Ambrosia Lee Drops the Mic

1

Tragic Backstory

Every character needs a tragic backstory, so here's mine: I was a child actor who peaked at twelve, and now I'm a sixteen-year-old has-been. Not that playing a dead body on Law & Order counts as having been anything.

I was "discovered" on the subway when I was seven years old. Back then, no lie, I was adorable: peaches-and-cream face with rosy-red cheeks, big dark eyes with double-creased lids, and shiny black hair that, on that fateful day, Mom decided to plait into pigtails. I looked like a porcelain china doll. A perky Wednesday Addams. There totally would've been a hit on me if literal headhunting was still a thing.

Ever since I was a kid, people would stop Mom and Dad on the street: "What a beautiful child!" They'd pick apart my features-"Ooh, her father's eyes, her mother's hair!"-like they were triumphantly solving the jigsaw puzzle that was me. Sometimes I liked it; mostly I hated it.

At banquets, our relatives would say in disbelief to Mom, "How could such a pretty child come from someone as plain as you?" Mom would just laugh it off-those were the days she was actually happy-but it always made me mad. Not that I was allowed to speak out to my elders. Dad, who doesn't know Korean beyond kimchi and galbi, would just smile and nod politely.

Ever since their divorce, Dad doesn't come to family functions on Mom's side anymore. I think he thinks they'll blame him. But what he doesn't know is, almost two years later, the relatives are still on Mom's case about her being the one who chased Dad away.

"Ambrosia Lee" is-was-my stage name. You'd think Ambrosia is the made-up part, but that is 100 percent what's printed on my birth certificate. My legal last name is Blacksmith. Yeah, yeah, I get it: food of the gods! doesn't exactly jibe with blacksmith, hammer and anvil and all. We went with Mom's maiden name, Lee, which has a way nicer ring. Plus it protects my privacy from creepos.

Once upon a time, it was fun to play make-believe. I was Brosh at home, Ambrosia Lee in the business, but onstage I could pretend to be anybody. I'd fall into character and imagine her yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

I loved-still love-being in the spotlight. (TBH, I'm kind of a ham.) But lately, the few scripts that come my way are so one-dimensional, which just kind of makes you feel dead inside. That's if I'm lucky enough to land the work at all. The roles have dried up. I haven't booked a gig in over a year. That's a lifetime in child acting-which is like Narnia, but with none of the perks of talking fauns or Turkish delight. (Plenty of white witches, though.)

I'm in that nebulous age range of fourteen to seventeen, where child actors go to die. Post-puberty, we're too old to play kids but too young to play our actual age. Most of us don't survive adolescence. For every Selena Gomez who gracefully transitioned from child star to adult A-lister, there's a blowup and burnout like Amanda Bynes. And for every one of them, there were millions of girls who shot their shot but fell into obscurity. Any one of them would have killed for their five seconds of fame.

And don't even get me started on Britney.

Ever since I was a kid, acting has been the only path I knew. I doubt I'll get into a good college because I was never focused on my grades; all my "free" time was devoted to going to auditions and memorizing scripts. I don't know if I should return to Gotham Drama School or transfer to a "regular," non-performing arts high school, where I won't be surrounded by A-listers in training. I also got into LaGuardia-the free, public version of GDS-but that'll just be more of the same. I don't need the daily FOMO about the roles my classmates got that I was rejected for.

I've all but given up on my "dream" to act on Stage and Screen. Some days, I wonder if it was ever my dream in the first place.

Now that my "career" is in air quotes, I have no idea what to do with the rest of my life.

2

Stan the Man
(Or So He Likes to Tell Himself)

Stan, my on-again, off-again talent agent, calls about an audition for E-Z Klean Bleach, now in spray-bottle form!

"I had to pull some serious strings, Broshie!" Stan says it in his usual overselling-it way, which is practically a prerequisite for being an agent.

He has two modes: gushing or ghosting.

"The same cattle call I saw posted on Backstage?" I ask.

"Very funny. If this commercial gets picked up for national syndication, you'll be laughing all the way to the bank, trust me."

"Stan, do you look at me and only see dollar signs?"

Mom, who's also on the call, shoots me a be nice look.

"With all due respect, Broshie," Stan says, "you haven't earned me a penny in over a year."

"Not true," I say. "I just got my residuals from Law & Order."

It was for twenty-three cents. The stamp cost more than the check itself.

"Broshie, Broshie, Broshie," Stan says. "E-Z Klean's the first real nibble we've had in ages."

Mom jumps in. "Stan, of course we understand. Things have changed. Brosh is a . . . harder sell than she once was."

Mom glances at me apologetically as she says it. But at this point, I've grown numb to hearing myself talked about in dollars and cents.

Dead Asian Girl #3 on Law & Order was not actually the biggest role I had.

It was Golly Jee on Jump! Rope! Jungle!

The show was a zany mix of sketch comedy, balloon blizzards, and slime. It made Nielsen's top ten most-viewed children's shows of all time. Jump! Rope! Jungle! was supposed to be my big break.

But I got fired from season 1.

"Not gonna lie, we're in no-man's-land, Cindy," Stan says to Mom. "But there are things Brosh could do to make herself more sellable, like she did in the past. We had some near chances two pilot seasons ago, if only Brosh-"

"What about Leviathan?" I interrupt.

Leviathan, an Emmy-winning ABC ensemble dramedy set in a cutthroat white-shoe law firm, is the best thing on prestige TV right now. It's equal parts Succession, Modern Family, and-twist-How to Get Away with Murder. The part I read for was for Katie Chung: the snarky teen daughter of one of the series regulars, Claudia Chung (Asian female, 30s, type-A Ivy Leaguer clawing for partner). I only had a day to prepare my self-tape, so I skipped class to memorize my sides (industry-speak for the script for your part), Mom helping me run lines. I did take after take until it was perfect.

Katie Chung is a dream role-even if it's only a guest spot.

Mom and I hunker down to watch Leviathan every other Sunday night, when I'm not at Dad's. The show's pretty much the only thing holding us together at this point.

"Still no news. It's ABC, Broshie. I wouldn't get my hopes up," Stan says. "I know it feels like taking a step backward with these commercials. But this is just a stepping stone to the NEXT BIG THING!"

Stan is the only person I know who speaks in all caps, like a bad script.

I do that stagey thing where I air-pinch my face and close my eyes. "I am a vessel, I am a vessel . . ."

It's an old cliché: Actors are just "vessels" for other people's stories.

"Save the drama for the screen," Stan says, but I can hear him struggling not to laugh.

Mom puts the call on mute. "Brosh, I wish you'd show some gratitude. You heard Stan. This commercial could go national."

I say, "Great. I'll be the next Flo from Progressive Insurance!"

"Hate all you want," Mom says. "That woman's set for life."

I know Mom and Stan are right. Commercials, if you're lucky enough to land one, can be great gigs. Even if there's only so much acting you can do in a thirty-second time slot.

Every day, I scroll through the listings on Backstage, and it's the same depressing stereotypes: martial artists, "model minorities," or "illegal" immigrants. Sometimes it's a three-fer, and you're expected to play a karate-chopping straight-A student with a perfect SAT score and a tragic undocumented backstory. At best a supporting role-but never the lead.

They must think we lack Main Character Energy.

"We just can't afford to blow another big break."

Mom's words cut me. I know I'm a disappointment. You're not special just because you're on TV, as my older brother, Ryan, used to say to me. He's right. My parents have poured so much into my career-time, energy, and money they'll never get back. Mom, who went to Parsons, quit her job as a fashion designer for a Garment District wholesaler to become a full-time stage mom. Now she's divorced and underemployed. Her only income is some freelance tailoring jobs and the rent that comes in from our downstairs tenants in our two-family in Maspeth, which mostly goes back into fixing up the house. That's it.

Mom unmutes the call. "Thank you so much, Stan! We're so grateful for all you do for Brosh."

She says it in her try-too-hard voice, the same one she uses with all industry people.

Even the ones who fired me.

3

E-Z Klean

So I go to the E-Z Klean audition. I'm in a waiting room full of my doppelgängers. We're all competing for the privilege of reciting this gem of a script:

MOM (Unidentified Asian Female, ages 30-39) and DAUGHTER (UAF, ages 12-18) are on their hands and knees, scrubbing a filthy bathroom. Mom sprays a black spot with E-Z Klean Bleach.

DAUGHTER

Look, Ma! It's getting whiter!

CUT TO: Mom and Daughter wearing all white in a sparkling white bathroom.

MOM

Make your life whiter-and brighter!

That's why my family chooses E-Z Klean Bleach-

DAUGHTER

Now in spray-bottle form!

Mom is sitting next to me. I'm sixteen, yet she still insists on accompanying me to my auditions because I'm technically a minor. All morning, she's been on my case about doing "character work" for my UAF. But there's only so much backstory I can bring to Now in spray-bottle form!

Mom's flipping through the celebrity tabloids. "Has Gwynie put on weight?" she asks, nudging me.

"Mom, the woman drinks bone broth on a cheat day."

She turns the page. "Oh! It was just the ski suit. Very unflattering."

"I'm trying to get in the zone," I say. Operative word being try. All around me, the other UAFs recite their lines to themselves. The tension is thick. Everybody here wants it so badly. I won't lie; it really messes with your head to be in a roomful of people who look exactly like you. Well, almost exactly. Am I imagining it when a UAF sizes me up and a smug smile creeps on her face? Nope. Because now another UAF does the same thing-dismissing me with a flick of her eyes.

The only thing all the UAFs have in common is that they are stick thin-and I am not.

I fit into straight sizes, but I'm far from a size two. According to Hollywood, that means I am a cow. That's show business for you: stick or cow. There's no such thing as in between. Which makes me a liability in the biz.

Then I see the UAFs sizing up Mom. I know what they're thinking. It's written all over their faces.

Mom flips the page of her tabloid. "Ooh, she's on The Chip." The Chip is a two-thousand-dollar piece of workout equipment the size of a potato chip. You know those commercials where it's Christmas morning and the husband surprises-aka body-shames-the wife with The Chip? Yeah, that.

"Maybe we should get The Chip, too." Mom looks down at herself. She's wearing a drab dark poncho thingee that hides her shape. Mom can't shop for clothes in standard-sized stores. She used to design her own creations, working her magic on the sewing machine; now she just wears the same old clothes she orders in bulk online.

Then Mom looks me up and down, and I 100 percent infer her meaning.

My phone pings.

Dad:

Hi Brosh, Are you free tomorrow at 9am for breakfast?

Me:

9am??

on a sat???

Dad (angry text forming but his thumbs are too slow):

. . .

Me:

Where

Dad:

Pomegranate

79 Spring St (between Broadway
and Crosby)

New York, NY 10012

Me:

Pomegranate's still a thing?

Dad (ignoring my diss):

Please, Ambrosia. It's important.

Mom peers over my shoulder. "Is that your father?"

"Yeah," I say, shielding my screen from her. "We're meeting for breakfast tomorrow." I make my voice sound super casual so I don't set off her suspicions.

Too late. "With her?"

Mom's referring to Dad's "lady friend," Nabi.

"I don't know, I guess." I don't feel like getting into it.

"I can't believe your dad's gone native."

"Mom, we're all Korean."

Dad was born in Korea but was raised in Minnesota by his Korean mom and his white American stepdad. Mom was born and raised in Maspeth, Queens, to Korean immigrant parents. And Nabi's Korean Korean, from Seoul.

"Korean American. Big difference," Mom says. "Also, why doesn't your father wait until next week?"

Translation: Why does he want you during my week? Because this is the reality of living with divorced parents.

I ignore Mom's not-so-rhetorical question and put on my headphones to watch clips of my favorite stand-up comedian, Josie Kang. Comedy helps get me out of my own head when my anxieties are already up to here. Josie Kang's from Queens, like me, and speaks truth to power. She'd have a field day with this E-Z Klean script. Josie's performing in New York tomorrow night, but her show completely sold out while the ticket was still in my cart.

As Mom flips through her crappy tabloids and feels worse about herself, as the UAFs murmur their lines, I watch Josie's jokes and forget the world around me.

Try to, anyway.

The door to the casting room opens-and out walks another dejected UAF.

The CD's assistant looks up from her clipboard.

"Ambrosia Lee? You're next."

I slate up for the casting director, producers, director, and some suits who are probably the E-Z Klean execs.

The CD frowns at my headshot. "You look different since Jump! Rope! Jungle!"

"Uh . . . yeah," I say, because what else am I going to say? It's called puberty?

The audition is a chem test with Sandy Yang, the actor who'll play my mom. Sandy has a flat, Minnesotan twang, same as Dad's. She's petite, with delicate, birdlike features. She was in that new kung fu movie . . . or was it the geisha show on Netflix? Or was she the dragon lady in the Marvel franchise?