2 Questions Every Girl is Asking Herself

Chapter 57

In the Fei Cheng Wu Rao application form, there was a section called "Special Talents." A large box, which, through sheer size, denotes its importance. In my whole pursuit of getting on the show, I had thought long and hard about what to put in that box.

What are my special talents?

To answer that question simply: I'm not sure I have any.

To answer it more thoroughly and honestly – of course, I had practiced bellydance for five years, and could shimmy like coco pop, but I decided to leave it out of the game this time. In the few days leading up to the interview, I wasn't sure scrambling to put together choreography was the best use of my time. Of course, in FCWR audition videos, I had seen Edmonton girls go as far as rapping to bamboo clappers.

And I have to admit, I was wondering in near hysterics: Did she get it?!!

Still, I left the "Special Talents" section blank. When I get antsy about not having a talent, I tell myself: You've seen enough of the show to know what kind of talent is worth sharing and what is best saved for the bathroom mirror. Don't waste time preparing for a half-assed dance routine. Just focus on telling a good story.

With everything riding on the story, I wasn't going to take any chances. I wrote it down, and I memorized it. (Interview tip: Memorization is key!) On the day of the interview, I dug out the fanciest summer dress I own – a green cotton dress, and slithered it on. Looking as though I was on my way to a tennis match. I even wore Adidas sneakers. I can't remember the last time I wore sneakers to an interview.

On the drive, I had the windows down and the radio on, blasting Top 40 pop songs. But instead of feeling pumped, all it did was agitate me. I mean physically. My hands grew clammy on the steering wheel. My whole body was covered in a saran wrap of sweat. The only thing that calmed me was when I turned off the radio and began practicing my lines aloud. While driving.

"Hello, my name is..."

When I arrived at the piano school, the guy at the front desk took one look at me and burst out:

"Hey! You're the Heartbeat Girl!"

I beamed, trying to restrain my grin.

"So... who's doing the interviews?" I asked conspiratorially.

"Oh, the producer's name is Chen Chen," he said, while handing me a form to fill out, "Flew in from Edmonton yesterday. Doing back-to-back interviews, then catching a plane back to China tonight."

My heart dropped to the floor with a splat.

What?! The producer just flew in yesterday? That means he missed my show, like – COMPLETELY. I was the "Heartbeat Girl" twice!

Twice!

I dipped my head to read the form, only to realize it's the same form I'd filled out online a couple of weeks ago. I suddenly got this sinking feeling that none of what I had done in the past few weeks mattered – not the profile spam, not the kickass performance on the show. Chen Chen has no idea who I am. This was square one all over again.

As I would later come to realize, the show I attended was a spin-off organized by the Vancouver online forum in charge of promoting FCWR's open casting call. They piggybacked on FCWR's fame and put on their own dating show under the same name, cashing in from ticket sales, while boosting exposure. And here I thought that was the audition.

Of course, I didn't have time to process any of that. Wound up like a music box, a notch beyond its spool, I was on the verge of blasting out the tune at high tempo, before the interview room door flung open and the producer came out.

And the person I saw...

Well...

I had somehow pictured a stocky, middle-aged fellow, with dark skin, a plump belly and cigarettes dangling from his mouth.

But no. 

Chen Chen was a startlingly petite woman in her twenties, with pale skin, round cheeks and dyed yellow hair – doll like. If she wasn't interviewing me, and if we'd met ten years earlier, I probably would have liked to do homework with her after school and drink bubble tea together. We hovered by the door for a split second and I wanted to convey my friendliness by talking about the weather. But the moment she opened her mouth, uh...I thought better of it.

Please don't be alarmed. It wasn't a man's voice that came out of her mouth. Nor was it a shrill that drills a hole in your ears. It was just that her tone carried with it an icy authority, a certainty in her opinions and an intolerance for the fluff, which seemed weirdly mismatched with her face, and quite frankly, friggin' intimidating.

When she didn't even offer to shake my hand, I was completely thrown off balance. Because as business people, we shake hands with EVERYBODY. These creative types, you never know what they are thinking.

Which makes Chen Chen a different species. Impossible to read. And as a result, dangerous, and potentially deadly.

She looked at the form I'd filled out a few minutes earlier and got straight the point.

"So you're a writer?"

"Um, I used to be a management consultant," I replied, eager to appear like an attractive marriage prospect. "I wanted to be a writer when I was younger, but decided against it because writers don't make any money."

"Who said writers don't make any money?" she said, baby stern, "So-and-so's book is selling millions and it's being made into a movie!"

I sat up in surprise. "Um, you are totally right," I said in agreement. In confirmation.

Then I told her about the career change, the trip to Asia, the medicine man, and the 10-minute palm reading that just happened to coincide with my writing fantasies.

At first she was stoic, her chubby poker-face like a mask. But gradually her jaw relaxed, and the corners of her mouth turned up into what I took to be a look of amusement.

"So how do you make money?" She asked pointedly.

See, this was a touchy topic for me. Because truthfully, I hadn't made any money. And I was I still at the stage where I believed real writers get paid. The ones who don't get paid are fake writers. And I felt ashamed I was still in the fake category. I worried that would somehow disqualify me from the show, because I was an unemployed fake writer who was probably not very good at writing.

So I said, "I'm starting to freelance."

Which was kind of true. I was writing short articles for my friend's startup. For free though.

There was a pause. I couldn't read what she was thinking, so I said:

"Chen Chen, let me tell you a story. A year ago, around this time, I was traveling in Chengdu. A shao mai lady saw me eating alone and (out of concern or pity) told me to get on FCWR. She said 'even if no guy picked you on stage, there are millions watching on TV. They will write you letters!!' I had never seen FCWR at the time, and wouldn't have qualified anyway. But a year later, look who's here in Canada?"

Chen Chen clapped her hands stridently, laughing, "I can't believe shao mai ladies are advertising for us!"

I watched her sudden burst of rhapsody with uncertainty.

Then she asked:

"What's your schedule like for the next few weeks?"