“See that? That’s what my little cousin is like these days. When the whole family eats together, no one else can get a word in—just my aunt and uncle bragging about their son, spitting everywhere, going on for a whole hour without stopping. If they could, they’d write ‘People’s Artist’ in big calligraphy and stick it on that little ancestor’s forehead, then put him in a shrine and offer incense three times a day!”
Quincy Sherman spoke so fast that Fiona James was doubled over with laughter the whole way, only remembering to ask at the end, “But what’s he so cocky about, anyway?”
“It’s honestly laughable.” Quincy Sherman started laughing too. “It’s just a youth center performance, and he was picked as the lead singer for the children’s choir. You know how it is—when boys sing in a children’s choir, their voices all sound like eunuchs. And not just the boys—after training, all the kids, boys and girls, sound like they came out of the same mold, totally mass-produced.
What’s there to be so proud of? Does he really think he’s got a bright future ahead? In our tiny little city, our tiny little youth center—what am I supposed to say? And my uncle keeps going on about the ‘arts circle’—ugh!”
Quincy Sherman was still venting in rapid-fire, but Fiona James had drifted off. The words “bright future” and “arts circle” were like magnets, pulling together scattered memories into a heavy, complete past.
“This kid’s got real potential, a bright future. She’s already famous in the provincial arts circle—all the kids know her!”
They all used to know Swallow, but later, they forgot.
Fiona James had never been as “arrogant” as Quincy Sherman described. She remembered her dad praising her, “In a restless circle, you have to stay humble and calm”—but no matter what, her dad could never get her mom to practice that.
Fiona James didn’t know if her other relatives had ever, like Quincy Sherman now, secretly complained non-stop behind her mom’s back, resenting her for showing off. She would never know how many innocent children’s hearts had been broken by her mom’s catchphrase, “Our Yanyan…”
Growing up, she read in a magazine that every time Michael Jackson stepped off a stage with tens of thousands cheering, after the lights went out and the crowd left, he needed a sedative injection to calm down. She didn’t know how true that was, but she understood—being surrounded by so many people, standing at the center of the world, worshipped like a god—if it were her, she’d need a sedative too.
She needed one as well. Not for herself, but for her mom, who couldn’t accept that her daughter would never appear on screen again.
Fiona James sometimes let her mind wander. Did her mom feel proud of her, or did she just enjoy being pointed out in the crowd after a performance—“Look, that’s Swallow, that’s Swallow’s parent”? She didn’t dare think too deeply about it.
As children, we never have the right to guess at the depth or motives of a mother’s love.
“Fiona James?”
She snapped back, a little embarrassed, not knowing how much she’d missed of Quincy Sherman’s words.
“I just… felt a little dizzy,” she mumbled as an excuse.
“Oh, are you okay?” Quincy Sherman fussed, leaning in. She waved her hands, saying she was fine, it had passed.
“Speaking of dizziness, I haven’t told you yet. Actually, my cousin got to be lead singer all thanks to sucking up to the youth center teachers. My uncle’s an Amway agent, right? Who knows how much he spent giving Amway Nutrilite to the choir’s Mr. Lewis and Mr. Clark. One time at dinner, my aunt was late for ages, so we just sat there waiting. Turns out, their Mr. Clark was dizzy and went to my aunt’s hospital for a free CT scan…”
Fiona James’s fingers felt a little cold. In this northern small city, the late October autumn wind already carried a hint of winter’s chill. She pulled her clothes tighter and, during Quincy Sherman’s pause for breath, chimed in, “That’s shady. But your aunt and uncle are happy to do it.”
“Exactly!” Quincy Sherman was encouraged by the support and immediately started listing all the youth center scandals she knew. Fiona James listened, head down, smiling, but as she smiled, the corners of her mouth drooped a little.
She wondered if this Mr. Clark was the same Mr. Clark.
“How many Mr. Clark can there be at the youth center?!”
It was as if, looking up, she could still see the old man at the mailroom, frowning and asking in that sarcastic tone.
After the first performance, Benjamin Clark had left her contact info, telling Fiona James’s dad, “If you want your child to succeed, you can send her to me.”
The one who got excited was actually her mom, who hadn’t even seen the performance. She called the number, a bit nervous and a bit chatty, but the cold voice on the other end made it hard for her to keep up her fake smile. After hanging up, she cursed for half an hour, but still dragged her to the youth center to visit.
They didn’t know the real name or department, only that her surname was Zheng and she was a female teacher. Her mom, forcing a smile, asked the doorman, “Is there a female teacher surnamed Zheng at the youth center?” and only got an eye roll in response.
How many Mr. Clark can there be at the youth center?!
Fiona James didn’t understand the complicated tone and timidly asked, “So… how many are there?”
The old man burst out laughing, looking much friendlier than before.
“Silly girl…” He looked up and gestured to Fiona James’s mom, then switched back to his impatient expression and said, “The office at the top of the stairs on the second floor.”
Her mom was pretty annoyed, didn’t say thanks, and pulled Fiona James away.
The “Come in” from behind the door instantly reminded Fiona James of the owner’s icy face.
After explaining their purpose, Benjamin Clark got straight to the point, listing the choir, hosting class, and instrument lessons for Fiona James’s mom: “These are all basic courses. For the child’s own good—if the fundamentals aren’t solid, there’s no big future.”
Her mom was stunned, just nodding, but was troubled by the fees behind all these so-called quality courses. She was hesitating about whether to make this “educational investment” when she heard Fiona James innocently ask, “Teacher, what’s a big future?”
Her mom smacked her hand and told her to be quiet. Benjamin Clark curled her lips into a perfunctory smile, as if too lazy to answer such an obvious question that only a child wouldn’t understand.
Many years later, Fiona James couldn’t even be sure if she’d really asked that question. It was her first doubt, and also her final conclusion.
Grown-ups are all big liars.
But they’ll never admit it. They’ll say, if you don’t have a “big future,” it’s not because they lied—it’s because you just weren’t cut out for it.
Her mom went home and discussed it with her dad behind closed doors for a long time, with three or four small arguments in between. In the end, they gritted their teeth and paid for Fiona James to take the hosting class.
Fiona James never managed to learn the exaggerated intonation, from posture and expression to pronunciation, tone, speed, and sense of language, even though the teacher said that style was “lively and expressive.” She was too young—no one expected her to memorize long scripts, and she was happy to just sit and watch the older kids try their best. But her luck just wouldn’t quit—when the TV station came to pick a host for the “Little Red Riding Hood” program, she was the lucky one—simply because they wanted a four- or five-year-old, and she happened to be five. The only one.
It wasn’t until middle school, during a Chinese class vocabulary lesson, that she sounded out a word, found it familiar, and suddenly remembered what the director had called her, laughing, after her silly performance at her first TV recording at age five.
Uncut jade.
Too bad, she didn’t even know it was a compliment back then. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have felt so inferior for not being able to act all lively and cute like the other two little hosts.
Zhang Ailing said, “Become famous as early as possible.”
If it comes too late, even happiness isn’t so satisfying.
Fiona James felt a little regretful.
But not too early, either.
If it’s so early you don’t even know what fame and fortune are, there’s no way to be happy about it.
She was a regular at the TV station; when she came and went, the mailroom auntie would nod and greet her and her mom, and her mom always stood extra straight. She was the topic of conversation at family gatherings, and at restaurant dinners, there was always karaoke in the private room, and the adults would egg her on to host the meal or sing for fun. She had a schedule at a young age: TV recordings every Thursday afternoon, rehearsals for various performances and galas, and every Friday and Saturday night she had to go to the youth center for hosting and recitation classes…