“But I’m working at Chen’s, then—”
“Look,” she persists, “you can meet Shaun after, right? Kill two birds and all that?”
There is silence, the Flock none too pleased with Ella’s use of metaphor.
“Like I said, it won’t be forever,” she says. “I just want to earn enough money so I can move out, get my own place.”
I know my answer ought to be no, but I find myself yielding. My Reason, such an amazing friend who walked into my life when the rest of the world walked out, my nonblood sister, loving me in a way that no one else could.
I stare out at my bedroom. Gaze fixed on a Russian doll (a gift and Ella’s idea of a joke) balancing on top of my oak dresser.
Flash.
Ella and I are lying on my bed.
Two scratchy white towels covering our darling breasts and soft pubic hair. I feel a slick of heat between my thighs, the cool shower having impressed a zing of lemon on our sunburned skin. Ella catches the twist on my face as I pinch my pudge of tummy flesh, measuring its crime.
“Don’t,” she says, placing her damp hand on top of mine, “it’s lovely. And anyway, it’s only men who think tummies should be flat.”
I try to feel comfortable with her closeness, likening it to the times when my mother would lovingly wash and braid my hair. How, when she tied the plastic bauble, checked it wasn’t too tight, had cupped my face. “There,” she’d say, “perfect.”
Ella turns to me and smiles. The afternoon light sparkling behind her, the bright sun a beacon of hope encapsulating all things beautiful and just.
“For you,” she says, handing me the Russian doll. “Cute, right?”
My Reason takes a handful of her own tanned paunch and squeezes.
Flash.
And we laugh. Our friendship like a flight of birds, free and endless.
Flash.
“Alexa!”
The flashback has taken me away for a moment.
Tick-tock—
Lost time. Long enough, I realize, for Dolly to have reached for a coloring book and started work on a frizzy-wigged clown who is holding a trio of balloons.
I shudder. The sight of the inflated floating rubber forcing me to quickly turn the page. “I’m here,” I say, “sorry. Drifted off for a second.”
“Well—?”
I clear my throat. If I don’t go with Ella tonight, who else will? Who else cares?
“Well. Shaun’s actually working tonight, so I guess—”
“Great!” She sings, “I’ll pick you up after work.”
The phone rings off.
Oneiroi wraps her arms around me, trying to soothe the rising disquiet. My mouth is dry, my palms slick with sweat. I think about the stolen leather jacket. Ella’s confident glide as she cut across the department store, security none the wiser. Her glee when the three of us hit the street outside.
I walk across the dim landing toward the bathroom, counting my steps, and feel myself leave the Body, my chest suddenly awkward and strained. A child walks alongside me. Black round-toed shoes. Her presence regressed and familiar. Alarmed, she looks to me, eyes wide, hands wringing. Don’t let her go, the child says, it’s not safe. But before I can answer, she too is gone—has disappeared back into the dark corner of my mind. The slap of a hand across my face drowning out Dolly’s cries.
Several hours have passed.
Tick-tock—
I check my surroundings, recognizing the bathroom’s peeling gray walls. A whiff of fried chili and garlic drifting through and kindling my senses. Relieved to see the dozens of familiar cutout pictures of the Queen, I catch Mr. Chen’s high-pitched voice outside.
Tick-tock—
Come along, Oneiroi says, handing back the Body, you’d better get dressed. Date night, remember?
Date night? Runner mocks. Please don’t ever say that out loud.
Confused, I take the Light. The familiar sense of shrugging back into the Body not dissimilar to climbing into an old sweater, a pair of loose jeans. Oneiroi smiles and hands me my white silk blouse and leather pants.
Don’t worry, she says, you checked out for a while, but Runner worked your shift and Mr. Chen’s in a good mood. You’d better get changed out of your work clothes, though, and quick; Ella’s on her way.
Although no one’s watching (apart from the Queen), I cover my small breasts, currently held rather apologetically in a starter bra. My shame causing me to shudder over their being so small, and over my nipples too, like protruding acorns that never seem to go away regardless of temperature.
I drop down the toilet seat, sit, breathe in, and quickly pull up the zipper on my tight leather pants before flesh knows what I’m up to. Ha! Tricked you, tummy bulge.
I liken the flabby overspill to the top of a muffin, and feel a wave of disappointment that my refusal to drink anything fizzy or eat anything fat for the past week has had zero, ZERO effect. Damn you, body gods!
Outside, I can hear Mr. Chen laughing with some customers—a couple, I think, who order the same thing every week: Set dinner, C1, for 2 person. Afterward, the woman usually asks for two fortune cookies, which she snaps open right there on the spot. After reading both, she decides which one belongs to her before handing the other to a man who I assume is her husband. He rarely reads the cookie’s vague prophecy, simply places the thin line of paper on the counter, showing more interest in the angled TV on the wall.
I peer out the bathroom door, the couple framed in an elongated slice of companionship and domesticity. The woman leans against the counter, occupied with the menu, her blouse a mustard yellow under a sage-green cardigan. A large fake pearl necklace clacking at her throat. She is a little younger than Anna but nowhere near as fashionable. The husband stares at the TV screen, eyes locked on some reality TV show involving spiders and a girl in a glass case. Hundreds are released; the girl screams, her body now a mass of meager black legs.
I take out my camera and aim its lens toward the couple, dialing them into focus—click, click—the photograph holding a moment, a secret. The woman turns to the TV and then to her husband, tilts her head back and laughs, the girl in the glass box now frantically groping around. The woman drapes her arm around her husband and watches his reaction—click, click—both of them voyeurs to the girl’s desperation. I am seeing them not seeing themselves. I have knowledge of them that they do not have. My hands twitch, a discomfort felt in my gut, then quickly place the camera back in my rucksack.
Who’s the voyeur now? Runner snickers.
Stepping into my suede ankle boots, I check my face in the rectangular mirror above the sink, noting a chip in the top corner. A crack spreading to its center causing a slight disjoin to my face. I stand on my tiptoes and my face realigns—becomes whole again. I force myself to accept that the plump-faced girl with shadows cast beneath her eyes is actually me. Me?
I will buy Mr. Chen a new mirror, I tell myself.
Ella is waiting for me outside.
“Copycat!” she shouts, flinging open the car door and sticking her leg out. At first I haven’t a clue what she’s up to, but as I draw closer I realize we’re wearing matching leather pants, our legs like four sticks of licorice.
“You wore them best.” I laugh.