by Nova McBee
Pedestrians are bundled up in warm clothes, carrying shopping bags, enjoying themselves. Laughter and smiles. A mega-size screen perched on one of the corner buildings broadcasts New Year’s activities.
This is “normal” life. Hundreds of people walk around, happily sipping on tea, unaware of dark corners where the wicked strike deals, economic crashes loom, and stolen children cry out to be found. I scoot back on the bench and cross my arms over my chest. It’s not them I’m mad at.
Anger grips me as I think of Chan. I’m barely given a night of freedom before I’m confronted with another terrible situation and a man who could do something about it but won’t because he’s as stubborn and self-serving as the rest of them. Now I have another choice before me. What will I do about it?
I’ve planned to use my earnings to strike at Madame. But in light of this new information, I’m confused. I know what Red would want. But I don’t know if I can.
A sudden thought buzzes across my mind. While King’s people often do their exchanges in the dark, in alleys and shadows of night, Madame prefers to work in broad daylight at an expo or in squares like this one.
A group of young girls pass me, giggling. Rosy cheeks and big brown eyes. Did King or Madame take girls like these? Did they deceive them into believing there was a man who would love them, a job that awaited them, only to walk into their merciless jaws?
I search girls’ faces in the square like a trained dog, an instinct I can’t stop. Each time a girl passes, my eyes dart to her wrist or her ear searching for that small X claiming ownership to Madame. I follow 137 girls with my eyes, growing more delusional, before a cold wind cuts across the square, and I shiver. It reminds me I’m wearing this ridiculous red dress. I’ve got to move.
A blast of heat from the ceiling fan warms me with my first step into the mall. Straight ahead, escalators lead up four levels and down two. Bright lights, music, and people come at me from every angle. More equations hit me, but I’m so tired, I can’t filter them like Red taught me. They clutter my mind and I get stuck in slow motion.
The chatter of people shopping is as loud as the commotion outside. The mall should feel like a palace after navigating the Pratt cells, but despite the tall ceilings, and large walkways, I feel like it’s closing in on me.
I’m suddenly anxious again, examining every face. A girl spins by me, her hair up in a ponytail. I swear a small X is tattooed behind her earlobe, but then it flashes silver. It’s just an earring.
A man on his cell phone bumps into me. My body tenses as his hand squeezes my arm. I yank hard, freeing me from his grip but quickly understand he had just wanted to steady me. He apologizes several times and skitters off.
Get a grip, Phoenix.
A couple strolls down the mall in front of me. The man, roughly mid-thirties, argues with a girl in a pink sweater and bright lipstick. Judging by her looks, she’s around my age. The dispute heats up. She raises her voice at him. The man yanks her arm towards the door, but she jerks back. Several people glance over at them, but they keep walking, as if it’s no big deal.
What I see is quite different. The man mutters a word, and she stops fighting. She’s upset, her eyes petitioning the crowd until they land on mine.
It’s the same look as those girls in the file. As mine. Desperate. I order my feet to run after them, to save her, but my body won’t obey. Numbers compute that I’m wrong, but my heart won’t listen. I call for help, but my voice is lost, like in a dream—nothing comes out.
I’m destined to help her. I promised Red I would help them. Why can’t I move?
Powerless, I watch as she slips from my fingers. With each step, images of girls taken from their families slice me apart.
My head twists back and forth as I check behind me for King, or Madame. I know they’ll be here any moment. People stare and point at me, or maybe they’re just talking amongst themselves. People pull out their cell phones. Are they calling Madame? The police? Everything is jumbled in my brain. Noises crash down on me, multiplying my equations.
The world is too big. There are too many numbers. I can’t solve anything. I’m only one person.
A loud smack shakes me sober.
The girl’s right-hand flies through the air, slapping him across the face. I expect the man to rip into her mercilessly. But he shrinks, pleading with her not to leave, apologizing pathetically. Soon they’re embracing. Kissing.
It’s a silly relationship dispute—she’s not them, or me. Not taken.
My mind’s cracking. Operating on two hours sleep has caught up to me. I need to move, to think.
What I need is Red. But he’s no longer an option. So I drag up his voice in my head. Three things in life are certain, he used to say. Purpose. Change. Death.
Death I’ve avoided, so far. Purpose will be determined. But change, I can do. I’m Phoenix now, I tell myself. She could use a little change.
The skylight above me has darkened. I stand up, clear of mind, determined. A new plan, calculated. I know what to do. I know where to go. I will not stop until I get what I want.
The mall is closing. As I ride the escalator, I gaze into the adjacent mirror. I’m stunned by my new look. The little girl I knew from Seattle, the one with nut-brown hair, is gone. My cheeks are defined, and my lips are full. My eyes look older than seventeen, as if I’d lived nine lives already. My body is still thin, but I didn’t realize how shapely I’ve become.
The salon darkened my hair to a rich espresso, along with my newly shaped eyebrows. My wavy hair is now bone straight and layered nicely around my face. The stylist added makeup, which I haven’t really ever worn before. With the dark eyeliner, eye shadow, and mascara, I noticed how truly light my eyes were—and bought dark brown contacts. Now, I’m totally unrecognizable. If I hardly recognize myself, how will Madame?
Over my shoulder and in my hands hang bags of new clothes, both fancy and casual. Shoes. Boots. Jackets. Dresses. Even a bathing suit. The bags weigh on my arms. I look forward to setting them down.
Outside, a taxi sits in the pick-up area. I open the door and get in.
“Urumqi Street, French Quarter,” I say as I lift my bags into the cab.
The taxi weaves through the city. Even if I can find a way to help any of Madame’s X girls, I have nowhere for them to stay. Chan’s house is not safe—it’s too high profile. Everyone knows Chan and Kai, and soon they’ll know me.
I need somewhere to operate. Somewhere to hide. Somewhere to take the girls. What I need is a safe house. But where will I find one?
When I arrive at the villa, the dog is barking and thoughts of safe houses drift away. All I can think of now is Red as I walk up to the gate fumbling with all my bags.
“Who are you?” The guard’s voice asks from inside the gate.
“Phoenix,” I say.
“Oh?” He glances at my new appearance, surely wondering if I looked this way the last time I saw him. I don’t explain. “Do you need some help?”
“Thanks, I can make it,” I tell him, even though I can’t deny my arms are tired, along with the rest of me.
“Chan’s son told me I should watch for you tonight,” Lei says. “To call him when you arrived.”
There’s another voice behind him. “That’s right, I did,” it says.
Then without another word, Kai shoves his phone into his pocket and lifts the bags from my hands.
The guard locks the gate behind us and wishes us a goodnight. I rush to hide my embarrassment from ignoring Kai earlier. Kai follows with all the bags.
“Thanks,” I say as we reach the garden where the path splits directions—one to my door and one to his.
“Shopping, huh?” We take the path up to the guesthouse door. “So that’s what women do when they get upset.” He smiles to let me know he’s joking, then takes in my new hair and makeup, cocks his head. “I didn’t think it was you until you spoke.”
I don’t have the energy to explain that my changing appearance is synonymo
us with staying alive. “You look different too,” I say. “Were you on your way out?”
He’s not dressed in his suit anymore, but he’s still too dressed up to be on a casual errand. He wears navy slacks with a light blue button-up shirt under a brown leather jacket. His leather motorcycle boots, a bit beat up but still well taken care of, match his belt and watch. Not nearly as crisp as this morning, but still a bit stiff. Despite that, I can’t deny he is very handsome. There is something so calming about his face, his voice, like I’ve known him for years. But we have never met until a few days ago.
“Yes, I’m meeting someone, but I have time to help you,” he says as we reach the porch. “Look, I’m sorry if my father upset you. He’s not usually like that with people.”
This morning Kai was cold and distant, unlike the night I met him, unlike now. I don’t know which is the true Kai, or if I even care.
“Did he tell you? About the recession?” I ask.
“Yes.” Kai is silent, pensive. His eyes lock on mine.
“He can do something about it.”
“He doesn’t know what to believe.” It looks like he’s going to say something more, but then he decides not to.
This upsets me, so I deliberately break away and stare downward, concentrating on the stupid brown welcome mat. I’d rather say nothing than lecture two people today. Besides, I don’t want to hear any more excuses. While I fumble for my keys, we are both quiet, lost in thought, holding back what we really want to say. It seems to contradict both of our personalities.
Once the door swings open, I grope for the light switch with my left hand but can’t find it.
“On the right,” Kai says patiently.
I move my hand and find it immediately. “Thanks,” I say, removing my boots and finding the white house slippers.
Kai sets down my shopping bags in the entry room then stands there as if he is waiting to be invited in, but I don’t want him here. He told me he’s meeting a friend and even though I’ve worked with people who live, breathe, and eat lies, I still expect people to do what they say. Besides, I’m about to drop dead from exhaustion.
“Do you think my claims are crazy too?” I ask him before I close the door.
“Not exactly,” he responds. “But another great depression? That experts can’t detect? That theoretically my father can prevent?”
“I’m not lying.”
“I didn’t say you were. I guess I need time to let it soak in.”
“Sure,” I say just to get him to leave. Really, I don’t care to discuss it anymore. “Well, I don’t want to delay your meeting.”
“Don’t worry, she’s always late,” he says, eyes lock onto mine.
She. The girl from the office? His girlfriend? “Thanks for your help, Kai. See you tomorrow.”
“You’ll come to work for us after all?” he asks, surprised.
“I made a deal, didn’t I?”
He smirks. “You sure gave my father a scare when you ran out,” he says. “He thought he’d lost you.”
“Yeah, well, the news didn’t scare him badly enough, so I thought I would.”
Kai laughs. “You may just be the equal he never had. No one really stands up to him like that.”
Equal? I’ve never thought of myself as a real contender before. The thought lightens my mood. It feels good to know Chan is scared of losing me and would have let me go as an equal player, or at least, an employee. The thought is…freeing.
“Do me a favor next time,” he says. “If something like that happens between you and him, come to me first before you run out. I can help.”
I shake my head and smile to acknowledge his kind words, but really, I think Kai’s offer is ridiculous. He knows nothing about me, and his interests are entirely tied up with Mr. Chan’s. A pat on the shoulder won’t go very far in an economic spiral.
“Ride in the morning?” he asks.
“I’ll take the metro.”
“Phoenix, we live at the same address and work at the same place,” he says casually, “it’s no trouble.”
“Okay. Thanks,” I say. Anything else might arouse suspicion. I lean my head on the side of the door, closing it slowly. He gets the point.
“Goodnight.” And he is gone.
Fatigue crashes over me. I head down the hallway, leaving all the packages at the door except one. Before I sleep, there is one thing I need to do. Change. I slip into new sweats, then fold my old clothes up and breathe in their musty smell of wet dirt, cold cement, and green tea for the last time.
Heading to the kitchen, I snatch some matches from the drawers and a bottle of oil and sneak out the back door. Chan’s house looks dark. Kai has left. No one will bother me. I head to the back of the pool house patio.
There’s an empty tin bucket by the watering can in the garden. I throw my clothes into the bucket, add a bit of peanut oil from the kitchen, then strike a match.
A fire starts slowly at first then gradually grows. The night is windy and the smoke changes direction as it curls out of the bucket. My clothes blacken and shrink as the heat takes them. “Goodbye, Double-Eight,” I whisper.
The clothes burn away along with all the cold nights I prayed, asking God why with no answer. The nightmares, where my arms reached out to hold my father, rise with the smoke. My love and rage for Mara burns in the heat. Lily’s piano music cackles in the flames.
The clothes can’t fight the fire. They shrivel. They’re only material. Soon they are ash, burned pure, without smell or stain. The ash rises and drifts in the night sky, dissipating with each twist of wind.
“Red. I know you’re safe now.” I look up into the heavens. “I’m still here. I won’t give up. You were right. The fire can’t destroy me. I’m going to do what we talked about. And I do it for you.”
19
Past: Double-Eight
THE PRATT, SHANGHAI, CHINA
I could breathe again.
For 47 days I met with Red each night and learned more than I bargained for. I was taking back control of my gift and it felt good. One day I’d shove it in King’s and Madame’s faces.
The Chinese language was made for me and my gift. I had mastered 2376 more Chinese characters this month, an average pace of 100 new characters a day. While before Chinese looked like hieroglyphics on steroids, they were now clear, complex, and logical strokes of math. I learned it twice as fast than I had other languages, and 50% faster than an average person—especially their numbering system. It was far more logical than Roman numerals. I could do everything for King in a third less time, which granted wasn’t that long for me, but it was faster all the same. My brain was meant to think like this.
Chinese were obsessed with numbers and their meanings too. Take my name for example, 88. The number 8 is “Ba,” which sounds like “Fa,” which means good fortune. Eight was the luckiest number in China, associated with prosperity, success, and social status. People and businesses would pay good money to have the right numbers, especially the number 8, in phone numbers, flight numbers, and license plates. The Chinese world of philosophy and superstition was inextricably entwined with math.
Red entered, his whiskers curved up with his grin. “Tu fei meng jin,” he said, quoting one of China’s many idioms. “Your Chinese has soared to high places.”
For the first time in the Pratt, pride welled in my own chest. “You have a talent for learning,” he said. “Soon you will know all the dialects I do. How is it you can learn so fast? What is it that you do for King?”
He slipped an inch-thick mat through the bars of my cell onto the floor. I sat with legs crossed. “I make a lot of money because of a gift I have with numbers.”
“A prodigy?”
“Yes, Grandfather,” I said. “I bridge math. I bring two or more math disciplines together to solve something very complex. But I’m different. Numbers aren’t just something on a page, but a filter through which I see and judge everything.”
“How so?”
“
It’s like a screen of partial differential equations, except ten times faster and greater.” His face went blank. “Never mind the term. For example,” I said, “take a ball falling through the air. To determine its velocity, you must consider both gravity and air resistance. I look at ball size, weight, and material. Then I determine the ball's acceleration, the velocity as a function of time—I can calculate these things in seconds.”
His face went blanker still.
“Try this,” I said. “I see things before they happen because I calculate the possibilities of them happening before they happen.”
He nodded silently for a minute. “Let’s stick to me teaching you Chinese.” We both laugh.
“Can I ask you a question?” I asked.
“You may,” he replied.
“Why do they call you Crazy Red?” I asked. “Guard San says you’ve changed into some poetic mystic man since you arrived, but I know that’s not why.”
“Ah ha, perhaps it’s because I believe bad people can change?”
I sighed, growing impatient.
Finally, he relented. “I was given a favor that I haven’t cashed in.”
“What kind of favor?”
“I’m blackmailed to stay. King wants money. I know someone who has it.”
“You mean, someone who could pay your way out of here?”
“Yes. But it’s not that simple.”
“Why don’t you try?”
“It’s not time yet,” he said. “I must chi ku.”
“Eat bitterness?” I said. “Isn’t eight years of bitterness enough?”
“Ah ha, don’t forget that after much bitterness everything tastes like honey,” he spouted off a riddle as usual, though if I wasn’t mistaken, a sour grin hung on his face. He stood.
“Can’t you tell me what got you here in the first place?” I whined. It was the third time this week I’d asked him without receiving a straight answer.
“I’m making all the wrongs right,” he said sadly, once again avoiding the real answer. “Come, we have lots of work to do.”