Page 106 of Something Cheeky

“I didn’t mean to imply that you’re less Viet because you don’t speak it.” Zoe took a deep breath. “Of course you are.”

“Z, once we get the go ahead for Broadway, we can rework things. I can bring the original Vietnamese lyrics back. We just have to get there first instead of being DOA.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” Zoe asked.

“Tickets aren’t selling the way they should. If people won’t pay to see the show, how will they even learn about our stories?”

“Derek, people already see us. As a community we’re more visible than ever—but not in the ways we want. We’re still sidekicks in movies and bánh mì is so trendy than random food content creators are creating their own versions.”

Zoe was telling him what he already knew. Or maybe he’d forgotten it because he was so focused on the show’s commercial success.

“This musical will be another way to show others that we’re more than all those things,” he reassured her.

“You know what I don’t see? Our people telling our stories instead of some French guys writing a tragic white savior musical about our parents’ civil war. I want us to be seen. Not the way other folks want to see us but as who we truly are.”

“Does that even matter if people don’t come to the show?” he asked flatly.

“Derek, if we don’t take control of our own narrative, then who will?”

“Zoe, we won’t have a narrative if this show flops. I have to do what it takes to get this show to a wider audience. And if that’s changing the songs to English, then so be it.”

“You’re sacrificing what makes this show ours in order to make one white guy happy,” she pointed out.

“It’s a compromise.”

“Is it really okay to compromise our Asianness in order to make white people more comfortable around us? Don’t you remember what they spray-painted at Eden Center?”

Zoe didn’t care how loud her voice had become. Her body shook at the memory of those hateful words in what was supposed to be her safe place.

“I’ll do what it takes to survive so we have a seat at the table,” he protested.

“There’s no room for us at their table,” shouted Zoe. “I knew that in college when I refused to dress people in yellow face for Professor Richards’s gala.”

“Not all of us have the financial support of our parents to make our own table,” Derek blurted.

Stunned, Zoe’s jaw dropped open. Her heart twisted. How could the man she loved say that to her?

“That was low. I paid them back every cent plus interest.” Her voice shook with anger.

Derek hung his head.

“When you pitched this show to me, it was our vision. Our retelling. That’s why I am investing my own savings in order to get the costumes made in time for Greg’s accelerated timeline. I closed my shop and I’m paying my staff to help sew them.”

“I never asked you to do that.”

“But I did it because I believed in this musical. I believed in you.” Her voice broke.

“I’m sorry I’ve let you down.” He dropped onto the block as if he’d given up.

“That’s it? You’re actually going to take out all the Vietnamese from the musical?”

“Only the songs,” he muttered.

“I can’t believe this is happening again.” Zoe walked over to where she’d dropped her bags. The large rehearsal room had shrunk around her. She needed some air.

“Come on, Zoe. This is nothing like what happened in college.People depend on me to make sure this show does well both artistically and financially.”

Zoe scoffed. She’d given up her dream in college instead of going against her values. And here he was, just doing what made Greg happy.

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