GO TO SEE MY MOTHER. Mom lives in a suburb outside Philly—near enough to Boston that I can get on the Amtrak and be there by lunchtime the next day. I have to root around my phone for her street address—I haven’t been to the Philly house in years, and I never see Mom outside of our yearly Christmas and Thanksgiving gatherings at Rory’s. I’m sure this spur-of-the-moment visit is a product of vulnerability, motivated by fear and childlike regression. I’m also sure, past the initial hugs and tenderness, that I’ll regret coming at all; that once the “I’ve missed you” and “You look good!” chatter turns to the same overcontrolling, patronizing comments that have spiraled into blowout fights in the past, I’ll hop on the train and hurtle back to DC. Right now, though, I just want to be near someone who doesn’t hate me on principle. Mom’s waiting for me on the front porch when I pull up. I called a few hours ago to ask if I could come stay for a bit. She agreed without even asking what was going on. I wonder how much she knows; if she’s seen my name smeared all over the internet. “Hey, Junie.” She envelops me in a hug, and the touch alone makes my eyes sting with tears. No one’s hugged me in so long. “Is everything all right?” “Yeah, of course—I was teaching a workshop in Boston, and it’s just finished, soI thought I’d make a pit stop here beforeI head back home.” “Well, you’re always welcome here.” Mom turns, and I follow her into the house. She doesn’t ask how the workshop went. Her blatant disinterest

in anything that has to do with writing always stung when I was younger, but today, it’s a comfort. “Watch your step, though—sorry about the mess.” The path to the kitchen is covered in half-empty cardboard boxes; blankets, bunched-up newspapers, and towels are strewn across the tiles. “What’s going on?” “I’m just putting some of the clutter in storage—careful around those vases. The Realtor said it’ll look nicer without all this stuff in the way.” I pick my way around an array of white ceramic cats. “You’re selling the house?” “I’ve been getting it ready for a while,” says Mom. “I’m headed back to Melbourne. Wanted to be closer to my girls. Cheryl’s closing on a condo for me this week—there’s plenty of guest rooms, you’ll be able to visit. Rory didn’t tell you?” No, she didn’t. I’ve known that Mom has wanted to go back to Florida ever since Dad died, that Philadelphia was only ever a compromise because my grandparents lived close by, but I never connected that with the real possibility that we might not call this place home anymore. I suppose Rory never felt such a deep connection to this house, though. I was the one obsessed with the sycamore trees in the backyard, with hiding out among their roots and spinning stories long after Rory decided it was time to return to the real world. “Did you pack my room up yet?” “I’ve just gotten started,” says Mom. “I was going to put most of your things in storage, but why don’t you go see if there’s anything you want? Give me some time to wrap up this porcelain, and then we’ll meet back down here for dinner.” “I—oh, sure, okay.” I pause on the staircase beforeI go up. I keep waiting for Mom to ask me what’s going on, for her to intuit with her motherly senses that I’m deeply not all right. But she’s already turned back toward those stupid ceramic cats. MY NOTEBOOKS ARE RIGHT WHEREI LEFT THEM: STACKED AT THE TOP of my bookshelves in neat rows of five. They’re each labeled with my name, the year, my phone number, and a ten-dollar reward offer if returned to the owner. No Moleskines here—my notebooks were always those college￾ruled, black-and-white-splattered composition notebooks that you buy for

ninety-nine cents at Walmart while your parents are doing back-to-school shopping. My dream worlds. I pull them out and set them on the floor. I used to live my entire life out of these notebooks. They’re crammed with doodles I scribbled instead of listening during class; full-scale drawings I sketched out after school; half-finished scenes or story ideas or even fragments of lines of dialogue that came to me throughout the day. Nothing in these dream worlds ever became a fully formed product—I didn’t have the discipline or craft skills then to write a complete novel. They’re more like a smorgasbord of creative churning, half-formed doors to other worlds, worlds in which I lingered for hours when I didn’t want to be in my own. I flip through the pages, smiling. It’s cute to see how derivative my story ideas were of whatever fandoms I was in at the time. Sixth grade: my Twilight phase, and I was clearly infatuated with Alice Cullen becauseI kept describing a protagonist with the same gravity-defying pixie cut. Ninth grade: my emo phase, and everything was Evanescence and Linkin Park lyrics. By then I’d begun sketching out some gothic, futuristic dystopian cityscape where kids flew around on skateboards and everyone had floppy, skunk-tail bangs and arm warmers. I guess Ayn Rand was an influence at some point in tenth grade, because by then I was writing paragraphs on paragraphs about a male lead named Howard Sharp, who bowed to no one, who had an unassailable sense of pride, who was a “lone believer in truth in a world of lies.” I spend the rest of the afternoon going through those notebooks. I don’t notice the time slipping by until Mom calls upstairs asking if I want takeout for dinner, and it’s only then that I realize the sun has set. I’ve lost myself for hours in those worlds. I call down to Mom that takeout sounds fine. Then I root around for a cardboard box to load my notebooks into. I’ll bring them back to my apartment and let them linger in the closet, maybe take them out whenever I’m feeling particularly nostalgic. They won’t suit my current purposes— there’s nothing there that I could turn into a sellable manuscript now. But they’ll remind me, whenever I need it, that writing didn’t used to be so miserable. God, I miss my high school days, when I could flip my notebook open to an empty page and see possibility instead of frustration. When I took real

pleasure in stringing words and sentences together just to see how they sounded. When writing was an act of sheer imagination, of taking myself away somewhere else, of creating something that was only for me. I miss writing beforeI met Athena Liu. But enter professional publishing, and suddenly writing is a matter of professional jealousies, obscure marketing budgets, and advances that don’t measure up to those of your peers. Editors go in and mess around with your words, your vision. Marketing and publicity make you distill hundreds of pages of careful, nuanced reflection into cute, tweet-size talking points. Readers inflict their own expectations, not just on the story, but on your politics, your philosophy, your stance on all things ethical. You, not your writing, become the product—your looks, your wit, your quippy clapbacks and factional alignments with online beefs that no one in the real world gives a shit about. And once you’re writing for the market, it doesn’t matter what stories are burning inside you. It matters what audiences want to see, and no one cares about the inner musings of a plain, straight white girl from Philly. They want the new and exotic, the diverse, and if I want to stay afloat, that’s what I have to give them. MOM ORDERS DINNER FROM GREAT WALL, THE LOCAL CHINESE PLACE. “They’re new,” she informs me as I sit down. “Horrible service; I wouldn’t go back there in person. It took me three tries just to get some water. But delivery is fast, and I like their orange chicken.” She opens a carton of rice and sets it before me. “You like Chinese food, right?” I don’t have the heart to tell her that it was Rory who liked Chinese, and that Chinese food makes my stomach roil, especially now, since that horrible club meeting in Rockville. “Yeah, it’s fine.” “I got you the Triple Buddha. Are you still vegetarian?” “Oh, only sort of, but that’s fine.” I split my chopsticks open. “Thanks.” Mom, nodding, spoons some pork fried rice onto her plate and begins to eat. We don’t talk much. It’s always been like this between us—either placid silence, or vicious fighting. There’s no casual in-between, no common interests we can shoot the shit about. Whatever wildness Mom once possessed seems to have evaporated back in the eighties, when she was