White Lady

by Bell, Jessica

  “Dad, you have to tell her no!” I cry, standing up too fast, feeling dizzy and balancing myself against the wall.

  Dad lifts his cap, smoothes his hair into it, and puts it back on. He shakes his head, grabs a T-shirt off the arm of the couch, and wipes his face dry. “What are you on about?”

  “Mum. She said she’s coming over. In a month!”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh? Look at me, Dad. I’m a fucking rhinoceros.”

  “Mia, she’s not going to care.”

  “Of course she’ll care,” I scream, tears streaming down my cheeks. “Look at who she married.”

  “Mia—” Dad steps towards me, reaches for my shoulders.

  “Don’t touch me. I should have known. Why would you care what Mum thinks of me? You probably agree with her. You think I’m a fucking fat ugly bitch just like everybody else. No wonder you keep pushing me to lose weight. You can’t stand the sight of me, can you?”

  “Mia, it’s not like that. I’m just concerned about your health. Please, can you—”

  “No. Leave me the fuck alone.” I grab the picture frame off the wall, of Dad playing footy, and hurl it across the room. It shatters on the TV and screams I hate you.

  I stare at Dad, I want to say “sorry,” I want to take it back. Dad has tears in his eyes, tears, he never cries. I’ve never seen him cry.

  I run into my bedroom, sobbing, choking on my own thick breaths, wishing the big fat ugly bitch in me would just die, die, die.

  I rummage through my schoolbag and pull out the plastic Ziploc of pills. I empty it onto my bed.

  There are only two left.

  I swallow them both and clench my jaw until my head hurts.

  I’m so fat I probably can’t even overdose.

  I grab my iPod, put the earphones back in. Go for the goddess. Today’s goddess. I press Play, stand still, straight and tall, pretending to watch myself from above.

  Courtney Love.

  Skinny Little Bitch.

  Chapter 29

  Nash: I think I’ve lost her anyway.

  I pick up the photo and the glassless frame off the floor, focus on Ibrahim, his pouted mouth and stocky legs. I rest the photo on the arm of the couch. Coach Warren gave it to me. A gift. A message. A sign I’d be the one to “make it.”

  Yeah, I miss my footy days. I even miss the kinds of matches when it pelted down with rain. Once, it was raining so hard I couldn’t see properly, and I slammed into a fellow team player when we both jumped to catch the footy midair. I broke my collarbone. He fucked up his nose. We were mates. We shook hands and laughed about it. That was brotherhood. Not the team of psychos Ibrahim assembled when I married Celeste.

  So? I could have become a pro player. Could have won trophies. But you know what? Mia is my trophy. And the only trophy I’ll ever need. Maybe I didn’t make it to the AFL, but I made it somewhere. And this place? It’s so much more special than a career that would probably have lasted a decade, if that.

  The fact that I “made it” as Mia’s father is enough.

  I can’t lose her.

  I just can’t.

  I go to the laundry; grab a plastic bin bag, the brush, and pan; return to the living room and scoop up the shards of glass. They hit the bottom of the plastic bag like I-told-you-sos. I leave the bag by the front door for the next time I go out.

  In the kitchen, I open the fridge, grab myself a light Carlton Draught, and contemplate ordering some takeout. Vegetarian pizza maybe. But what about Mia? She shouldn’t be eating that stuff—even the garden variety. I’ve gotta be strong for her. I’ve gotta be strict, even if she hates my guts and lashes out. So what? I’ll be her punching bag. Crikey, that’s what parents are for.

  I stare at the blank chunky ’90s TV screen, swig my beer, listen to the rain stop and start like God’s got prostate cancer. I switch the TV on for some background noise. I need to change clothes, but I head to Mia’s bedroom first, my wet footsteps as heavy as my heart.

  I knock on her door.

  No answer.

  I knock again. Call her name. Jiggle the handle. Call her name.

  Do I force it open? Or leave her alone? I have to confront her about her behaviour before she damages herself.

  There’s movement, sound, like beads moving around a glass bowl, her wardrobe door swinging shut, a rustle of clothing, humming. As I reach for the handle again, the door swings open. Mia is lip-syncing, earphones in. Thick black shadow lines her eyes; her mouth is glossed red like fresh blood. Mia tries to push past. I block her, gripping the frame of the door on each side.

  “Take them out,” I say, jutting my chin towards her earphones. Mia stares at my mouth; the corner of hers turns up. She raises her brow as if to say “fuck off,” jittering with an urgency I have never seen before.

  “Please,” I mouth.

  Mia clenches her jaw; looks at my left hand; whacks it down with both her arms, buckling my elbow; and slips past me. I grab her by the back of her T-shirt, pull her so hard it looks like she’s about to choke from the collar tight around her neck. I spin her around to face me. She gasps, eyes open wide. I breathe into her face, holding both her shoulders taut, yank her earphones out, and push her into the wall, just hard enough for her to know I mean business.

  “What’s going on? Tell me now.”

  “Piss off.” Mia spits in my face. I can’t believe it. I back up, glare at her, wipe her spit off with the hem of my wet T-shirt.

  Mia glances towards the front door, at my chest, then at the floor. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I … I shouldn’t have—”

  I flare my nostrils and put my hands in my pockets, open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. I want to yell and scream and shake the shit out of Mia, tell her to show me some respect, but I don’t. It’ll only make things worse. Plus, she just apologized. Even if it was motivated by a threat of not being let out of the house, she still did it. That says something. I should let it slide. Get to the bottom of what really matters here.

  “Where you going?” I say on the exhale.

  “Out.”

  “Where out?”

  “Just a friend’s house.”

  “It’s a school night.”

  Mia shrugs. “Maybe we’ll study.”

  I shake my head. Mia’s eyes are glazed. Reflecting the shame I feel for all the crap I let Celeste put us through. We were a family. A happy one. Then all of a sudden Celeste decides we’re not good enough for her and runs off with a rich prick who treats her like a rich prick’s wife. What was she thinking? And now? Why? What’s the point of telling me now? Is this a part of some scheme to try to get custody of Mia?

  Mia glares at me, flushing saliva back and forwards between her front teeth. She seems high. I scratch my beard, lean my back against the opposite wall and look at the floor.

  I need to think.

  “Can I go now?” Mia says with a fake smile.

  I’ve just gotta ask her. Straight. “You on something?”

  “What? No.” Her overly shocked expression tells me she’s lying. But I will give her a chance to come clean.

  “Just tell me. I won’t be upset. I just wanna help you.”

  Mia brushes hair out of her face and adjusts her T-shirt.

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “You think I’m being stupid?”

  “Yeah. It’s a stupid question.”

  “I’m not blind. Explain the—”

  “Man! It’s not ’cause I’m taking drugs. I’m dieting. And it’s hard. And it’s driving me fucking nuts.” Mia clutches her head, actions to demonstrate her explanation, I s’pose. Does she really think I’m that stupid? As if I need visuals to help me understand. “I need to, uh, keep busy, uh, to stop thinking about it.” Mia looks me right in the eye and stops fidgeting for a moment. It seems like it’s taking a lot of effort and concentration on her part to stand still. “That’s all. That’s all it is. I promise.”

  I look towards the front door and press my lips together.
She’s convincing. But I can see it in her eyes that she’s on something. How far do I push? How far can I interrogate her without pushing her to leave home? That’s what Celeste and I did as soon as our parents started questioning our behaviour. We thought we were invincible. We thought our parents were old-fashioned, overprotective, and overreacting. We thought that life would be easier on our own, without the hassle of listening to their lectures about drugs and contraception. Is that how Mia feels right now? Is this conversation the beginning of me pushing her out of my life?

  I’ll let it go. For now.

  “You still need to eat, mate,” I say. “What have you eaten today?”

  Mia rolls her eyes. “Fruit. A salad.”

  “When? Lunch?”

  Mia nods.

  “Dinner?”

  She shakes her head.

  I sigh, groan under my breath, yank my wallet out of my back pocket, and slide a twenty-dollar note out. “Promise me you’ll get something to eat on the way.”

  Mia nods again, grabs the twenty, puts it in her back pocket, looks at her feet while clicking her tongue as if to say “Can I fucking go now?”

  I cross my arms. Mia walks to the front door, puts an earphone in, pauses, spins around to face me, and smiles.

  “Her name’s Kimiko. Kimi for short.” Mia’s top lip twitches. “You’d like her.”

  I nod and watch Mia close the front door behind her.

  The house fills with a suffocating invisible fog. I remove my cap and my wet T-shirt, run my fingers through my damp hair. I roll the T-shirt into a ball and hurl it at the door. It hits with a thick slap and flops to the floor.

  And I have a terrible feeling, that this day has marked the beginning of our end.

  Chapter 30

  Mia: No one is ever what they seem.

  I stand outside Kimi’s house, wondering whether I have the right street, right house number. I look at the directions on my phone again. Look at the house.

  This is it. I am repulsed.

  It’s a fucking two-storey mansion. White, blinding, even in the dark. Floor-to-ceiling windows deck the entire left side, which faces a block of land filled with trees. The lights are all off except a smallish circular one on the far right of the second floor.

  I text Kimi to tell her I’m here, like she told me to. My hands are trembling, and I keep making stupid typos, biting my tongue in frustration at the auto-correct.

  I rub out the text five times before I get it right. Almost: I’m outsider.

  I send it anyway. My stomach gurgles. The insides of my legs feel like they’re filling with soda. I grit my teeth, flex my toes, clench my fists.

  I need … more.

  Something creaks behind me and I spin around. I think I see a shadow of translucence, like a jellyfish floating by. My nose is itchy. I rub it. Squeeze it. Sniff. Wipe it along my wrist.

  Kimi slowly opens the front door and holds her finger to her mouth. Gestures for me to tiptoe in. Kimi takes me straight up to her bedroom without even introducing me to her parents.

  Everything is white, black, and chrome. Everything. Art Deco–like. A mini retro hospital. Kimi is even wearing a grey tracksuit with freaking diamantes arranged in the shape of a heart on her left bum cheek. Kimi gestures for me to slip off my baby doll flats.

  They’re flats, you idiot, I think.

  I stare at Kimi’s arse as she leads me up the spiral staircase.

  Bumshell. I giggle.

  Kimi turns around and shooshes me with a frown.

  The first thing I see in Kimi’s room is my reflection in the mirror directly opposite the door. I look and feel like a piece of stale toast crust.

  Kimi closes the door, rolls her eyes, groans, and falls backwards, arms out to her sides, onto her king-sized bed with white lace frills bordering the bottom edges of the mattress.

  “They’re not my real parents,” Kimi mumbles.

  “What?” I stand in the middle of the room, wondering where to sit, afraid I might stain something with my inferiority.

  “I’m adopted.” Kimi sits up, crosses her legs under her sparkly butt, and flings her arms in the air. “Can’t you tell?” She laughs, but I don’t get the joke.

  I chuckle, not sure whether to feel pity or pleasure towards Kimi resenting good fortune. “Does your mum dress you too, then?”

  Kimi glares at me, clearly not impressed by my sarcasm.

  “Sorry.” I drop my bag and flats on the floor and look at my toes. I need to cut my nails. “I’m all out,” I say, and look up again.

  “Already?”

  I shrug, trying not to blink a hundred times a second, trying not think about pissing all over Kimi’s fluffy white carpet. I need the loo. Badly. “I took the last two before I came.” I glance at Kimi to see if she freaks out. Iam kinda freaking out. What if something happens to me after taking two pills at once? My limbs already feel floaty.

  Kimi smiles as if she’s got a secret. “Chill out. You should see the look on your face.” She bursts out laughing again.

  I swallow, walk to Kimi’s state-of-the-art dresser, open the top drawer to see what’s in it. These drugs make me do weird shit. I would never even think to pry like this normally. And I’m doing it so casually, without a care. And I don’t care. I just “am.” Like my existence is a gift to the world. And whatever I do in it is inconsequential.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Kimi says.

  I click my tongue. “Getting to know you.”

  Kimi jumps up, pushes in front of me, and flicks the drawer closed with her knuckles before I see beyond the abundant collection of nail polish arranged perfectly by shade. The drawer rolls and snaps shut.

  “Nothing in there that’s gonna help you, chickie.”

  “Chickie?” I laugh. “Who are you?”

  “No one is how they seem.”

  I raise my eyebrows and let out a big breath. “I don’t even know why I’m here.”

  “I do,” Kimi says.

  I narrow my eyes at her. Her sly smile is so slanted, I’m amazed her mouth isn’t sliding off her face.

  “So, let me get this straight. You’re just using me to sort out this stupid revenge thing you’re going on about. And you think getting me addicted to speed is going to keep me in your company and eating out of your hand?” I laugh—actually, I think it’s more of a cackle—trying to ignore the pulsating in my temples and the sweat accumulating on my top lip. “As if.”

  Kimi shrugs. “Well, it worked, didn’t it? You’re here trying to score.”

  “Can I just ask you one more time?” I say. “Why me? I mean, why not miss-piss-my-pants-in-Ping-Pong, who never learned to say no?”

  Kimi looks at the ceiling, dramatizing her reaction with a contorted mouth and a scratch of her head. “You seemed, uh, let’s see … more vulnerable?”

  I knew it. Great. So it’s obvious to everyone. “I’m not vulnerable,” I say. Seriously? I don’t even believe that myself, so why would she?

  “Not anymore. You’ve got the drugs to thank for that.”

  “You’re a fucking bitch.” I don’t know why that just came out of my mouth, but a sense of power is surging through me that makes me think of vampire poison flushing through my veins.

  “So are you.”

  Why is Kimi acting so calm? Does she really think she’s all that?

  I crane my neck and drop my jaw. “ You manipulated me. How does that make me a bitch?

  “You can’t remember a thing, can you, Mia?”

  “Remember a fucking thing of what?” I wipe the sweat from my lip with the top of my wrist and cross my arms in one smooth transition.

  “That day you burned my clothes in PE.”

  I suck my tongue to the roof of my mouth.

  That was … her?

  “Shit.” My arms fall to my sides and Kimi inches closer, practically blocking me into a corner.

  “Yeah. Shit.”

  “Uh … you looked so different then.”

 
; Kimi scoffs, shrugs, pulls out another little Ziploc bag of pills from her bra. She holds it out for me between two fingers. “So did you.”

  I look at the pills, feeling like my eyes are crossing to gain focus. I contemplate turning them down, getting out of this little grave Kimi seems to be digging for me. I’m not myself. I know this.

  These drugs. These drugs, they’re bad for me. But it’s so cool. This feeling. Of control. I feel alive and free and floaty, and I love and hate everyone at the same time. Maybe I don’t even know which feeling is which. Maybe it’s indifference. But I don’t care. And I don’t care about my weight so much, either. And I’ve already lost two kilos. Maybe this is what they call freedom. But I’m not stupid. I know they’re beginning to screw with my head. I mean. Fuck. I spat in Dad’s face. I would never have even considered doing that if I wasn’t high. I didn’t even think about it; I just did it. Like a reflex. I know I should stop taking these. I know. I will stop. Just one more round, and then I will stop.

  I promise. It’s an honest-to-God promise.

  I snatch them out of Kimi’s hand and put them in my pocket, hoping I don’t regret this.

  Kimi grins. “Would be nice if you could contribute a little cash for—”

  “I’m trying to figure out why I’m okay with you manipulating me,” I say, turn ninety degrees to face the dresser mirror, and wipe a small smudge of black from my right cheek. On top of the dresser is a picture of Kimi and some older guy. Really dark-skinned. The guy looks familiar, but who isn’t quite registering. It’s probably her adopted father.

  Kimi puts her hands around my waist from behind and rests her chin on my shoulder. We look into each other’s reflected eyes in the mirror.

  “I’m not manipulating you,” she says. “It’s a simple case of I scratch your back and you scratch mine. And there’s more to you. I’m curious. You’re interesting.” Kimi lowers the tone in her voice to a featheriness that reeks of sexual innuendo.

  I purse my lips and turn around to face her. Kimi pushes her boney pelvis against my robust hip, hooks my hair behind my ears, and whispers, “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”