She raises her head to check my response and laughs softly. Tucks a strand of loose hair behind her right ear—a nervous tic, I tell myself, noticing half of it is missing.
“Thank you,” I say. “It’s good to finally meet you all.”
8
Alexa Wú
The redhead dabs the corners of her glossed mouth, eyes fixed on her reflection. She calmly slides her gaze across the changing room, adjusts her dressing gown—agape—exposing bronzed and oiled legs. A wrap of fuchsia silk tied with a sloppy bow.
“Has anyone seen my eyelash curler?” she shouts, fingering her gold necklace.
The other Electra Girls shrug. Too busy with their own hair and makeup to care. Their concentration pinned on their pretty mirrored selves, Hollywood-style lightbulbs casting shadows across their powdery faces.
“What time do you finish?” I ask, catching sight of a girl, natural and slightly plump, sitting with legs tucked beneath her on an easy chair, flicking through a stale magazine.
Ella hands over her own eyelash curler and turns to me. Her mouth outlined in deep red.
“Two-ish,” she says, filling in her bottom lip, “maybe three.”
“Who’s that?” I whisper, nodding toward the girl.
“Sylvie,” she whispers, glancing toward the redhead. “They’re old friends. Apparently they go way back.”
I risk a look, noting Sylvie’s cute style, homely and neat. A pair of pale corduroys and modest makeup enhancing pretty eyes.
“Fancy hanging out tomorrow?” I ask, turning back and noting the clench in my gut. Potential rebuff both plain and familiar.
“Sure,” Ella says.
The clench is killed. Replaced now with insecurity at the sight of the redhead’s mostly naked body. Ella holds on to my shoulder, steps into three-inch heels.
“What are you and Shaun doing tonight?” she asks.
“Movie,” I say, “then dinner.”
The redhead forces a hoop through a naked ear, sprays her body with sweet perfume rivaling the musky damp of the room. Doomed competition, I think, everywhere. Pumping like blood through veins, the very heart of this place. The Electra Girls forced to spar like sexualized gladiators, their side glances trailing each other’s moves and forming some kind of pecking order. Don’t they realize they’re being played? That it’s the men who run the show, control the game?
Most likely, Runner says, glancing at the girls, but they’re damaged, and scared. And most likely hurting.
I suddenly remember my final-year degree show, picturing my classmate Mia Knight’s face when I was awarded the Getty Emerging Talent Award.
It was presumed that well-connected Mia, with her aptitude for lighting and lip service, along with a killer ambition, would surely snatch the award. So understandably Mia was annoyed at my success, her perfect tiny turned-up nose out of joint and stuck up in the air that I’d even applied for the award, let alone won it.
“Pfft,” she’d dismissed with a glare, “I’m guessing equal opportunities played a part.”
“Yeah, or maybe she shagged one of the judges,” her sister Nikki scoffed, rewarded by Mia’s keen snort.
I accepted the award, of course, and a smile remained in my eyes long enough to catch Mia’s upturned snout in the air like she was smelling freshly slung dung. The judges each shaking my shy hand, a photograph then taken of us all together.
I stared Mia dead in the eye—
Take that, Miss Piggy, I voiced in my head. Hai-ya!
The door suddenly swings open.
Navid appears with a stack of chocolate boxes balanced on his palm, a light smirk on his tanned face.
“Navid!” the redhead calls, dancing toward him and winking at Sylvie, her dressing gown waterfalling from her sleek shoulders. She presses her breasts against him, kisses him on the mouth, cheek, and neck, slightly frantic. The girls turn away. Sylvie too has a noticeable look of contempt.
“For you,” he says, reaching for the top box. “Not that you need them. You’re sweet anyway.”
Oh please, Runner says, I think I’m gonna throw up.
But as the redhead reaches out, Navid draws the box away. “Not too many,” he warns, swatting her ass.
She rolls her eyes, rests her manicured hands on her hips, elbows bent. Navid baits some more, each time inching the chocolate box farther back. The chorus of girls giggling in the background. A gaggle of geese.
His little game is slayed when the redhead eventually snatches the chocolates out from his hand. He takes another box then and hands it to Ella.
“For our new girl.” He smiles, addressing the room. “I hope you’re all being friendly and helping Ella settle in?”
None of the girls answer.
“Hey!” he shouts.
The girls turn, jolting back into themselves. Stare at Ella with defiance, muttering “Sure” and “Okay,” not meaning a word of it. Ella shyly takes the box in her hands, nervously fingering the cellophane corners.
“Dark chocolate,” she says, looking up. “My favorite.”
There is a thirsty shake to her voice.
“You’re welcome,” Navid says. “It’s not often we have such a beautiful girl in need of chocolate.”
There is something in his voice—an endless charm—that alerts me to how this will surely play out. His eyes are slow and penetrating. His hand on top of Ella’s thumbs as she clutches the box of chocolates.
He will hurt her, I think. He will chew her up and spit her out.
Sylvie and I catch each other’s gaze, the magazine now resting in her lap. I risk a smile, which she returns before throwing Navid a dark look.
“Come,” he says, dropping his hand to cup Ella’s waist, “I’ll show you around.”
The redhead shifts on her heel, tossing her chocolate box to the ground.
Navid turns and clears his throat.
“Pick that up,” he orders.
The redhead pauses for a second and looks him square in the eye, then bends down, scoops up the box, and thrusts it across her dressing table. The other girls feign interest in their hair and makeup, sensing, I imagine, the redhead’s envy. In silence, the Softee Sisters each take a box of chocolates for themselves, and as they reach over to collect their sweet bribes from Navid’s palm, I note they are also wearing gold chains with small keys attached.
“You lot can share,” one Softee Sister orders the other girls, cramming her own in a black leather tote where she sits.
Ella tugs at my arm to follow her and Navid. The whitewashed paint on the makeshift walls barely covering the poop-colored brown underneath. Black-and-white photographs of seminude girls, eighties Athena-style prints of fast cars, fluffy white kittens, Pammy running down the beach in her famous red one-piece. I throw my nose in the air, professional snobbery breeding judgment, dismissive and curt.
Get you, Runner mocks, Little Miss Photojournalist.
On the wall next to the bathroom is a list of telephone numbers: hairdressers, beauty salons, nail bars. The Glitter Girls nail salon scratched out and replaced with Polish Me Pretty. Beneath: a pile of well-thumbed dictionaries and a copy of Basic English Grammar for Dummies beside an aging cracked wicker basket filled with a variety of beauty and hygiene items. Ella reaches in the basket and greedily swipes a bottle of apple-red nail polish to match her mouth. Clenches it tight in her hand and looks back at me with a wink. I tug at her arm but she pulls away, yanking so hard my hand drops. Her thieving, like the jacket incident, instantly bothers me. Have some pride, some self-respect, I want to yell. But then I realize my disapproval is most likely born of the stark and painful reminder of my own needs grown from deprivation.
“Have the girls shown you where we keep all the new dresses and shoes?” Navid asks.
Ella’s pace quickens. “No, they haven’t.” Hope rising that her deprivation will soon be soothed by greed.
I shudder, her wanting obvious and plain.
“Well, they should have,” he says
, his voice strong and quick. “Come, let’s choose something for you to wear.”
The whitewash stops when we turn the corner. I wave Ella on. The idea of witnessing Navid’s lure, his grooming of her—Ella in the hold of his slick palm and seemingly thrilled—turns my stomach. I make a phone gesture with my hand. Call you tomorrow, I mouth.
Okay, she mouths back, happy to be plucked from the gaggle of geese.
For a moment, I loathe her girly ways.
Navid holds out his hand, forcing Ella to catch his eyes. She laughs, seemingly shy. Nevertheless, she takes it, his tug setting her off balance. His smile somewhere close to believable. I wince.
They walk ahead. He has her now, I say, the Flock agreeing. Dolly hides, scuttling behind Runner, who instinctively offers a protective hand, both of them watching while my Reason and Navid slink away—cat and cub—nearing her rite of passage. Edging toward the wardrobe of bribes to end girlhood dreams.
Growing up, I had dreams. It seemed possible they could even come true. I wasn’t completely stuck on my own. I had Anna. My personalities. And school. But it was different for Ella. Sure, she had Grace, but no father, a negligent mother, and very few dreams of her own. Validation and visibility went amiss. When offered attention she’s sure as hell taken it, a little too keenly sometimes. I like to think I’ve reassured her like some sidekick Sally. But the sad reality, I’ve come to comprehend, is that it’s not me she wants, but the attention of men. I see it in her eyes. The longing. Her heart wounded and searching like an orphaned cub. A message signaled in the way she holds her gaze. Her keen-to-please body. The quick opening of her mouth transforming a look from ashamed to sexy, that speaks: Please love me.
Whereas Ella’s desire for attention and acceptance has kept her searching for ways to be loved, I had my love for learning, which spawned a desire to find fulfilling work. I had dreams like most girls: buy my own apartment, travel, fall in love, ride a gondola, grow apple trees, dance regularly, plant a garden bursting with tulips, and, most intensely of all, develop stellar photography skills. I thought that if I could document the lives of others, I could exist vicariously through the intimate happenings of all those around me. Some of the uglier aspects of my own life balmed by photographing happy families sprawled out on freshly mowed lawns; pretty, delicate-skinned girls at the beach in tangerine swimsuits; a child holding hands with the air as she awaits her mother’s reach; a father’s hell as he notices a neighbor gazing at his daughter. Moments of mingled voyeurism and intimacy. Moments of truth.
My first makeshift cardboard camera had been made from a box of Kellogg’s Coco Pops, through which I viewed the world with a squinted eye. Any feelings I had, night or day, were released and displaced on wildlife and nature views I gazed at through my cardboard and plastic viewfinders. They were views that couldn’t love me back, but they couldn’t hurt me either. So I was grateful for them. Anything to take me away from my fantastically dire life. And then, on my sixteenth birthday my father did a decent thing, just like the time he bought me a disposable camera for my thirteenth birthday. He gave me enough money for a secondhand Japanese model, and for the first time in forever my life had a purpose.
Finally, I’m a photographer, I voiced in my head, clutching the camera box. The proud owner of a marvelous Canon EOS Kiss III. I still remember how it felt to hold and point that first camera as I peered in close on a family of thrushes, a collection of inanimate objects around the house, an abandoned shoe. It made even things that were ordinary seem like treasure. And then I happened upon my love affair with Hampstead Heath: its vast expanse of woodland and rolling hills a place to walk and think. For hours I pored over maps, climbed fences, followed dense bushes, and jumped streams, taking photographs wherever I fancied. I discovered walled gardens, lush hedgerows, and wild, expansive grasslands, all home to nature’s way. The Heath, I always felt, was bristling with life, and in turn this gave me pause to consider mine.
I look back, checking my watch, wondering how long it is until Shaun finishes his shift. I use the bathroom and then wander across the hall into a tired-looking makeshift bedroom. Chubby cartoon characters have been tacked to the wall and are lined up like little friends waiting to race. In one corner is a single bed made of pine, a duvet with Dora the Explorer strewn across. A gang of stuffed animals huddled together: a tiger, a bear, and a giraffe with one ear. I touch my own ear, finger running along the edge of gristle, softened over time. Sitting down on the bed, I look at the jumble of wooden jigsaw puzzles, hardback picture books, musical plush toys, and a demented pink rabbit with a drum. All here to satisfy little girls and boys while their mothers strip upstairs.
Next to the bed is a small chest of drawers, and on it an oval mirror, a half-eaten sleeve of cheesy puffs, and a Hello Kitty night-light. Inside the drawers, I find a bottle of Nytol elixir and sleeping pills. I imagine the men above me watching their mothers and panting, mouths slack like open garage doors. The children sleeping. The Electra Girls yielding a known value later slipped into the tops of their stockings.
The redhead appears, I assume in search of Navid and Ella. She shows little interest in my presence, my looks and breasts not up to par.
No competition here, Runner says.
I watch her squat, her dressing gown draped across her naked body, humble like a child’s. Her crouch is easy and youthful. Slowly she gathers the toys, placing a musical plush doll alongside the stuffed animals, and opens a picture book.
I pretend to look away, preoccupied with my phone.
Suddenly her face softens, her gaze captivated by a family of flat-faced owls. She smiles, touches the page as if it were Braille, eyes following the words. But then she catches me watching—and snaps the book closed. She stands suddenly, setting off the demented drumming rabbit. Startled, she squats again, in search of a switch. Is relieved when the rabbit’s foot finally stops thumping. She looks at me, tosses the rabbit to the ground, tearful. The batteries ricocheting across the floor.
She sure likes to throw things, Oneiroi says, noting my unease.
No wonder, I say, consoled by Runner’s safe arms.
Pained, the redhead steps forward. Digs her heel in the dead rabbit’s chest and twists her ankle hard enough that the rabbit eventually breaks. Her lip curls with satisfaction as she walks out.
Dread upsurging, I face the wall and wait for my chest to settle.
And then something occurs to me. Who replaces the batteries? Someone is in charge of making sure the kids are offered gifts, toys—or even drugged?—while their mothers strip upstairs. Who’s grooming them? Priming them to do what their mothers do? Is it Navid? Cassie?
I lean against the wall and turn to the page that roused the redhead’s smile. Three owlets stare back at me. They have woken up to find their owl mother gone. Disappeared.
Where? they wonder. Will she return?
I look up. My motherless reflection suddenly caught in the oval mirror resting on the pine dresser. I think of how my mother—bothered by countless migraines—would still read to me in the comfort of her bed: Judy Blume, Enid Blyton, Beatrix Potter, with a dauntless surge of love, knowing closeness wasn’t something she created for the reward of it. Her love was as willing and as natural as the day was long. And her mother light would surface and remain luminous and ablaze whether people liked it or not.
Flash.
I am nine years old.
“Raise your arms,” my father says.
I close my eyes and wait while he drops a black velveteen dress over my head. The white scalloped collar fastened with a pearl button the size of an eye.
Flash.
I look down at my patent shoes. Also black, with a complicated buckle. Their size pinching my small toes. Earlier, he’d laid the clothes on my bed like one of those paper doll dress-up sheets that you cut out and stick to a naked paper girl. With both hands I smooth down the fat cloud of velvet, enjoying the softness on my sweaty palms.
Flash.
“Be b
rave, Xiǎo Wáwa. No tears. Make Baba proud,” he says.
My mother’s coffin appears. Three fleshy stems of red amaryllis placed on top.
With damp, tired eyes I watch it disappear through ruched black curtains—the vanishing point. I tell myself it’s just a magic trick. That any minute now she’ll spring up from some pew with a toothy smile, singing: “Surprise!”
But she doesn’t. She is gone.
Flash.
“So little. So innocent. Do you think she even understands?” say hushed voices at the wake. Yes, I am little, I say in my head, but I’m not deaf. And yes, I do understand that my mother is dead. Has killed herself.
I pinch down hard on the backs of my legs, not allowing a single tear to escape. Instead stuffing half a moon cake in my mouth and enjoying how the sticky ashy-caramel lotus-seed paste clings to the roof of my mouth. The double yolk clogging in between my tiny, straight teeth. It tastes good. So good that I cram in the other half.
Flash.
My father walks over, disgraced at my greed, and slaps the fronts of my legs for all twelve mourners to see. And I cry.
I cry believing I will never stop. My mother now shoveled into a tan plastic urn.
Flash.
And now Shaun and I are at the movies. Tick-tock. A family-size bucket of popcorn lodged between my thighs.
“You’re quiet tonight. Everything okay?” he asks.
I place my finger to my lips and point at the screen, happy for an excuse not to talk. All the while thinking about the toys, the wardrobe of bribes, the broken pink rabbit—those batteries.
Groomers, Runner whispers, grabbing a fistful of popcorn, what did you expect?
The Eighth Girl Page 8