Julie Chan Is Dead

by Liann Zhang

Here’s the hard truth that Chloe Van Huusen fans fail to realize: she’s far from the pretty little angel she pretends to be. I only had to spend one afternoon with her to come to this conclusion. We were twenty-one during our brief and highly publicized reunion, a whole seventeen years since some drunk driver crushed our parents under his pickup. The state had separated us before we learned to grieve, since the couple that fast-tracked Chloe’s adoption only wanted one kid. I was sent to our aunt, a penny-pinching, foul-mouthed Cantonese woman who uses old Cheeto bags as folders for her tax returns, while my twin was adopted by an affluent white couple in New York City, legally rebranding herself a Van Huusen. She probably lived in a brownstone with Sex and the City–style steps, stomping into cliquey private schools with cashmere plaid skirts and pink feathery pens, while I shared a bunk bed with my cousin, who’d flick my bra strap for fun.

She was a messiah. A beautiful angel plucking me out of the gutter. Creation of Adam shit. Then a crew member said, “That’s a wrap.” The cameras stopped rolling. Chloe stepped away from me. Her eyes flickered, brightness displaced by an eerie distance. “Bye, Julie.” Then she was gone. In her wake, she left me with a renovated home (featuring the landlord special: crumbling foundation, painted-over appliances, mushrooms sprouting from dank corners) and a YouTube video the next week: “Finding My Long-Lost Twin and Buying Her a House #EMOTIONAL.” It hit ten million views in two days. People squealed about Chloe’s generosity, how they’d cried watching the reunion, how lucky I was. But she never called after the video—never gave me her phone number. Not even an Instagram follow.

My eyes fly to the TOTAL. I clap my hand to my mouth. I pinch the screen and zoom in. My eyes aren’t tricking me. The number is real. For one Instagram Reel / TikTok cross-post and two static feed posts over four weeks, Chloe received $45,000. Forty. Five. Thousand. Dollars. What. The. Actual. Flying. Fuck? I barely make that much in a year, but she makes that with a few posts of her in a shitty little face mask? How can this be real? My face scrunches with envy. I’m so disgusted by the unfairness of the world that I want to hurt something. Fuck her privacy. She’s dead anyway. I scroll through her other emails and open every file attached.

It only gets worse as I read through the email thread from when Chloe had pitched the idea. Evidenced in the attached analysis of YouTube’s trending tab, philanthropic videos are attracting a favorable general audience, including those aged 8 to 20, who are most likely to download a game app. As this is a deviation from my typical content, I am confident that Julie’s lower-middle-class life will be relatable to a wider viewership and would result in positive, empathetic engagement. I would love to see if it’s within your budget to increase my compensation, especially reflecting the personal investments that would go into producing a video of this magnitude. Cheers, Chloe V. And there it is. The truth. I was nothing more than fodder for a video. An accessory for an ad. I meant absolutely nothing. I was a pawn. It breaks me. I cry, not for Chloe’s death. I cry for my loss. Grief for that person I could have been.

I deserve it, don’t I? Chloe had everything while I suffered with nothing. Isn’t this karmic justice unfolding before me? Reparations for my hardships in the shape of a new, glittery influencer life? It’s not like I asked for it. The world just placed the pieces in my palm, tempting me to puzzle them together. Who knows, this might be Chloe’s final apology, her last gift for her dear twin: her life. She’d want this for me. For family. Surely. Surely. “Miss Van Huusen?” Ramos says again. It’s his fault, really. It’s Ramos’s words that seal everything. I can barely breathe as I answer, my heart blaring rapidly as I lie. “I-I think so, yeah. She always keeps her wallet in the front pocket.” The officer doesn’t question it. She goes inside, returns with the wallet, and asks me to confirm if the ID is hers. “Julie Chan?” I nod. Every crick in my neck bends and snaps.

The paramedics come out with Chloe on a stretcher, her body covered by a blanket, face obscured. They carry her away. She disappears behind the elevator door. Just like that, she’s gone. The cop remains, letting me know in soft whispers that she just needs to copy the information off the ID. Date of birth, address, everything. She’s writing the end of Julie Chan’s story. And the start of mine.

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t want to get caught. But a part of me feels sad for Chloe. None of these influencer “friends” truly know her. Their conversations are about brand deals, the algorithm, the show they are watching, or the newest social media scandal. Few ask questions about me—perhaps because they are so self-obsessed—and even when they do, they don’t bat an eye when I make something up.

I clutch the urn to my chest and stare into the camera with an intense look of suffering, my cheeks raw from the cold. “Grief is not easy to deal with alone. If you or a loved one is suffering from a loss like I am, please seek counseling for support. This video is sponsored by BetterTherapy.” 27 Yes, I took a sponsorship on a video of me spreading my sister’s ashes. News flash! Extortion isn’t cheap. Life isn’t cheap. Believe it or not, I need the extra capital.

On the rare occasion I want something that I’m not on a PR list for, I’ll simply send an email with a promise of exposure and the products will be on my doorstep in days. (And unlike many influencers, I’ll actually post about the product after receiving it!) I haven’t paid for anything for the past month. I finally understand what people mean when they say the rich keep getting richer. And I love it. Let’s take a second to be honest here. Cultivate a safe space. Let down our walls and expose the truest, darkest, cruelest parts of our souls. I’m about to bestow a truth that may be hard to swallow: anyone would want to be me. Who wants to pay for shit when you can get it for free? I’m not going to sit here and pretend like I hate the money and attention. Creators who are “down-to-earth” and reject capitalism are nothing more than hypocrites shilling out so-called socialist viewpoints from their mega-mansions or sky-high penthouses. They don’t give a fuck. If they did, they’d donate all their money and live in a shitty studio apartment instead of being professional grifters with golden egos. And those who hate this lifestyle are nothing more than envious wannabes. If they had access to my life for one day, they’d cease their righteous comments, standing on their little soapboxes like they’re better than me just because they’re poor, hateful little internet gremlins. Shit like how I’m being wasteful, ungrateful, privileged, and tone-deaf. Boo-hoo. Who the fuck cares? How about...

Something is wrong. Engagement is sagging. I want to blame it on the algorithm, but I’m not sure if that’s true. A growing portion of my audience says that I don’t feel like Chloe anymore. That something about me has changed. That my vibe is different. That I’m less authentic. That they’re unsubscribing. It’s fucking bullshit. If only they could see how hard I work behind the scenes to keep up the façade, all the hours I’ve spent watching Chloe’s old videos to replicate her mannerisms. It’s not easy emulating a boring lifestyle vlogger with a vanilla personality and a permanent smile. Yet all people do is complain, complain, complain.

It’s one thing not to post while we’re here, but it’s a whole other slap in the face to know we’re disconnected from the outside world. I chew on my cheek, unease creeping into me. But then I look around. The beaches, warm sun. I shove my phone into my bag. This is ridiculous. I’m a grown woman. I should be able to live without my phone for a week. I can spend all day lounging on white sands, sipping pretty cocktails, instead of throwing myself down the rabbit hole of social media and living in constant fear of my parasitic aunt messaging me with demands. This will be relaxing. Great! Fun, even! At least that’s what I try to tell myself.

How could Bella Marie do this to a group of influencers who depend on their little apps for their careers? Technology is crucial to my existence. I’m not even sure if I have an identity outside of the internet. She’s stripping away my livelihood! Is this what it feels like to be an addict? If so, I think I might be addicted to the refreshing animation on Instagram. The sound of notifications. The sight of views going up. The support of my Chloe Crew. The rush of compliments and praise at my fingertips. I’m itching for it—the fix of social media. Without it, I’m empty, a void. An iPad kid without her iPad.

“Just because we’re white doesn’t mean we work any less hard for our following,” Maya says. “Social media creates an equal playing field for everyone,” Emmeline adds. “Equal?” Iz jolts. “Is that a joke? You do realize the basis of social media starts offline, right? Social media is inherently unequal. I mean, even if we disregard race entirely, there are so many barriers to accessibility. Who can afford a phone? Who has access to stable internet? Who has time to scroll and learn about trends instead of clocking in to a double shift to feed their families? Even what country you’re born in affects it. There’s nothing equal about social media. Sure, once in a blue moon it uplifts creators from underserved backgrounds, but that’s like finding a unicorn amid a stable of horses.”

The wrong twin found us at first. You were the one missing.” “Me?” “When your sister died, you saw the opportunity and you held on to it. You acted on the unthinkable; you took a risk and maneuvered yourself to the top. Others might deem you shameful, immoral, psychopathic, but not us. Not us. You did what any of us would do. We will never judge or admonish you for your courage and determination. You are just like all of us. We understand you. Don’t you see it? We can become your family. True family. We are the only people who will be able to see you and accept you.”

As I head back to my bungalow, my mind drowns in thoughts of Chloe. For five whole years, she was a member of the Belladonnas, a believer in Eto, one of the family. Then, she dies, and the girls barely blink an eye, accepting a replacement at the snap of their fingers. I knew my twin for four hazy years of childhood, yet I continued to think of her for most of my life. And when I couldn’t connect to her, when she abandoned me, I filled her image with hatred and envy because I couldn’t fathom a life where she didn’t take up space in my mind. That’s how much she mattered to me. That’s what being a family should be like. When I confront the truth this way, the Belladonnas’ cruelty toward Chloe is apparent. Would I be any different? Is their pretty affection nothing more than fantasy? A mirage that vanishes once I open my eyes? At one point, I desired their connection, their friendship, their empathy, and group synergy. But I have this sinking feeling that everything I receive here is false and shallow, as authentic as a sponsored post.

am just so delighted for Angelique. Thanks to Eto, her growth has been explosive. And with how special and holy her sacrifice was, in due time the whole world will see how kind and beautiful and lovely she is.” My blood runs cold. Sacrifice. The baby. Her firstborn child. Of course. How did I not realize? She sacrificed her firstborn child to Eto for followers. Well, I guess it’s official. There’s no more denying it. They’re all batshit insane.

“Inhumane? Me? Inhumane? You’re the one who stole your sister’s life.” I flinch. Didn’t she proclaim it to be a brave act? “Don’t you see what I’ve done for you girls? I’m uplifting you. Welcoming you into the family. I’m generous. I’m kind. I’m beautiful and loving. Things usually work better than this. We normally introduce one new member at a time so as not to overwhelm. But it’s all because of my dear cousin’s tweets and you that we’ve had to improvise.” She opens her arms for a hug. “But it’s not too late. We all make mistakes. If you repent, we can take you back.” Only a day ago, her open arms filled my heart with warmth. But now my blood runs cold as I take another step back. “F-fuck you,” I spit. She’s in front of the light now, her skin sallow. She drops her arms and sighs. “I should have known that Chloe’s twin would cause problems.” She steeples her temple. “After all I did to take care of her.” My teeth chatter. “Take care?” She tips her head, makes a small aw sound. “Darling, are you slow? Chloe would never die from something as blasé as a drug overdose.” “Y-you—” The words catch in my throat. “You killed her.” “Don’t be so crass. Killed is a very dramatic word. I simply eased her into eternal sleep by lacing her water with some drugs that interacted poorly with her anti-depressants.”

That’s right. The world knows I stole my twin’s identity and that I’m really Julie Chan. And you would never guess who exposed me. Iz. Yep. That Iz. Isla motherfucking Harris. After I saved her ass from those psychopaths and prevented her from being a murderer—from being murdered—she ratted on me while I was passed out. She claimed she overheard the girls calling me Julie in some cult ritual, and it didn’t take long for the authorities to piece two and two together. A part of me wants to be angry at her betrayal. But after all I’ve gone through, the blood on my hands, I’m too resigned to feel any emotion as pointed as anger. Still, sometimes I think about what might have happened if I had just left Iz in that bungalow.

There are even stan-accounts of me. And I mean me. Accounts that support Julie Chan. Edits of me to TikTok sounds, Reddit threads that attempt to justify my actions, and thirst-traps litter Instagram. As one internet dweller said, I support women’s rights and women’s wrongs. The people love me. (I’ve also become the Second Coming of Christ to certain shadowy corners of the internet after validating their evil-cabal-of-elite conspiracies. Tinfoil hats aren’t part of my brand, but they’ve become my loudest supporters regardless.)