China Dolls by Lisa See

auditions. This time I’d get the gig and the dough.
    “Do you want to share an apartment?” Grace asked me.
    My mother always said it was rude for someone to be so direct, but I answered anyway. “Why not?” Because, really, why not? There had to be a first time for everything. “Anyplace would be better than staying with my aunt and uncle in Alameda. It’ll be good to get away from my little cousins too.”
    I watched as they took in those nuggets of information. We’d bumped gums some, talking a bit about this and that. Nothing serious. Nothing too revealing. It was fine by me if we practiced “Oriental silence”—hanging on to information that was no one else’s business—but things were bound to leak out.
    “You’re sure you want to do it?” Grace’s voice rose with expectation.
    “I’d love to,” I answered. “And thank you, Helen. Thank you so much.”
    “I’m happy to help,” she responded. “It will be good to have you nearby.”
    T HE NEXT DAY , Grace and I met Helen at the Forbidden City, where we big-eyed the new girls who’d made it through the weekend auditions. We were back up to forty or so girls for the eight spots, whichknocked some of the wind out of my panties. We auditioned in groups of six, and we sang something we’d all learned in elementary school—“Oh My Darling Clementine”—which put us on equal footing and made it instantly clear who could carry a tune. A quarter of the girls were gone by noon. Then Walton—no man was a mister to me—introduced us to the tap routine, which was a lot easier than anything we’d shown Helen over the weekend. He wanted to see how we moved onstage. Did we have presence? Could we hit our marks? Did our simple taps sound crisp or muddled? Did we have nice smiles?
    “You, you, and you are in.”
    Helen, Grace, and I made it through to the next round.
    At the end of the day, we found Monroe on the sidewalk. We were physically tired but also exhilarated. We were so close to getting chosen as the Forbidden City’s first ponies … and now the apartment. Monroe walked with us to a run-down building on Waverly, a block from the playground where Grace and I had taught Helen to tap. Mrs. Hua, the elderly manager, showed us the tiny two-room furnished flat, which had a hot plate and a sink. If we got the place, we’d have to take turns sleeping on the sofa and the bed. Showers would be courtesy of the YWCA. We searched the cupboards and found four plates, three cups, a frying pan, and a wok. It all looked good to me.
    I was grateful when Helen took charge. She knew the ins and outs of Chinatown—a place where Grace and I were total strangers. And it turned out she was great at bargaining.
    “You want to charge ten dollars a week? For this?” Helen asked Mrs. Hua. “Impossible!”
    “Nine dollars,” Mrs. Hua countered in heavily accented English.
    “It isn’t worth five.”
    “Eight fifty.”
    “Five. Take it or leave it.”
    Monroe regarded his sister with embarrassment tinged with grudging admiration. Grace seemed eager for Helen to accept the asking price.
    “Eight dollars. No lower,” Mrs. Hua came back.
    Helen shook her head. “Let’s go.”
    Monroe, Grace, and I started for the door. Mrs. Hua grabbed Helen’s sleeve. “Six dollars. Okay?”
    Helen pursed her lips as she thought about it. Finally, she said, “All right. Six dollars a week. But I’m not going anywhere until I see the contract. I don’t want you changing things after I leave, Mrs. Hua.”
    As soon as the manager left to get the paperwork, Grace squealed and jumped up and down. “Helen! I can’t believe you just did that! My hotel room costs a dollar a day. This is a lot better and for a lot less money.”
    “Really, Helen, that was pretty neat,” I agreed. “Thanks again .”
    Helen waved us off. “It’s the least I can do after everything you’ve done for me.”
    Yes, we’d scratched her back, and now she was scratching ours. That’s how