‘Penis,’ the beautiful woman says.
Jill’s eyes widen. She soaks it all up.
The male Gender Police officer looks the woman up and down and nods in the direction of the men’s bathroom with a quick flick of his head. The beautiful woman stalls.
‘I understand your rules, but I wonder if I could go to the woman’s toilet. If you could make this one exception, please,’ the beautiful woman pleads. ‘There was an incident the last time, and I’m really quite afraid to—’
‘You’re wearing a blue wristband, your birth cert says male, you’re going in the men’s,’ the Gender Police officer says, avoiding her eye.
‘That’s not fair, Mummy!’ Jill cries. ‘Say something!’
She freezes.
‘Please,’ the beautiful woman before them pleads again.
‘Don’t make any trouble,’ he says firmly, finally looking her in the eye. ‘There are kids here. This is a family park.’
‘I don’t mind if she goes in the girls’,’ Jill speaks up.
The beautiful woman turns to look at Jill with gratitude, eyes filled, moved.
‘Thank you,’ she smiles.
Jill beams.
‘Doesn’t matter, rules are rules, into the men’s or out of the queue,’ the cop says.
The beautiful woman pulls her bag closer to her body, hugging it for comfort and protection, as she walks slowly into the men’s toilets.
‘I’m sorry you had to witness that,’ the Gender Police officer says.
The woman opens her mouth to say something but she can’t.
‘I’m sorry I had to witness you being a mean bully,’ Jill says to him, and storms past him into the toilets.
The woman chases her, shocked. She stands in her stall, her forehead pressed against the door. She closes her eyes, feeling weak. Her six-year-old can see what she is only seeing now. Her six-year-old can say what she cannot.
12
The woman sits with her family at the kitchen table for dinner. She toys with her food, lost in her thoughts. It has been a troubling week. Jack, Jill and Dan talk and joke while she feels detached. Dan looks at her with worry, then back to the children.
Dan finishes his dinner and stands up and stretches. ‘I’m going to watch the football.’ He moves towards the door.
She eyes the dirty plate left behind on the kitchen table. She looks so angry, she feels angry and dangerous. Dan senses this mood and carries his plate to the sink, beside the dishwasher. The dishwasher is bright pink in the sleek grey kitchen.
‘The dishwasher is empty,’ she says firmly.
He looks at the dishwasher, then back to her, in confusion.
She bangs down her cutlery noisily, pushes her chair back from the table and stands. She goes to the bin, and pulls the bin liners out. The bin liners are blue.
‘What are you doing?’ Dan asks.
‘Taking the rubbish out.’
‘But, sweetheart,’ he says pointing to his crotch. ‘Penis.’
The children are watching, wide-eyed. She looks at Jill, who wanted her to speak and couldn’t, and suddenly feels motivated.
‘This vagina is well able to take out the rubbish.’
The kids grin and they giggle. Dan is taken aback as she leaves the room. She stays by the chute until she calms and when she returns to her family she sees that the kitchen table has been cleared, the dishwasher has been filled. Dan is on the floor wearing a tiara, Jack is wearing a tutu with a Viking helmet and Jill is wearing fairy wings and pointing a sword at Dan.
She smiles at Dan.
13
The pink iPhone alarm sounds on the nightstand, and the woman knocks it off. She is already sitting up in bed, wide-awake.
‘You look ready for action,’ Dan says, sleepily.
‘I am.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘I’m going to grab today by the balls.’ She thinks. ‘And boobs.’
‘Is it wrong that that turns me on?’ Dan says, and she laughs and leans in to kiss him.
14
A cabbie is reading the newspaper when the door opens and slams shut. He turns around to see the woman sitting inside.
‘Drive,’ she says, with determination in her voice.
He sees the pink band around her wrist.
‘No way, I can’t drive a vagina on its own. You have to have a penis with you.’
The woman shoves money through the hatch. ‘These are all the same colour aren’t they?’
Looking around to make sure no one is watching, he starts the engine.
15
In Starbucks, the woman slams down a large silver takeout mug on the counter.
‘Grande latte. To go.’
Olaf looks at her, bored. ‘Penis or—’
‘For me. This thirsty human being. Because if I’m not me, who else can I be?’
Olaf looks up at the woman and finally her cool exterior cracks. She grins. ‘Cool. One latte for a human being coming up.’
The woman is surprised, she was anticipating an argument. ‘Oh. Thank you.’
16
With her takeout coffee mug in one hand, her briefcase in another, she charges towards the office. She fully intends on holding the door for herself, to hell with the rules that do nothing but put limits on people. She doesn’t care about the penalty points, she will continue to live her life as an individual regardless of society’s punishments. But as she gets closer she realizes that this is not as easy as she thought. There is no one around and she attempts to get the door, she has no hands free. She struggles to tuck the coffee mug under one arm, which doesn’t work, and so she tries to tuck her briefcase under the other arm. Neither are working. She hops around as she tries to hook her heeled shoe around the lowest part of the bar to pull the door open. This time she genuinely needs help.
A man rushes to hold the door open for her. ‘I’ll get that.’
She smiles. She is okay with being helped when she needs it.
‘Thank you very much,’ she says, sincerely.
She wakes up and reaches for her phone before her eyes have even unstuck themselves. She checks her last Instagram post, studies the photo of herself, zooms in and all around, tries to imagine what others see of her, what impression she has managed to convey. She thinks individually of her friends, how this photo would impact each of them. She checks the likes. Over one million. Not as many as yesterday. Her heart skips a little when she sees the names of who has liked her post, people she was hoping to impress have indeed been impressed, or at least tapped the heart to show they’ve acknowledged it. She checks up on a few other people, what they’re doing, with who, why they haven’t liked her post. This takes one hour, which felt like one minute.
She takes a shower, dresses in her workout gear. She spends an hour doing her make-up, contouring her skin so that her cheekbones are highlighted, her eyebrows are thick, lush and smooth and her lips are bouncy. She wears an oversized pair of sunglasses and throws peace signs to the paparazzi who have been outside her house since the crack of dawn. She is mindful of her posture, her facial expression, everything about every muscle in her own body is in her mind as she climbs into the car and drives. Some follow her on motorbikes. She holds her pose, works hard not to think – thinking gives her an ugly concentrating frown.
She goes to the gym, asks her trainer to record some of her workouts, adds filters, she adds it to her app. No one is getting this for free, they’ll need to subscribe; she’s already done free photos from her house to the gym, photos that will be all over the internet by now. Playing around with the light, the filter, the editing, takes one hour to perfect. She grabs a protein drink, sucks on the straw with her oversized lips, and long newly manicured nails, straight from her own nail polish line. She drives home. She reads magazines, studies fashion, tweets and Instagram posts for the rest of the afternoon. She meets a friend for lunch, she catches up on gossip. Who did what to who, and how it all affects her. She plans new lip injecti
ons. She plans a new holiday and photoshoot around these new procedures. She tries on free clothes that have been sent to her. She answers emails about her various businesses. She browses the internet. She plans a new weekend getaway with friends on a yacht. She plans the bikini suitcase.
She turns off the news when it comes on, an election of some kind. She doesn’t want to know, it doesn’t affect her. She finds a place in her bedroom with good lighting, moves some items around and takes a photo of herself. Plays around with the filters. Hours have passed. It’s dark outside.
When she wakes she has a feeling that she’s been floating. It gives her a fright and she lands on her back, wakes up in a sweat.
Wide awake, she checks her new post. One point five million likes.
Going downstairs, it takes longer for her feet to touch the floor, as though gravity has been affected, like she’s on the moon.
New nails, hair extensions, exfoliation, an hour in make-up. She tries on various outfits, she can’t decide. Nothing looks good, she doesn’t want to go outside, feeling huffy. She reads magazines, the pages where they’ve circled women’s flaws is her favourite; it scares her but she’s drawn to it, drawn to seeing other people’s flaws.
She checks her Instagram. Wonders how to shock with her next photo. The lips will help. Bum implants are almost ready to be revealed.
As she walks to her car, she feels light-headed, slower than usual, her feet don’t connect properly with the ground. She wonders if it’s the new thigh-high boots she is wearing with her skinny ripped black jeans, and a lacy lingerie body suit beneath.
She straps her seat belt tight, feeling that it will keep her secured in her seat.
She does an interview with a teen magazine about her new self-plumping lipgloss. She fields the questions, there’s nothing to trip her up, they never ask her about stuff she doesn’t know about. She lies about the injections. Her insecurities are none of their business. It’s so hard to be a teenager in this business with all eyes of the world on her. She is under extreme pressure to deliver. The interview and photoshoot are done at her new frozen yoghurt restaurant.
She instagrams a photo of her licking a cherry, wearing her new cherry-coloured lipgloss, with cherry-coloured nails. Hungry, seducing eyes. Later she checks her likes: two million.
As she walks back to her car her feet lift from the ground and she can’t get down. The paparazzi surround her, taking photographs. She floats higher, they keep taking photos. Everybody clicks, she sees the flashes, she tries to maintain her calm exterior, her sucked-in cheekbones, but she is panicking. What is happening? She starts to lose her cool, she starts to kick and scream. Her feet reach the level of her car roof, her stilettos scratch the roof of her new car as she kicks furiously, trying to tread the air. She can’t get back down.
Finally the photographer from the teen magazine runs from the frozen yoghurt restaurant and grabs her by the ankle. He pulls her down. Shaken, she runs back into the restaurant. The restaurant is besieged by the press. Her floating incident has gone viral. Business is out the door. She gains five million new followers. She’s made all the top news stories, beating that election stuff on some channels.
When her mother, her manager, bursts in, she finds her daughter reading news about herself on her phone, with her back flat against the ceiling.
Emergency services help peel her from the ceiling. They take her away and she watches the news report about herself on her phone. She has one million more new followers, she is now on seventy million followers. She starts to float again.
The hospital machines beep as she takes off, the tubes strain.
The specialist watches her.
Her momager shouts in panic for him to do something. He has never seen anything like it in his life.
‘What is she doing on her phone?’
‘I’m guessing she’s on Instagram. Honey?’
‘I’m on every single news report,’ she says from the ceiling, unable to take her eyes from the screen. ‘Mom, the lipgloss has sold out.’
They have a conversation about the lipgloss from floor to ceiling.
‘Did she finish high school?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good interaction with others?’
‘She was home-schooled.’
‘College? Any further education? Part-time jobs?’
‘She didn’t need to. She has her own businesses.’
‘She runs these businesses?’
‘Her team does. She’s the creative director.’
‘I see. Do you like to read?’ he calls up to her.
‘I’m reading now,’ she replies, keeping her eyes on her phone.
‘Books?’
She scrunches up her face and shakes her head.
‘Right. Do you watch the news? Documentaries?’
‘I don’t really watch TV. I have my own reality show. I make TV,’ she laughs.
‘I think I understand what’s going on,’ the specialist says, turning to the momager. ‘Her brain is vacuous. It’s busy, but it’s filled with thoughts, predominantly about herself. Because of this there is nothing of any substance in her brain. There is nothing to root her, no weight at all.’
‘That’s ridiculous, she’s a businesswoman. Forbes listed her as one of the top twenty Teens To Watch this year. She’s worth hundreds of millions.’
‘That’s not really the issue.’ He frowns. ‘These brands are all about herself. And these brands are money-making schemes I’m guessing, all self-promotion.’
‘Every business is the same.’
‘Many people have passion for their subject. Passion brings a certain degree of intensity, a positive affinity to a certain subject, caring, drive, ambition, many things that have weight. Your daughter’s passion is for self-adulation, self-promotion, attention, her passion is for herself. You cannot fill your mind with yourself, it carries no weight.’
She floats to the window to film the fans outside who are chanting her name. She snapchats it, but she’s not careful and she drifts out the open window, away from her mother and manager who can’t reach her, away from the specialist. She floats above the heads of the fans who film her instead of helping her. She drifts higher and higher into the sky until she disappears from sight completely.
She gains ten million more followers after that, and becomes the most followed person on Instagram, with over one hundred million followers, but of course she never discovers this. She has filled her thoughts and actions with too much of herself, there is no room for anything with weight or substance, or meaning.
She became so light, her head filled with too much nothing, she blew away.
It was the job interview, for a job that she didn’t get, which began her quest.
‘What would you say is your strong suit?’ the interviewer had asked her.
The woman paused. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Your strong suit, what would you say it is?’
The woman frowned, puzzled. She had never heard of this before.
‘I’m sorry but I don’t believe I have one.’
‘You must have one,’ the interviewer sat forward, as though finally interested in the words coming out of her mouth, despite the fact they were not winning words.
‘I really don’t.’
‘Everyone has one.’
‘Everyone?’
‘Yes, everyone.’
She cursed her older sister. Yet another thing that she should have told her.
‘Even women have this … this suit?’
He frowned. ‘Yes, even women.’
It was like being told that all of her life she has been wearing her shoes on the wrong feet. She felt off-kilter, completely disorientated. A strong suit that everybody in the world has, except for her. Why wasn’t she told? She thought of her wardrobe, of all of her outfits, wondering if one of them was her strong suit and she never realized it. Nothing came to mind.
‘This strong suit,’ she cleared her throat, trying not to sound as stup
id as she felt. ‘Would it be something that I got for myself or that’s given to me?’
‘You would have it yourself, though some people would argue that it’s passed down to you through the generations.’
‘No. Not in my family,’ she shook her head. ‘They don’t keep anything, and my mother wasn’t big on wearing trouser suits.’
He laughed at first, thinking she was joking, then studied her curiously. ‘Well, thank you for coming in.’ He stood up, extended his hand, and she knew it was over.
She travelled home, furious that nobody had told her that she should have a strong suit. It wasn’t on the job application. She had a master’s degree, a PhD, the references and requisite experience for the job, but nobody had ever mentioned to her while growing up the need to wear a strong suit. Why hadn’t her friends told her? Or was it like her period, she was just going to have to figure it out by herself, because her parents were too awkward and lazy to explain it themselves?
She called her sister.
‘Hey, how did the interview go?’
‘Terrible. Do you have a strong suit?’ she fumed.
‘A strong suit? Why?’
‘Humour me.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose I do. I—’
The woman gasped. Even her sister had one, her older sister who was supposed to tell her everything, who let her down about French kissing and everything else she should have told her.
‘What about Jake and Robbie?’ she asked about their brothers. ‘Do they have them too?’
‘Do they have what?’
‘Strong suits?’ she almost yelled down the phone but tried to breathe.
‘You know them as well as I do, sweetheart – of course they do. Particularly Robbie. I mean, he has a couple.’
She gasps. A couple? ‘Did Mum and Dad give them to you? Did they pass them down?’ And if so, why was she left out?
‘Are you kidding? Sweetie, are you okay? You sound … unusual.’
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