The Eighth Girl

by Maxine Mei-Fung Chung

  A pause.

  “Please?” She tests, “I handed my notice in at Jean&Co.”

  “But I’m working at Chen’s, then—”

  “Look,” she persists, “you can meet Shaun after, right? Kill two birds and all that?”

  There is silence, the Flock none too pleased with Ella’s use of metaphor.

  “Like I said, it won’t be forever,” she says. “I just want to earn enough money so I can move out, get my own place.”

  I know my answer ought to be no, but I find myself yielding. My Reason, such an amazing friend who walked into my life when the rest of the world walked out, my nonblood sister, loving me in a way that no one else could.

  I stare out at my bedroom. Gaze fixed on a Russian doll (a gift and Ella’s idea of a joke) balancing on top of my oak dresser.

  Flash.

  Ella and I are lying on my bed.

  Two scratchy white towels covering our darling breasts and soft pubic hair. I feel a slick of heat between my thighs, the cool shower having impressed a zing of lemon on our sunburned skin. Ella catches the twist on my face as I pinch my pudge of tummy flesh, measuring its crime.

  “Don’t,” she says, placing her damp hand on top of mine, “it’s lovely. And anyway, it’s only men who think tummies should be flat.”

  I try to feel comfortable with her closeness, likening it to the times when my mother would lovingly wash and braid my hair. How, when she tied the plastic bauble, checked it wasn’t too tight, had cupped my face. “There,” she’d say, “perfect.”

  Ella turns to me and smiles. The afternoon light sparkling behind her, the bright sun a beacon of hope encapsulating all things beautiful and just.

  “For you,” she says, handing me the Russian doll. “Cute, right?”

  My Reason takes a handful of her own tanned paunch and squeezes.

  Flash.

  And we laugh. Our friendship like a flight of birds, free and endless.

  Flash.

  “Alexa!”

  The flashback has taken me away for a moment.

  Tick-tock—

  Lost time. Long enough, I realize, for Dolly to have reached for a coloring book and started work on a frizzy-wigged clown who is holding a trio of balloons.

  I shudder. The sight of the inflated floating rubber forcing me to quickly turn the page. “I’m here,” I say, “sorry. Drifted off for a second.”

  “Well—?”

  I clear my throat. If I don’t go with Ella tonight, who else will? Who else cares?

  “Well. Shaun’s actually working tonight, so I guess—”

  “Great!” She sings, “I’ll pick you up after work.”

  The phone rings off.

  Oneiroi wraps her arms around me, trying to soothe the rising disquiet. My mouth is dry, my palms slick with sweat. I think about the stolen leather jacket. Ella’s confident glide as she cut across the department store, security none the wiser. Her glee when the three of us hit the street outside.

  I walk across the dim landing toward the bathroom, counting my steps, and feel myself leave the Body, my chest suddenly awkward and strained. A child walks alongside me. Black round-toed shoes. Her presence regressed and familiar. Alarmed, she looks to me, eyes wide, hands wringing. Don’t let her go, the child says, it’s not safe. But before I can answer, she too is gone—has disappeared back into the dark corner of my mind. The slap of a hand across my face drowning out Dolly’s cries.

  Several hours have passed.

  Tick-tock—

  I check my surroundings, recognizing the bathroom’s peeling gray walls. A whiff of fried chili and garlic drifting through and kindling my senses. Relieved to see the dozens of familiar cutout pictures of the Queen, I catch Mr. Chen’s high-pitched voice outside.

  Tick-tock—

  Come along, Oneiroi says, handing back the Body, you’d better get dressed. Date night, remember?

  Date night? Runner mocks. Please don’t ever say that out loud.

  Confused, I take the Light. The familiar sense of shrugging back into the Body not dissimilar to climbing into an old sweater, a pair of loose jeans. Oneiroi smiles and hands me my white silk blouse and leather pants.

  Don’t worry, she says, you checked out for a while, but Runner worked your shift and Mr. Chen’s in a good mood. You’d better get changed out of your work clothes, though, and quick; Ella’s on her way.

  Although no one’s watching (apart from the Queen), I cover my small breasts, currently held rather apologetically in a starter bra. My shame causing me to shudder over their being so small, and over my nipples too, like protruding acorns that never seem to go away regardless of temperature.

  I drop down the toilet seat, sit, breathe in, and quickly pull up the zipper on my tight leather pants before flesh knows what I’m up to. Ha! Tricked you, tummy bulge.

  I liken the flabby overspill to the top of a muffin, and feel a wave of disappointment that my refusal to drink anything fizzy or eat anything fat for the past week has had zero, ZERO effect. Damn you, body gods!

  Outside, I can hear Mr. Chen laughing with some customers—a couple, I think, who order the same thing every week: Set dinner, C1, for 2 person. Afterward, the woman usually asks for two fortune cookies, which she snaps open right there on the spot. After reading both, she decides which one belongs to her before handing the other to a man who I assume is her husband. He rarely reads the cookie’s vague prophecy, simply places the thin line of paper on the counter, showing more interest in the angled TV on the wall.

  I peer out the bathroom door, the couple framed in an elongated slice of companionship and domesticity. The woman leans against the counter, occupied with the menu, her blouse a mustard yellow under a sage-green cardigan. A large fake pearl necklace clacking at her throat. She is a little younger than Anna but nowhere near as fashionable. The husband stares at the TV screen, eyes locked on some reality TV show involving spiders and a girl in a glass case. Hundreds are released; the girl screams, her body now a mass of meager black legs.

  I take out my camera and aim its lens toward the couple, dialing them into focus—click, click—the photograph holding a moment, a secret. The woman turns to the TV and then to her husband, tilts her head back and laughs, the girl in the glass box now frantically groping around. The woman drapes her arm around her husband and watches his reaction—click, click—both of them voyeurs to the girl’s desperation. I am seeing them not seeing themselves. I have knowledge of them that they do not have. My hands twitch, a discomfort felt in my gut, then quickly place the camera back in my rucksack.

  Who’s the voyeur now? Runner snickers.

  Stepping into my suede ankle boots, I check my face in the rectangular mirror above the sink, noting a chip in the top corner. A crack spreading to its center causing a slight disjoin to my face. I stand on my tiptoes and my face realigns—becomes whole again. I force myself to accept that the plump-faced girl with shadows cast beneath her eyes is actually me. Me?

  I will buy Mr. Chen a new mirror, I tell myself.

  Ella is waiting for me outside.

  “Copycat!” she shouts, flinging open the car door and sticking her leg out. At first I haven’t a clue what she’s up to, but as I draw closer I realize we’re wearing matching leather pants, our legs like four sticks of licorice.

  “You wore them best.” I laugh.

  “No. You wore them best!” she flatters.

  Climbing into the passenger seat, I kiss Ella’s cheek. “You smell lovely,” I say.

  “You smell of egg fried rice! Glove compartment”—she points—“there’s some mouth freshener in there.”

  I peer in the tiny dark cubicle.

  “This?” I ask.

  “Yep. Spray it.”

  “In my mouth?”

  “Wherever!”

  I ignore her and toss the mint mouth freshener back in the hatch, slapping it shut.

  “I’m only joking—tell her, Runner—I’m only joking, aren’t I?”

 
“Shh,” I whisper, “I haven’t told her where we’re going.”

  Ella cocks her head.

  “Well, get a move on,” she says, “we’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  All right, shh, I mouth.

  “Don’t worry,” she says, “I’ll have a quiet word with her. Runner secretly likes me.”

  “You think?” I say.

  “I know!” Ella smiles.

  “Hey, I’ve got some good news.” I shine. “That job I applied for, they called me for an interview.”

  “Amazing. When?”

  “Next week.”

  I watch her face disguise her insecurity, a tinge of envy detected in her eyes because I know her so well.

  “Cool,” she allows.

  “This is great,” I say, pointing at the stereo, hoping the distraction might ease any awkwardness. “Who is it?”

  Ella turns up the music.

  “Haim. Three sisters, Californian. Super cool, right?”

  We coast through Shoreditch, music filling Ella’s small Fiat Punto. I wind down my window, the bleed of acoustics escaping as the night air enters, blowing my hair—long strands sticking to my sheer lip gloss that I wipe away and tuck behind my left ear. Girls are out, in twos, threes, or more. Their sanguine arms linked as they head into Old Street’s lively bars, legs bare, skirts hitched.

  Crawling up to the traffic lights, Ella stops and checks her lipstick. Cleans her teeth with her tongue and gives the lemon air freshener hanging from her rearview mirror a sharp flick. She releases the clutch. The slow vocals and off-kilter percussion telling me to let go, let go, let go. I close my eyes, releasing a muscle or two, working the words over in my mind like the lusty bounce of a yo-yo.

  Yeah, that’s it, Oneiroi whispers, chill.

  As I sense the Body ease back, my hand reaching to loosen and set free my hair, Runner steps out.

  “Where are you taking us?” she snarls, eyes at half-mast.

  Ella looks at me—us—sensing the switch, and presses down on the gas.

  “To a sex club,” she says, “so either get on board, or get back inside.”

  We park beneath one of the streetlamps in Hoxton Square.

  Already, small groups of thirtysomethings are gathering. The neon light from Electra’s overhead sign casting a haze of magenta across naked shoulders and intimate holds. Two girls pull their boyfriends in close when they catch sight of Ella, her shoulders pulled back for extra zeal. Her swaying silhouette like the night glide of a lynx.

  “He said to use the back entrance,” Ella says, looking past the crowd, then pulls me with her toward the rear of the club. An alley of shadows and stink.

  The Electra Girls are outside smoking. I prepare inwardly for their mood—warm, dismissive—who knows? A beautiful red-haired girl reaches in her Prada clutch, retrieves a cigarette, and tilts her head to one side while her friend offers up a light. She throws her hair across her shoulder, avoiding any possibility of it going up in flames, inhales, head sliding back. The athletic brunette forces the lighter back into the pocket of her spray-on jeans, and then leans against the wall. A clear heel raised behind her. Tenderly they embrace between long drags of smoke.

  Two brittle blondes, twins, join them, both with hair piled high like Mister Softee ice creams. Both younger, they smile, but not before sizing up the other two, a lightning dart from their heavily worked eyes.

  “You don’t have to do this,” I say, turning to Ella, who squeezes my hand three times.

  “It’s fine, come on,” she says. “We won’t be here long. Promise.”

  A pause.

  “Everyone inside okay?” she whispers, pulling me closer.

  “What do you fucking think?” Runner snaps, hijacking the Body.

  Ella stops and weighs up my tone.

  “Sorry,” I say, nudging Runner back inside, “you know Runner. Can’t shut her up sometimes.”

  Taking me by the shoulders, my Reason looks me square in the eyes. “Listen up, everyone,” she reassures us, “it’s gonna be fine. Trust me.”

  Aimed at the Electra Girls, we head toward the alley. The sound of crashing bottles makes me jump and I scoot closer into Ella’s side.

  I suddenly remember—nerves switched on—that the redhead is the girl who was gyrating on the nickel pole on Wednesday night. Up close, I realize she is older than I first thought. A mole floating on the top of her lip, age fixed with thick makeup and tight clothes. Her eyes are wide and buzzing, a sure sign she’s stoned.

  “I’m here to see Navid,” Ella blurts.

  Sniffing out her unease, the girls smile. Seemingly pleased that they have the upper hand.

  “And who are you?” one of the Softee Sisters asks.

  “Ella.”

  “He never mentioned no Ella,” she says.

  “Shaun, the barman, told me to come,” Ella responds. “Said Navid’s looking for someone to work reception, or the bar.”

  The four girls look to one another and snicker. The athletic brunette adjusting her bra strap and checking her nails.

  “Nice jacket,” the redhead says, pawing the collar of Ella’s new leather addition. “Where’d you get it?”

  “It was a gift,” Ella lies.

  The redhead strokes the hem, nods approvingly.

  “He’s in the bar,” she allows. “Up the stairs, then take a left.”

  “Thanks.” Ella smiles.

  Shrugging, the other three let us pass. My back bristles knowing they’re watching us as we make our way up the steep flight of stairs. When I cut a glance over my shoulder, I notice the redhead still staring, her eyes fixed. Then she winks, sly as a cat. Stirred, I smile back.

  A zigzag of black and white tiles leads us inside. Faux opulent deco with geometric shapes, mirrors, and chrome reflecting people’s moods. I hadn’t spotted on Wednesday night—my eyes fixed on a certain barman—how luxurious the polished walnut and black lacquered chairs were mixed alongside satins and furs. The seats are low and streamlined, angled for comfort in single pieces rather than suites, and on top of the bar: a huge silver airplane, wings three feet wide with propellers like giant kitchen whisks.

  An Asian girl with a tight puckered mouth like the arse of a cat walks toward us wearing a short black skirt, stockings, and pearls. She strokes her long anise-brown hair, a wave of cascading curls. A headband securing her bangs.

  “Is that a wig?” Oneiroi whispers, seizing the Body.

  Back inside, I order again, reclaiming the Body, making sure to stay strong in the Light.

  The Asian girl catches her reflection in an etched mirror next to a cream velvet loveseat, clearly not happy with what she sees. Furrows a penciled brow, adjusts a curl. I smile at her, but immediately she shoots me down with war-mongering eyes and a petulant mouth. Face hard and frozen.

  She turns her back to me.

  “Christ,” I say, “I was just being friendly.”

  “No such thing in here.” Ella snorts.

  “So where is he, this Navid?” I ask, already averse.

  Ella shrugs, looks about the room, which is slowly filling with small groups of men in expensive suits smoking fat cigars. City-boy clichés.

  “Not sure,” she says. “I guess we should just wait here.”

  Perching on the oyster barstools I count the liquor bottles lined up to ease my anxiety—eleven, twelve, thirteen—then turn to watch another hostess with a fake chest, also Asian, delivering a bottle of champagne with a tacky sparkler emitting colored flames. The group of men cheer. She laughs, opening the heavy bottle with a flirtatious pop, then throws back her head, revealing perfect white teeth, and allows one of the men to pat her ass. She gives him a wiggle, a silk bow on her short black skirt bouncing up and down.

  After pouring she stands the bottle in an ice bucket and takes a credit card. The men relax. One puffs on a cigar, making a fat smoke ring. With his palm, he drums the leather seat beside him, an invitation to join their little party. But the hostess simply smiles
, points at the bar. The man feigns disappointment, his face dropping like the painted mouth of a clown, belly straining against his white nylon shirt. He slips a folded banknote in the top of the girl’s stocking.

  Asshole, Runner curses in my head.

  She’s right, I think. He is an asshole. In his mind the Electra Girls have made a choice. Empowered their bodies to do what they want with whom they want. But we all know this is bullshit. That it simply makes these cheating bastards feel better about themselves. The ones who get off on the Electra’s young, prostituted bodies, telling their wives they’ll be home late—that work’s a bitch—and not to wait up. What do they care that each of these girls is someone’s daughter? No one here needs to know that. It’s distasteful. Vulgar. Spoils the fantasy. In the Electra you can leave the outside—outside. The reality makes me feel angry. Then immediately a little sad. Were I something to taste, this club would surely spit me out.

  Ella suddenly jumps up.

  “Hey!” She cheers, waving at two girls, both in skintight jeans and throwing around their flesh—tanned as a coconut—like they’re auditioning for a pop video. Scanning the girls, I immediately rank myself fourth in our soon-to-be-formed girl band, falling short in the breast department—as usual. I reach around the back of my bra and yank down on the clasp, then quickly pull up the straps, hoping the hoist will make my breasts more pert.

  “They work at Jean&Co,” Ella whispers, the girls fast approaching.

  “Hey, Ella,” the prettiest girl says, kissing Ella’s cheek, “what are you doing here?” The other turns to me, kisses my cheek too, even though we’ve never met.

  “Meeting the owner.”

  “Navid?”

  “You know him?”

  “Yeah, we know him,” they say in sync, pushing their chests out like bloated frigates, imagining, I suspect, that the act might conjure Navid himself. “We started work here last week. No more jeans. Thank God.”

  The girls laugh.

  “Cool,” Ella says.

  “Can you tell me where the bathroom is?” I interrupt.

  “Over there.” The prettier girl points. “Through the double doors.”