Shanghai Girls (Shanghai Girls 1)

“I’ll try,” I manage to say.

May’s fingers dig into my arm. As the director strolls back to his chair, May pulls me away from the others. “You have to let me do this,” she implores desperately under her breath. “Please, please let me do it.”

“I’m the one who screamed,” I say. “I want to make something worthwhile come out of this night.”

“This could be my only chance—”

“You’re only twenty-two—”

“I was a beautiful girl in Shanghai,” May pleads. “But this is Hollywood, and I don?

?t have much time left.”

“We all have fears of getting older,” I say. “But I want this too. Have you forgotten I was also a beautiful girl?” When she doesn’t respond, I use the one argument I’m sure will work. “I’m the one who remembered what happened in the shack—”

“You always use that excuse to get your way.”

I step back, stunned by her words. “You don’t mean that.”

“You just don’t want me to have anything of my own,” she says forlornly.

How can she possibly say that when I’ve sacrificed so much for her? My resentment has grown over the years, but it has never stopped me from giving May everything she wants.

“You’re always being given opportunities,” May continues, her voice gathering strength.

Now I understand what’s happening. If she can’t have her way, she’s going to fight me. But I’m not going to give in so easily this time.

“What opportunities?”

“Mama and Baba sent you to college—”

That’s going way back in time, but I say, “You didn’t want to go.”

“Everyone likes you more than they like me.”

“That’s ridiculous—”

“Even my own husband prefers you to me. He’s always nice to you.”

What’s the point in arguing with May? Our disagreements have always been about the same things: our parents liked one or the other of us more, one of us has something better—whether it’s a better flavor ice cream, a prettier pair of shoes, or a more companionable husband—or one of us wants to do something at the expense of the other.

“I can scream just as well as you,” May persists. “I’m asking again. Please let me do it.”

“What about Joy?” I ask softly, attacking my sister’s vulnerable spot. “You know Sam and I are saving for her to go to college one day.”

“That’s fifteen years away, and you’re assuming an American college will take Joy—a Chinese girl.” My sister’s eyes, which earlier tonight had sparkled with pleasure and pride, suddenly glare at me. For an instant I’m thrown back in time to our kitchen in Shanghai when Cook tried to teach us how to make dumplings. It had started out as something fun for May and me to do and had ended in a terrible fight. Now, all these years later, what was supposed to be an enjoyable outing has turned bitter. When I look at May, I see not just jealousy but hate. “Let me have this part,” she says. “I earned it.”

I think about how she works for Tom Gubbins, how she doesn’t have to stay confined in one of the Golden enterprises all day, how she gets to come to sets like these with my daughter and be out of Chinatown and China City for a while.

“May—”

“If you’re going to start in with all your grudges against me, I don’t want to hear them. You refuse to see how lucky you are. Don’t you know how jealous I am? I can’t help it. You have everything. You have a husband who loves you and talks to you. You have a daughter.”

There! She said it. My reply comes out of my mouth so fast, I don’t have a chance to think about it or stop it.

“Then why is it that you spend more time with her than I do?” As I speak, I’m reminded of the old saying that diseases go in through the mouth, disasters come out of the mouth, meaning that words can be like bombs themselves.

“Joy prefers being with me because I hug and kiss her, because I hold her hand, because I let her sit on my lap,” May snaps back.