Friday, March 18, 2005 @2:12 PM
Miri Kim was the only other Asian at San Angelo. She was in the fitness programme as well. Miri was from the dance department and was in LA on a ballet scholarship. Born and raised in Hong Kong, she had a gentle, drawling accent that never failed to intrigue me. She had a melodious voice; it had a clear lilt to it, like the peals of a triangle.
We met in the courtyard, after a lecture by a dietician from San Diego. The doctor emphasized the importance of healthy eating (all meat had to be completely trimmed of fat and broiled in olive oil and nothing else) and proper exercise ("Balance is the key! You don't want toned legs and flabby arms, not a good combination.."). Before we were dismissed, the school nurse handed each of us a creased brown paper bag and explained that we had to consume a specially-prepared lunch daily until we met the ideal weight requirement.
Miri and I sat cross-legged on a low wall several yards away from the drama centre. We crinkled open our bags for the first time. Skim milk and a carton of plain yoghurt. Miri made a face.
"No way am I going to eat that," she declared, tossing the contents of her bag onto the ground. "Doesn't this place just sicken you? I was the best dancer in my school back in Hong Kong," she continued in a low, slightly wounded voice. "And here the teachers barely notice me."
I felt a rush of gratitude at Miri's words. I wasn't alone, after all. Hope rose in my heart like a diver surfacing from the depths. We swayed our legs rhythmically from side-to-side, both wishing that we had a dish of sushi, or deep-fried Chinese spring rolls instead.
'My Fair Lady' was the first combined-school musical of the term and I was desperate for a part. I wanted to show the Hollywood talent scouts what they were missing, what I had to offer. I devoted my heart and soul to memorising the script, cues and all, and rehearsing the songs with Miri (who had an impressive record collection) every afternoon. When the cast list was posted, I was sorely disappointed. Rachel Armstrong was to play Eliza Doolittle. I was named an usher.
Miri clucked her tongue symphathetically when I broke the news; it was like she'd known it all along. Undaunted, I marched into the teacher's lounge and demanded to see Mr Blackburn, the dean of the drama faculty. My impulsive behaviour startled me. But this was Hollywood. Slowly, but surely, I was morphing into someone else.
"You see, Ms.. er.. Julia," Mr Blackburn said, flashing me an apologetic grin. "You did a fine job at the audition, we both know you did." He spread his palms on the mahogany desktop. "But as much as we would love to be theatrically experimental, we can't afford to lose the play's autheticity. You are not..." He appeared to be struggling for the appropriate words ".. blonde."
I thought of Rachel Armstrong and her auburn curls. "Thank you very much" I managed to stammer. I dropped a sloppy curtsey and retreated from the office.
That night, I had an apple and a glass of water for dinner. I had already down four pounds.
"I'm thinking of leaving," Miri told me matter-of-factly. We were perched on the low wall again, leaving our lunches untouched as usual. I was well within my approved weight range, but I wasn't about to take any chances. I'd stopped eating dinner altogether. My mother was visibly distraught at my sudden health obsession. Breakfast was usually a slice of fruit or a granola bar. Lunch was dressing-free salad and lemon juice. My stomach was becoming concave, my cheeks less puffy. I was filled with renewed triumph.
My eyes widened. I felt a twinge of panic. Without Miri, I would be in complete isolation once more. I needed her company. "B.. but.. you can't" I sputtered feebly.
"I have thought about it," she said pensively. "I can't stay, Julia. This place..," - she swept her hand to indicate the school grounds - "the people, it's all too overwelming. It's just stifling, you know? They are all clones, identical models of the same perfect, six-foot blue-eued creature. I can't do it. I never will be able to. I'll reimburse the bond. I'll dance till I'm fifty if I have to. Just not here."
I bit my lip. Her statements sounded eerily familar. A part of me was tempted to agree. But the other half was drifting lazily over Hollywood Hills, in Mann's Chinese Theatre, in the footprints of the stars.
We sat in silence. The faint wisps of a violin sonata weaved through the air. We coked our ears and listened.
Finally, I spoke. "Why don't they like us?"
Miri shrugged. WE both surveyed each other. Our skins were like the underside of fishes, pale cream against a mass of tanned bodies, two raven-coloured heads amidst a sea of gold.
Two days later, Miri was gone. I waited patiently at our usual spot at the low wall at lunch every single day for a week, assuming that she was held up at ballet practice or musical rehearsal. It was not until I caught sight of her bare gym locker did it dawn on me that she had returned to Hong Kong and washed her hands off Hollywood forever.