you looking after me? Why am I being humiliated?” I said dressing hurriedly.
But Zhi’s back was already turned.
I collected my belongings and stepped into an adjoining room where a group of girls had gathered in dazed silence.
Zhi began doling out papers. “Everyone, get into line and sit down. There’s work to do.”
Music crackled all around. The noise of it grew louder with each line. I looked down at my sheet and realised they were song lyrics.
Arise!
You workers of our nation
Fresh as morning sun
Full of vigour and vitality.
Forward!
Goes our nation,
From the factory lines
It’s you who drive the world.
Toil!
For today is the day
You make the cars,
Faster, better, stronger.
I sang through tears. No-one even heard me cry. At the end of the song, Zhi instructed us to leave via a thick, green-glass door. I scrambled to my feet with the others, more uncertain than ever as to whether the door was a wall, a tunnel or a trap. Surely nothing could ever be what it seemed again. I pulled my work cap down, wanting only to disappear like the magical paintbrush in Ma Liang’s tale.
Ricki closed her eyes. She liked the pattern of the water: the teeny pinpricks coming from the shower head and the
hissssss
that drowned out everything. She was a tribal leader, surrounded by women with udder-breasts in a remote lagoon. She lathered her scalp with acacia shampoo and enjoyed the soft slide of suds down her back. Her open mouth engorged with water; she gargled and squeezed it out through the irritating gap in her two front teeth.
Why didn’t any part of her look right? Her hair was limp and fine. Her tits, small. Her whole body was square, short, Chinese. Pink highlights would bring it together.
“But, sweetheart! You can’t ruin your beautiful hair …”
Her mum was so chronic. Thankfully she didn’t know about her eyebrow piercing. One teeny hole, one act of rebellion. One mark of distinction from Jen, her twin.
She stepped onto the bathmat and wiped the steam from the mirror. Her chest was pink where the blood had levitated to the surface. If I was a vampire, there’d be no reflection. No boxy Chinese kid in the mirror.
She pictured Lowrie: her long purple hair and brooding eyes, ringed in black kohl, her cobweb look. She wouldn’t have taken any shit from a hit-and-run driver – she would have got up like
The Terminator,
chased after the bastard and made him suffer. She wished she had Lowrie’s guts. Wished she was her.
A primitive feeling clawed inside her belly. Ricki sat down cross-legged on the bathroom carpet and explored between her legs. She pictured Lowrie on her stool in the garage workshop, wearing a black top, her shoulders exposed and edible, her tattoo flowering between the shoulder blades, the boned fabric of her corset open like a wing and beneath her skin, the frame of her back. Her breasts, she imagined how they would be larger than hers, cool like the skin of a melon. Ricki wanted to. Explode. Wham!
The door handle rattled. “Are you going to be much longer?”
Fuckistre.
“Give me a minute, will you.” She lay still. Her voice breathless. Her heart thudding. The image of Lowrie zapped by annoying relative numero two.
“I need to come in,” said Jen.
“You’ll have to wait.”
Jen scratched on the bathroom door. “What are you doing in there, anyway? You’ve been ages.”
She splashed cold water on her face and rubbed away the imprint of her damp, charged body from the bathroom carpet – because Jen, as everyone liked to remind her, was no half-brain.
Ricki opened the door wide and stood to one side. “What’s the great rush for the bathroom?” she said “Stuart’s not coming today is he?”
“Your face looks red,” said Jen.
“Does it?”
“Like a lobster.”
“Let me past will you, I need to get my clothes.”
“Sshhh.”
Jen pointed to their mum’s bedroom. “She’s catching up on sleep.”
A voice croaked, “Girls, are you
But Zhi’s back was already turned.
I collected my belongings and stepped into an adjoining room where a group of girls had gathered in dazed silence.
Zhi began doling out papers. “Everyone, get into line and sit down. There’s work to do.”
Music crackled all around. The noise of it grew louder with each line. I looked down at my sheet and realised they were song lyrics.
Arise!
You workers of our nation
Fresh as morning sun
Full of vigour and vitality.
Forward!
Goes our nation,
From the factory lines
It’s you who drive the world.
Toil!
For today is the day
You make the cars,
Faster, better, stronger.
I sang through tears. No-one even heard me cry. At the end of the song, Zhi instructed us to leave via a thick, green-glass door. I scrambled to my feet with the others, more uncertain than ever as to whether the door was a wall, a tunnel or a trap. Surely nothing could ever be what it seemed again. I pulled my work cap down, wanting only to disappear like the magical paintbrush in Ma Liang’s tale.
Ricki closed her eyes. She liked the pattern of the water: the teeny pinpricks coming from the shower head and the
hissssss
that drowned out everything. She was a tribal leader, surrounded by women with udder-breasts in a remote lagoon. She lathered her scalp with acacia shampoo and enjoyed the soft slide of suds down her back. Her open mouth engorged with water; she gargled and squeezed it out through the irritating gap in her two front teeth.
Why didn’t any part of her look right? Her hair was limp and fine. Her tits, small. Her whole body was square, short, Chinese. Pink highlights would bring it together.
“But, sweetheart! You can’t ruin your beautiful hair …”
Her mum was so chronic. Thankfully she didn’t know about her eyebrow piercing. One teeny hole, one act of rebellion. One mark of distinction from Jen, her twin.
She stepped onto the bathmat and wiped the steam from the mirror. Her chest was pink where the blood had levitated to the surface. If I was a vampire, there’d be no reflection. No boxy Chinese kid in the mirror.
She pictured Lowrie: her long purple hair and brooding eyes, ringed in black kohl, her cobweb look. She wouldn’t have taken any shit from a hit-and-run driver – she would have got up like
The Terminator,
chased after the bastard and made him suffer. She wished she had Lowrie’s guts. Wished she was her.
A primitive feeling clawed inside her belly. Ricki sat down cross-legged on the bathroom carpet and explored between her legs. She pictured Lowrie on her stool in the garage workshop, wearing a black top, her shoulders exposed and edible, her tattoo flowering between the shoulder blades, the boned fabric of her corset open like a wing and beneath her skin, the frame of her back. Her breasts, she imagined how they would be larger than hers, cool like the skin of a melon. Ricki wanted to. Explode. Wham!
The door handle rattled. “Are you going to be much longer?”
Fuckistre.
“Give me a minute, will you.” She lay still. Her voice breathless. Her heart thudding. The image of Lowrie zapped by annoying relative numero two.
“I need to come in,” said Jen.
“You’ll have to wait.”
Jen scratched on the bathroom door. “What are you doing in there, anyway? You’ve been ages.”
She splashed cold water on her face and rubbed away the imprint of her damp, charged body from the bathroom carpet – because Jen, as everyone liked to remind her, was no half-brain.
Ricki opened the door wide and stood to one side. “What’s the great rush for the bathroom?” she said “Stuart’s not coming today is he?”
“Your face looks red,” said Jen.
“Does it?”
“Like a lobster.”
“Let me past will you, I need to get my clothes.”
“Sshhh.”
Jen pointed to their mum’s bedroom. “She’s catching up on sleep.”
A voice croaked, “Girls, are you
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