“I needed them for school,” Grace says, voice shaking at the edge. Face flushed and turning pink. “Mine are too small. All the other kids will laugh at me. I can’t do gym in tracksuit bottoms that ride up my ass!”
For a moment I align with Grace. My arbitration of matters now informed by the memory of the cruel kids born to safe, steady homes. Providing parents. Home-cooked food. Sensible cars. How at thirteen years old—same age as Grace—I’d stenciled a Nike swoosh on a pair of cheapo generic-brand sneakers, a permanent black marker withstanding bad weather and humiliation.
“Need and want are two different things,” Ella snaps.
“You need those new boots Navid bought you last week?”
“They were a gift.”
“Show him your tits, did you?”
“Shut up! You don’t know anything, stupid.”
A standoff.
“Go to your room!” Ella points at the door.
Grace lunges past, knocking shoulders.
“Fucking bitch,” Grace calls.
Ella slumps on the couch, defeated, head held in her hands. Her customarily neat bob ruffled and in need of a comb. “Thanks for coming. Can you believe this?”
“Go easy on her,” I say. “She’s just a kid.”
Ella looks up momentarily, struggling to speak.
Silence.
It’s not Grace’s fault, Oneiroi whispers, Ella taught her to steal in the first place.
Yeah, Dolly agrees, what about that leather jacket?
Exactly, Oneiroi adds.
I take a moment to listen, thinking their voices might somehow give a clue to what I say next. Their jury about to impart penalty or judgment on Ella’s mood.
She’s such a freakin’ hypocrite. Runner snorts.
“So, he bought you new boots?” I dare, a bite in my tone.
“So what?” Ella speaks to the floor.
“So, maybe you’re giving Grace mixed messages,” I say. “On the one hand, you want her to be honest and good, but she sees you taking gifts and nicking stuff yourself. It’s confusing for her. Listen, I wasn’t going to say anything, but I don’t think you should be accepting gifts and money from Navid. It gives him the wrong idea and makes you look weak. Grace needs to look up to her big sister, and I need to respect my friend. And right now, neither is happening.”
She throws me a black look. “Shut up, Alexa. You’re supposed to be on my side.”
I hear Grace hurl something. A crash. But not a break.
Ella shouts at Grace’s door, “You’d better stop that right now!”
She throws herself back on the couch, stares at the ceiling. Eyes flooded.
I wait.
“Where’s your mum?” I finally ask.
“Dunno.” Ella shrugs. “She left a message. Something about needing to be out of town for a while, which probably involves a man.”
Like mother, like daughter, Runner says.
Shhh, Oneiroi warns.
I settle myself beside her, my body pressing against the lumpy couch. Its cushions aged and bobbled, their stuffing sad and limp.
“Want me to talk to her? I can sleep over,” I say, “give you a break?”
“Haven’t you got therapy in the morning?” she asks.
“I can cancel,” I say. “I’ll get Anna to call.”
“I’d like that.” My Reason smiles, lowering her head. Teardrops escaping, fists removed from her jean pockets, laid flat now and resting on her thighs. Gently, she drops her head on my shoulder.
“They were on sale,” she says, “the boots.”
21
Daniel Rosenstein
I check my diary, noting a two-hour break. Anna Wú’s earlier message left with my receptionist, adding yet another cancellation to my day. I could have gone for a run, I think, feeling irked, or boiled an egg. Or maybe read the papers and stayed in bed, Monica’s warm, slow breath sweeping across my back.
Irritated, I make my way to the kitchenette and feed the French press four scoops of strong Colombian, wondering what to do with myself. Read? Catch up on my supervision notes? Call Mohsin?
Relax, I tell myself, enjoy the time, some peace and quiet.
Suddenly an image of Alexa—sick in bed—takes up space in my brain. I picture her asleep. Her leg resting on top of velvety sheets, toes painted red. White cotton pajamas? I wonder. Or a delicate silk slip? I quickly dismiss the scene from my mind.
Running the tap, I squeeze some dish soap inside the mugs, allowing them to soak before finally deciding to call Monica.
“I’ve had a cancellation,” I say.
“Oh. Is that good?” she answers, voice laced with sleep.
“It’s neither good or bad,” I say, “I thought I’d just call you.”
I imagine her stretching, a yawn. The cotton duvet pulled tight to her chest.
She clears her throat.
“Was it your eight a.m.?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Ah, the pretty one,” she says.
“She called in sick, or rather, her stepmother did. Strange call. I imagined her more timid. Alexa’s always painted her as a rather passive, quiet person. She thanked me for looking after Alexa, said that things at home had improved since she’d been coming to therapy. Rather assertive. Anyway, Alexa’s ill, unable to make her session,” I reveal, aware my confidentiality is in breach. My voice is sharp and defensive.
“So, she’s in bed too,” Monica adds.
A pause.
“Dinner tonight?” I distract, uncomfortable with Monica’s suggestion. The image it re-creates.
“Why not?”
“I fancy a steak,” I say.
“With mashed potato,” she adds, her enthusiasm sent down the line.
“I’ll be home around seven.”
“Seven is good.”
“Good. Good.”
Silence.
“By the way,” she whispers, “you’re hopeless at disguising your thoughts. Just so you know.”
I place the receiver in its cradle, exposed and embarrassed. The notion that Monica might think me unprofessional causing me to fret. I notice my palms moistening, a slight tremor in my chest. Did I not divert the conversation away smoothly enough to avoid this kind of disclosure? Personal. Ethical. Both equally suspect when it comes to discussing one’s patients—particularly when they’re pretty. I walk toward the now-boiled kettle and pour its contents into the French press. The thick, sludgy brown liquid pressed down hard with my palm. Contain it, I think. Don’t let it percolate. Don’t let it stir. Left for too long it might turn unpalatable.
22
Alexa Wú
“A kiwi fruit and a—” He turns.
“—rose milk,” I finish. “Extra pearls.”
He smiles, locks his arms around my waist, possibly a little smug because I’ve just kissed him on the mouth. He strokes my neck, and a fleeting thought pops up: our three-way, Shaun, Ella, and I daisy-chaining while his party downstairs turned lively. I’ve wondered, in the past, about the lovesick kind of girls who have sex while their boyfriends watch. A window into the pleasure of soft bodies, curved and fitting. Shaun took us in; of course he did—like a drug—fucking us like he had something to prove. Our girl-on-girl action just a game for him. The sex something he believed he was controlling, our preference for each other too impossible for him to fathom.
The girl behind the counter writes down our order on a neon slice of notepaper, and then whips her blond ponytail around her shoulder.
I love Bubbleology, Dolly sings, her small fists clenched, it’s my favorite!
She crosses her eyes and giggles, and it’s hard not to eat her up, she’s so adorable.
You can drink this, I say, but then you’ve got to go back inside, okay? Oneiroi’s waiting for you.
Shaun hands me the bubble tea while Dolly takes the Light, sucking the chewy tapioca balls through a fat green straw. I’m not a fan of bubble tea, but Dolly, on the other hand, can’t get enough of it. Absolut
ely loves it. When you’re a multiple, different tastes can translate to different personalities. Take Marmite: Dolly and I love it, but Oneiroi hates it. Ask Runner to take a bite of toast with it on and she’d gag, preferring jam herself. And the Fouls, well, they don’t really eat, choosing to watch and then scold us for our greed.
“Go easy!” Shaun says, knocking the straw out of Dolly’s mouth.
Dolly tightens her grip around the plastic cup.
It’s okay, I soothe, take your time. No one’s going to take it away from you.
Dolly throws Shaun a dark look.
“What?” he says.
Behind us the door sounds. A polite ting. We turn.
Cassie approaches, Amy close behind with a preteen girl. She is small and thin, with long jet hair that a rushed hand appears to have tied into a messy ball, a black bomber similar to Grace’s worn above laced-trimmed blue shorts. Her legs are pimpled with a late-October chill.
Who’s that? Dolly asks, excited.
I’m not sure, I say, wondering if she’s Cassie’s daughter, but then decide their age difference would make it unlikely.
Maybe she’s the daughter of one of the Electra Girls, Runner says.
Dolly shrugs.
I note the young girl is clutching one of the musical plush toys I’d seen downstairs in the club.
Can I go play with her? Dolly asks, still sucking on the straw.
Another time, Dolly, I argue. It’s late.
Dolly makes a face, throws her empty cup in the trash.
You always say that! Why can’t I stay up? I want to play and make some friends. You don’t even let me play with Grace.
Runner moves forward and takes Dolly’s arm, Come on, back inside now, she says. We’re your friends.
Dolly and I switch, the aftertaste of rose milk bubble tea in my mouth not entirely unpleasant.
“Hurry up,” Cassie snaps at the young girl, eyes fixed and ill tempered, “or no drink!”
It’s clear the girl doesn’t really care. Instead she stares vacantly until Amy turns back and pulls, a little too firmly, on her arm.
“Britney, nǐ zhè ge shǎ zi!” Cassie curses.
The young girl finally looks up, a gaze to try any heart. “I’m not a fool,” she whispers, “and don’t call me Britney. My name’s Poi-Poi.”
I wonder why Poi-Poi’s dressed in shorts on such a cold night. Why Cassie is being so impatient and cruel. Why isn’t the girl in bed, I think, and who is her mother?
I turn to Shaun and catch his eye. He looks away.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Don’t get involved, it’s none of your business.”
We step outside to the threat of imminent rain. A flickering streetlight overhead giving off a clement glow. I reach over to link Shaun’s arm, but irritated, he pulls away, and I wonder whether it’s Dolly’s dark look or my curiosity that’s annoyed him. His mood now cool and contemptuous, he begins to walk ahead.
“I’ll come in the club for a while,” I say, conscious of wanting to see Ella, “then I’ll head back home.”
He turns.
“Okay,” he says, “whatever.”
Jane and Ella are talking in reception.
Thrilled at seeing me, Ella steps from behind the black lacquered desk and flings her arms around my neck while Jane turns to hang two men’s suit jackets on padded hangers.
“Another new skirt,” I say playfully, pointing at Ella’s legs.
“One of the girls gave it to me,” she whispers, sliding both hands down the soft black leather. “It was too small for her.”
For a moment, I’m envious. I look down at my jeans, their color faded, their cut not as fashionable as I’d like. My hair still hasn’t been trimmed and styled for some time. And even though it’s fleeting, the poisonous green feeling unnerves me because rivalry has been mostly absent from our friendship. A feeling both unfamiliar and biting.
You look great, I don’t manage to say, and I’m jealous. Forgive me.
“How’s things with Grace?” I ask, hoping our connection outside Electra will somehow make me feel close to her.
“Fine,” she says. “A lot better. Thanks for talking to her.”
“No problem.”
I watch Jane leave through the glass double doors. A lick of red on the soles of her shoes like a siren. She pushes the door with both palms, gives her red hair a flick, determined strength in her upper arms. I cut a glance through to the club—Cassie and Amy talking beneath low-level lighting from the art deco lamps. Amy gesticulating, red faced and animated, while Cassie nods in acknowledgment.
“Fancy a movie tomorrow night?” Ella asks.
“Not sure. What about a game of pool instead?” I suggest.
Runner smiles, the suggestion taken in.
“Okay.”
The glass doors fling open again. Amy suddenly bursts through, her gaze somewhat unsettled. She hands Ella a drink and whispers in her ear—So rude! Oneiroi says, gesturing toward Cassie with a raised hand.
“What was that all about?” I ask as Amy leaves.
“Annabelle.”
“What about her?”
“She’s walked out. Gone to work for the competition. The Russian.”
“I know,” I say.
“You know?”
“She told me at Shaun’s party.”
Ella steps forward, leans in close, and grips my arm.
“Ow.”
“Don’t mention this to anyone,” she says, eyes flashing. Fear, anger—I’m not sure. “Or Navid will fuckin’ flip.”
“Let go of me,” I say.
She doesn’t. Not immediately. Her grip locked, fingers pinching. Gaze holding me accountable.
“You don’t know what he’s capable of, Alexa,” she says, “you don’t understand.”
Two men enter and approach, their coats wet from the drizzle outside. Ella’s hand finally falls to her side. A frenzied smile finds her lips.
“Hello,” she says, mood pinging to something sweet, “how was your holiday?”
“Great,” one of the men answers, his gray hair flat and dank. “How are you, Ella?”
“Good,” she purrs, “I’m happy to see you both.”
Pleased as cocks in a henhouse at the attention, they each slide Ella a crisp note.
Are they that stupid? Runner asks.
Clearly, Oneiroi says, they hear what they want to hear.
In return, Ella gives them each a disc. The word Electra elegantly engraved on one side in a swirled font. On the reverse: a letter C for the short gray-haired guy, and D for his friend. It’s a slow night.
Another four men enter. Ella takes their jackets. Hands them discs up to H.
One of the men, with a full beard and sad eyes, places his disc in the breast pocket of his shirt. Like an excited, greedy school kid, he rubs his hands together. I imagine them to be clammy.
Runner takes the Light and reaches for Ella’s drink, knocks it back in one swig. The man looks at me and makes a face.
What? Not ladylike enough for you? Runner shouts in my head. Prefer her to sip her drink like a good girl? The gutter waits for girls like us, right? Well, the gutter only exists because of men like you!
I feel my mood dip watching Ella at work, one eye on the door, a rumble in my gut at the possibility of Jack walking in. I can’t imagine he’d get off being in a place like this, he even said so himself, but what do I know? I barely know anything about him—his work: yes; the man: no. And who doesn’t have kinks these days?
I touch the soft part of my arm, Ella’s earlier grip leaving a tinge of red, thinking about the men who get off on the bodies of the Electra Girls, slipping used notes in their stockings. Patting the bows on their short black skirts. Something of an acceptance that this is just what men do, because they can.
I turn to Ella.
“I miss you,” I say, my eyes cast down. Muscles knotted beneath my skin.
“Don’t worry. Everything w
ill be back to the way it was soon,” she says, “promise. I just need to save a few grand so I can lay down a security deposit and have a couple months’ rent. I saw this amazing apartment advertised last week, just off Broadway Market, but the landlord wanted six months’ rent up front.”
Noticing her drink is finished, she reaches in her purse. Pops a pill.
“Right,” she says, “I’d better go. I’m on in five.”
A pause.
“What do you mean,” I say, “‘on in five’?”
“I just told you. Annabelle’s not here. But you knew that already, right?”
She drops a layer of clothing, exposing a sun-bed tan to rival the other two members in our girl band. The sound of tiny snaps on her blouse intimate in our moment of forced silence.
I take hold of her shoulders.
“You’re going to strip, aren’t you?”
“I have to,” she says, sliding me a look. “I want to fit in. The other girls won’t accept me if I don’t do it.”
“For fuck’s sake, Ella!” I shout.
She turns away.
“I thought we talked about this,” I continue. “You have to stop. Double-dealing, bribes. And now stripping? What about setting an example for Grace, what about—”
She mutes my mouth with her palm.
“Keep your voice down,” she whispers, anger shaping her jawline. “You’re becoming a complete drag, you know that? If you can’t chill out I don’t want you here.”
I stare her square in the eye.
“Stop with all the judgment,” she defends. “I have to do this. Grace doesn’t have bills to pay. I do. And how am I going to ever get out of my mum’s place?”
“But—”
“No. Back off, Alexa.”
I drop a kiss on her forehead, aware of her need to be heard. And accepted. The Electra Girls now a conduit through which Ella might claim a place in the world, albeit one that feasts on false selves and longings.
“Don’t do this,” I say quietly. “Please.”
The lights tone down and a ceaseless bass kicks in. Several girls, all in various stages of undress, are waiting small mirrored tables, placing drinks on paper napkins. Cassie watching them while seated at the bar. Shaun pours her a drink and catches me seated and alone, my fingers nervously picking at a zit on my chin. I beckon a waitress.
The Eighth Girl Page 15