A rap at the front door.
“I’ll get it,” Poi-Poi sings.
“Sit. I haven’t finished,” Jane orders, winding an elastic band around her wrist and throwing the Banana Hater a fixed stare.
“Get that,” she instructs, not quite having forgiven her and intent on keeping her in line.
The Banana Hater leaves to open the door, looking deflated.
Shaun and Amy appear, arms draped around each other’s waist. He looks at me and nods.
Tosser, Runner shouts in my head.
“Shaun!” Poi-Poi cries, careful not to move her head and annoy Jane’s braiding hand. “Did you remember to bring my Lelli Kellies? I left them at the club.”
Shaun dangles an orange plastic carrier bag off two of his fingers. “Got ’em.” He smiles.
“There,” Jane says, resting her palms on Poi-Poi’s shoulders, “done!”
Poi-Poi jumps down and hops toward Shaun, who releases Amy’s waist and scoops Poi-Poi up like ice cream.
“Thank you,” she says, hugging him hard, attentive as a sunflower. “Wanna come see what I’ve done with my room?”
“Later,” he says dimly, looking up at Jane. “Is Navid here?”
“Not yet,” Jane says.
Glancing at Shaun’s hand on Poi-Poi’s waist darkens my mood, knowing he was responsible for bringing her here, to be snared, groomed, and violated. How disgusting he is, and how dense I was—to fall, telling myself he was different, that he wanted to help the girls, not harm them. I can change him, I forced myself to believe. He’s just being friendly. And anyway, they shouldn’t flirt so, sticking their chests out like that. I ignored my suspicions, deluded.
Denial is king.
“Look!” Poi-Poi says, face bright, searching around at her audience, her feet slipped into sparkling Lelli Kellies. “Aren’t they great?”
“Wow,” I say, taking Poi-Poi’s hand, “I love the sequined dolls on the toes. Let’s go see if Tinker Bell is ready to play now.”
I squeeze past Amy, who makes it just a little difficult for me to pass, then turn to Ella and smile.
“See you later.” I wave.
“Okay.” Ella nods, lighting another cigarette.
I take the opportunity to nose around the Movie Room more before Navid arrives. With Tinker Bell nowhere to be found, Poi-Poi decides to make a bed for her gang of stuffed animals.
“Now go to sleep and be nice, and remember, don’t snitch on each other! There. A nice soft pillow.”
I want to play, Dolly speaks in my head, clambering for the Light.
Just five minutes, I allow, adapting the Flock’s rules, then you have to come back inside the Body. Okay?
Okay, she agrees.
Dolly takes the Light.
“Hello, Elephant. Hello, Squirrel. Hello, Tiger,” Dolly says, smiling at Poi-Poi. “Come on, let’s get them hot milk before they go to sleep.”
“You sound funny,” Poi-Poi says, staring at me, a mild look of curiosity alive in her eyes. Dolly now in control of the Body and pretending to boil a pan of milk. She places three imaginary cups beside the animals, ready for their bedtime drinks.
“Careful, it’s hot,” Dolly says, pretend-pouring the imaginary milk. Blowing on one of the make-believe cups.
Poi-Poi picks up one of the other imaginary cups and blows. “Hot,” she whispers.
The three cuddly animals are each given their hot milk and settled down. The cotton blanket pulled higher to graze a trunk, a whisker, and an eye.
“There; all sleepy now,” Dolly says happily.
Back inside now, Dolly, I say, taking back the Light.
Poi-Poi crosses her legs. “What do you do?” she asks.
I shrug back into myself, wondering if she means for work or generally. I answer the former. “I’m a photographer,” I say.
“Cool, what kind of things do you photograph?”
“Lots of things, but mainly people. Sometimes, though, I like to photograph birds, or flowers. You know, nature.”
“What about animals?”
“Those too,” I say.
She smiles.
“Wanna photograph me?” she says, resting her chin, with both hands like an open book. Apple-size cheeks, a false and frenzied smile.
I stroke her hand. “I don’t think—”
“What a good idea,” Navid interrupts, suddenly appearing at the bedroom door. He sneers, locking his eyes on mine for what feels like a very long time. I keep my mouth shut and say nothing, the room suddenly spinning, an awful dread creeping into the pit of my belly.
49
Daniel Rosenstein
Nearly a hundred degrees and rising.
I reach for the SPF 50, squeeze, and apply it to the back of my sweltering neck while glancing at Monica, whose firm, perfectly bronzed body is looking more delicious by the day. A mix of envy and lust rises inside me, ambivalence felt at longing for her physique but not necessarily her mind. Part of me knowing it would be easier to leave her were she not so beautiful. I stare down at my bright pink belly clashing with red Ralph Lauren shorts—a gift from Monica (assigned an orange Post-it)—and breathe in. Last night a heat rash emerged while we lay together, naked, like Beauty and the Beast, my skin already starting to bubble. I have my mother to thank for this. It’s her fault. Her pale, freckled skin and ginger hair both hand-me-down Irish traits that are certainly far prettier on women than on men.
I glance at Monica’s side table: SPF 10 resting against a copy of National Geographic alongside a bottle of lavender mist that she enjoys spraying on her tanned skin as she ambles around the pool.
Overheated and uncomfortable, I turn onto my belly, conscious of my awkward body, wishing my skin were a little more accepting of the sun, my muscles a little firmer, abs a little tighter, all the while picturing the Old-Timer, toned and muscular. When I saw him last time, I envied how relaxed he seemed in his body. The casual white towel grazing his chest, the ease with which he’d rested his hand somewhere near his worked torso. I must call him, see that he’s okay.
I pinch at my paunch, an inch of flesh caught in my hand.
You only have yourself to blame, a punitive little voice whispers in my head. You should stop being so lazy and work out more.
The tyranny of shoulds and musts.
I take a moment imagining what I would say to a patient who was thinking such things and begin a series of kindly mantras in my head:
A few parts of my body are rather fine.
Most of the 78 organs in my body have performed pretty well since the day I was born.
A few times, I really experienced what love felt like.
I can still enjoy how my body felt when I was young.
I can, with permission and on occasion, fantasize about someone I cannot have.
Without too much effort, I can order a burger and fries.
Just for today, my body can enjoy the sunshine.
I am not alone.
I feel my envy eventually melt.
Too hot to take any more sun, I stand. Monica stretches, revealing faint tan lines, and I feel a hardness grow inside my tight, wet shorts. Hesitant, I reach again for my sunscreen, waiting for my erection to die down, and cover up with a linen shirt.
“Fancy some lunch?” I ask.
“Sure. Why don’t you choose?” She smiles, adjusting her bikini strap.
“Are you sure?” I ask, pointing at her tiny swimsuit triangle. “Maybe you’ve got some Post-it notes tucked down there with a suggestion or two.”
She raises a single brow. “I’m on holiday, Daniel,” she says, nose aimed in the air. “I have no need for such notes while on holiday.”
Laughing, I kiss her fondly on her shoulder. Lavender filling my mouth.
“That said, maybe I’ll have the crab dumplings or the flying fish.” She grins, a twinkle in her eye.
I head toward the shady part of the restaurant, passing two girls in their early twenties with waist-length blond hair. On
e of them is swimming laps while the other, seated at the edge of the kidney-shaped pool, flicks water with an arched foot. Red-painted toenails. My mind unintentionally wanders to Alexa, an invisible thread of attachment leading me to wonder what she might be doing. I check my watch, imagining her at work, camera in her hand, or possibly involved with a late lunch. I wonder if she’ll call Mohsin. And if she does, will she find him helpful? Charming? More charming than me? For a moment I consider phoning her to check if she’s okay, and then quickly shut down the idea. Boundaries.
You’re on holiday, for Christ’s sake.
I take a seat at a table, shaded and cool, watching the two girls now splashing in the pool. Their youth, inhibition, and itsy-bitsy bikinis arousing within me a debauched flair.
I can still enjoy how my body felt when I was young.
I look away and focus on the menu placed in front of me.
A waitress appears, shortly followed by Monica, her wet honeycomb hair now piled high in a peach silk scarf. A white cotton sundress casually hanging off her shoulder, revealing a tanned slice of collarbone, her neck and arms oiled for the gods.
“Let’s be quick,” she whispers slyly, “then we can go to bed.”
She bites her lip. Slides her foot along my calf, which I catch with my hand. An excited fool.
“I won’t be able to sleep.” I smile, the two girls with their tiny bikinis and long blond hair caught in my peripheral vision. An imagined Alexa joins them to play, laughing, her red mouth matching the tiny dots on the girls’ tiny toes.
I can, with permission and on occasion, fantasize about someone I can’t have.
50
Alexa Wú
I square up, drop my good-girl attitude, and dare him to slap me.
“What d’ya want from me?” he shouts.
“An apology!”
“For what?”
“For sleeping with every other girl in here. For making me feel worthless. I know everything. Why did you lie to me?”
He doesn’t slap me. So I wait, silently, secretly wishing he would. An excuse to slap him back. Because that’s what I want, a fight. Physical, combative contact with the man whom, deep down, for inexplicable reasons, I want.
He looks away from me, too much to bear. Checks over his shoulder to see that no one except Cassie, whose head is buried in the till, is witness to our slipshod scene. I’m an embarrassment. A loose cannon. A raging banshee. I’m sorry I’m hysterical because you treated me roughly, I don’t dare to speak.
Don’t even think about apologizing; he’s a complete asshole.
Okay, let’s all calm down.
Stop patronizing me, I don’t wanna calm down.
How can you accept what he’s done?
Yeah, especially knowing it was he who brought Poi-Poi here?
Motherfucker.
And he’s been filming the girls.
And he snitched on you to Cassie, what about that?
Maybe he can change?
Pfft; you’re in complete denial.
This is not the time to get upset.
So shoot me!
Dolly covers her ears. Please stop, she cries.
The Fouls twist on their slim heels, satisfied smirks turned cruel.
Shaun unlocks his arms and draws closer to me like a moth in search of light.
“I didn’t think you cared,” he says, locking eyes. “I mean, one day you’re all happy and hot for me, and the next you’re completely weird and pissed off and telling me what a cu—”
I interrupt him with my hand, knowing he’s referring to time spent with Oneiroi and Runner. I look away, licks of shame finding my insides and yanking like a fist working a chain. The reality of the Flock’s varied and wildly different views a constant and stark reminder of our illness.
“For real,” he says, looking me up and down, “it’s like some fucked-up Jekyll and Hyde shit. One minute you’re all sweet and kind, the next you’re a complete madwoman.”
Madwoman. There it is. If you’re mad, you’re not wanted. Act mad and no one is interested.
Ask anyone with multiple personalities why they’re so conflicted and they’ll tell you it’s because they compartmentalize their feelings.
I wipe snot mingled with lip gloss with the back of my hand, still hoping Shaun will bend and say something kind.
Not able to help myself, I speak first. “Part of me does think you’re a cunt.”
He stares.
“I’m with Amy now.” He speaks softly. And the words, even though known, still burn. There is pity in his eyes.
Runner suddenly jumps down from the Nest, strides forward, all elbows and tight jaw, and seizes the Light.
“Well, fuck you!” she screams. “We never wanted you in the first place, cocksucker!”
Shaun steps back, a shocked stumble that has his palms spread and raised.
“See what I mean, Alexa? You’re all over the place,” he says, hurt and defeated. “Look, whatever. Maybe you should get some help. Someday you’ll realize I’m not such a bad guy.”
He is gone—
I imagine in search of Amy, the sane, carefree girlfriend who doesn’t throw insults and call him names. Her arms open and waiting for him and even more divine now I’ve shown my hysterical madwoman hand.
Cassie, hearing Runner’s outburst, slaps the till shut with a ching and makes her way over. Places her thick arm around the curve of my jerking shoulder.
“You okay?” she asks, almost concerned.
“Yeah,” I say, nudging Runner back inside and reaching for a barstool, “I’m fine.”
“These men, they think they’re men, but they’re just boys.” She rolls her eyes. “Immature little boys. They’re not worth getting upset over, blah, blah.”
“I know,” I allow.
“They’re ruled by their willies.” She smiles, wiggling her raised pinkie. “You know that, right? We already talked about this.”
I smile, momentarily humored.
Runner gives me an internal poke, Don’t let your guard down, she warns. Remember, she’s smart.
“I’m okay, Cassie, really,” I say, brushing myself down. Aware I have an hour to kill before Ella’s shift is over.
“Wanna call your mama?” she asks.
Her question startles me.
Don’t tell her anything, Runner says.
“She’s dead,” I say.
Cassie’s face turns suspiciously kind. She strokes my cheek.
Careful!
“Come.” She smiles, taking my arm. “I need some help downstairs.”
Navid’s office is small. Claustrophobic. Stale smoke lingers in a grimy, noir kind of way, blending into the semidarkness except where a beryl-green desk lamp spotlights a copy of Time magazine. I scan the room, an abrupt rise in my breath as I realize this is my opportunity to gather the evidence. The sudden drench of my palms wiped down my jeans. A wad of receipts and a half-eaten croissant rest on a porn mag. On the whitewashed walls: posters of girls in neon G-strings, a vague look in their eyes that men interpret as seduction. I wonder about the kind of photographers who do this type of work, what it fulfills. What possible enjoyment they feel exploiting girls with dead eyes.
Isn’t it obvious? Runner says. They think the girls are vulnerable and submissive. You can bet your life they’re almost all men who photograph them. These girls are slaves to their fantasies. Christ; just think of the metaphor: man, camera, zoom lens.
I picture Modigliani’s paintings. How he’d claimed to not paint a model’s eyes until he’d witnessed her soul. Black ovals both alarming and creepy.
They don’t believe girls have souls, Runner spits, they’re just collateral in their eye, meat.
My body shudders, an image of Navid suddenly creeping into my mind. His insistence that I photograph Poi-Poi.
You need to take control, I berate myself, giving myself a sharp pinch to the back of my knee. Don’t lose sight of your career. All those years of hard work so you c
ould become an assistant to someone like Jack. Focus, Alexa. Don’t fuck it up.
There are no windows in Navid’s office, but the noise from lifted crates and clinking bottles indicates it backs onto an East End loading bay.
The floor is tiled—brick red—and looks like it hasn’t been cleaned for months. Grime and cigarette ash peppered around the base of Navid’s black leather swivel chair like somber confetti.
Cassie busies herself with receipts as I drop down on the chair, using my left foot to guide a side-to-side spin, reaching for the porn mag splayed across Navid’s desk.
Inside, girls are reduced to two-dimensional objects. Voiceless, numb creatures impaled on the semigloss pages. One girl with large misty eyes and breasts the size of honeydew melons stares out with a look of vulnerability, a candy-pink nail resting on her glossed lip, unable to defend herself or strike back as she might in the real world. Even if she attempts a look of fierceness she is still imprisoned on the page. She can be insulted. Secretly hated. Called a whore. A slut. But still she remains compliant and will sometimes even smile back if you ask nicely. She loves the fact she’s got the power to stiff a dick in seconds, they tell themselves. These men. She is aesthetically perfect and on tap for fantasy. Airbrushing has been applied, creating a smooth pussy; Photoshop has slimmed down her tummy and waist. There is not a single sign of cellulite. And in the rare case that she doesn’t bring satisfaction, the page is turned. Another girl quickly replacing her. This girl is not a person at all. She is an object. A thing. Secretly loathed. Consumed and jerked over until their sticky come is thrown down on the page.
Cassie looks up.
“We need to take all the paperwork back to the house,” she says, pointing at a black metal filing cabinet. “Can you help me empty out the whole lot?”
I walk over, sliding open the cabinet’s top drawer, a fire-resistant safe parked by its side. Next to it, another large cabinet rests against the back wall.
“All of this?” I ask, taking out a stack of papers.
Cassie nods.
The Eighth Girl Page 26