At that time Beibei was in senior high, Lulu was in junior high, and I was in primary school. I was mature for my age and liked to mix with friends older than me. The three of us got up to all sorts of mischief together, and we've been inseparable ever since.

At the time, China didn't have private schools, but Jingshan was very exclusive. Most of my classmates came from distinguished families. I was born in the United States and returned to China at age five. My family was categorized as "patriotic overseas Chinese," so I was fine. Beibei's grandfather was a high-ranking Old Revolutionary who the government assigned a big courtyard house in the best part of the town, a chauffeur, a nanny, and two assistants. She was fine. Lulu came from an ordinary family in southern China, but she was not only the cutest girl in school but also a child star who knew how to sing well.

Twelve years ago, we three girls made Beibei's grandfather's chauffeur drive us to every five-star hotel in Beijing in the Mercedes 600. At that time, Chinese people were not allowed into five-star hotels, and the doormen, not knowing what to do when they saw three scruffy girls climb out of the Mercedes 600, greeted us in Japanese. At a time when most Chinese households did not have a telephone, at my house, we used our household phone to call up male celebrities, pretending to be the hottest actresses of the time and professing our love for them. We didn't know we were privileged until much later.

Now, Beibei is president of Chichi Entertainment Company, which she founded five years ago; she currently employs five hundred people and represents one-quarter of the top actors and singers in China. Chinese singers make real bucks nowadays. Through Beibei I've learned that they can charge $100,000 for singing four songs in a concert. And this is aftertax money. Beibei keeps telling me that with such a cute face, I went into the wrong business as a reporter.