by Sword Stone Table- Old Legends, New Voices (retail) (epub)
“Is that your friend?”
I’m so startled by the question, I flinch. A woman, perhaps a few years older than me, lifts her hands, palms facing my baffled expression.
“I’m not trying to start anything, just hoping you can tell me she has a boyfriend so I can pull my brother away,” she shouts above the music.
“Sorry, you took me by surprise,” I say. And then I remember her question. “And sorry again, but I don’t think Nenive has a boyfriend.” I have no idea if this is true, but I want to be useful and she looks friendly.
“Sorry, sorry lah, no need to apologize,” she says without malice.
She’s definitely from here. She looks like one of my younger aunts. Her name is Fatima.
“But everyone calls me Fata.” She looks at her brother to roll her eyes and shake her head. “Stupid. Look at him making a fool of himself over your friend.”
“I don’t think she lives here, so at least it’s temporary, if that helps,” I say.
“You don’t think? She’s your friend—shouldn’t you know where your friend lives?”
Once I start to explain that we only recently became friends, the words keep tumbling out. Fata inspects the pendant, all the while keeping an eye on Nenive. Her Satellites jostle for attention and the circle is tighter now. I had slipped outside of the close quarters as soon as Nenive’s grip loosened, but I’m not out of her reach entirely. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. It’s my gift to show off.
“Doesn’t really look like your style,” Fata concludes. “It’s not understated, you know what I mean?”
“I know,” I say, cheeks warming. “I need a new wardrobe.”
“No, this pendant needs to be less gaudy,” says Fata. “I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but it’s a lot.” She waves her hand around to dismiss the comment. “Whatever, it’s nice that she gave you a gift, but how is she going to call herself your friend and keep herself to herself?”
I shouldn’t have told her about Nenive’s secrecy.
“Like I said, we haven’t known each other long.” I shrug. “There are all sorts of reasons she’s so private. She’s eccentric.”
I stifle the urge to tell Fata all sorts of things about Nenive’s odd behavior. Things I hadn’t allowed myself to give much thought until now. I want to see how Fata reacts. If she brushes it off, fine. If not—
I sense that I’m being watched, and sure enough, I look up to find Nenive standing much closer than she was a second ago, looking from me to Fata.
Sweat is pouring down my back. How much has she heard? I can’t read her face.
“What are you doing?” Nenive asks flatly.
“Waiting for my brother to be done messing around,” Fata says, rescuing me from having to answer.
“Not you,” Nenive says with a withering glance at Fata, who smiles back. “You left me to fend for myself with those dipshits.”
“I thought you were having a good time,” I stammer. I want to remind her about how often she’d forgotten me, but I clutch my pendant instead, hoping it’ll give me another injection of confidence.
Nenive responds by pulling me back into the circle. “You haven’t even had a drink,” she says. “Go on.”
I’m tired of Nenive telling me what to do, but I choose a straw that looks untouched and take a sip from the communal vessel of rum and coke. The pendant frees itself from my collar and knocks into the pitcher while I’m bent over for a drink.
“What’s that you’ve got?” An Australian Satellite points at the pendant.
“It’s a gift I gave her,” Nenive says on my behalf. “It’s a friendship thing, but I don’t think she likes it.”
“If she doesn’t like it, I’ll take it,” says the Australian. “I’d be honored to be your friend.”
I almost roll my eyes at his shit-eating grin.
But Nenive looks serious. “I guess it’s nothing to you,” she tells me.
I forget the Australian and stare at Nenive, my pulse quickened by her soured mood. I know I’ve misstepped somehow. Nenive cocks her head, malice frosting her smile.
“Why don’t you give it to him, since he actually wants it?”
I hold the pendant to my chest, and the tiny sword nicks the skin below my collarbone. I try to imagine what would happen if I did give it up, but instead I remember splashing in the surf at East Coast Park with Nenive, and how she’d hugged me like I was her sister when I stumbled and fell in the water.
Everyone’s watching, waiting to see what I’ll do, and then the Australian leans over, his arm outstretched in my direction, ready to receive. Blood boils in my veins and I’m about to smack his arm away when Fata steps forward.
“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” she says. “You can’t snatch things off a person’s body—what’s wrong with you?”
The Australian holds his hands up. He tucks in his chin, faux defensive, smug.
“Calm down, calm down,” he says.
“Lighten up.” Nenive smirks at Fata. “She knows we’re just joking around.” Nenive looks at me for confirmation, and her features scrunch like she’s seeing me for the first time. Her eyes widen.
“Oh, your hair,” she exhales.
I know what it must look like, but I sag when she announces it. Nenive snatches the elastic from her ponytail, letting her own hair fall in glossy waves down her back. She scrapes the frizzy mass away from my face and secures it in a bun so tight it uproots a few strands. Though I can make out Fata’s pursed lips, the rest of the club is blurry with captive tears by the time Nenive pulls back.
She combs through her own locks as if to cleanse her hands. Her gleaming crown shines beneath the colorful lights slicing across the room as she declares, “All better now.”
The Satellites watch my friend preen. And then they lean over to wrap their lips around their straws and drink deep from the pitcher, heads bowed in reverence. I’m tired and sober.
Nenive turns to me. “Are you bored?”
Sometimes I worry that she can read my mind. I imagine a wall as I search her face for the correct answer.
“I’m fine?”
She snorts. “Well, I’m bored—let’s get out of here.”
“There’s tulang nearby,” Fata speaks up. “We’re heading there now.” She has her brother by the arm and looks ready to drag him away.
“I love tulang,” I practically shout.
“Come, come, you’ll love this place,” says Fata. “Best in town.”
I turn to Nenive, picturing the four of us in conference over the bright red bowls of stew, excavating marrow from bone with every narrow device available to us.
“You’ll love it, too,” I say. I’m giddy with the idea of showing her a bit of Singapore. It’s my turn to play tour guide. Our time together is running out, and I’m overdue for showing Nenive that I know some things, too. And if there’s one thing I know about Singapore, it’s where to eat.
“I don’t want that crap,” Nenive says breezily. “I’m in the mood for chips, come on.”
More chips. She can have fries anywhere.
“Where are you off to?” The smiling Australian must’ve slid into our smaller circle while we were talking. He appears between Fata and Nenive. “Where are we off to?” he corrects himself.
“Oh,” Nenive looks at him as if he materialized from the piped-in smoke. “We’re going our own way. Just the two of us.”
“What about Fata?” I say.
“No thanks—I’m not in the mood.” Fata purses her lips, striking an uncanny imitation of Nenive as she waves us off. Her other arm is still locked around her brother’s. “It was nice to meet you. Hope you enjoy the rest of your trip.” She arches an eyebrow at Nenive.
I’m still picturing the wall in my mind as I wish I could go with them, but my hand starts
to reach for the pendant. I force it back down.
Nenive throws a scoff at their backs, but her face is smoothed over as if she’s forgotten the corresponding expression. I think back to the beach and the spell of stillness I witnessed and shiver.
“Aren’t I your friend, too?” the Australian says, still unwilling to give up his flirtations.
“I don’t have time for you,” she says. “Let’s go.” Nenive takes my hand and pulls me away.
I look back at the Satellites, thrown out of orbit. They watch us go in bewilderment, standing there like men turned to stone by Nenive’s face.
* * *
—
Mom calls when Nenive and I arrive at the fast-food place. She loaned me the flip phone thinking I’d be out and about with my cousins during our stay. Nenive keeps telling me not to pick up, but I cave the fourth time Mom rings. I press money into Nenive’s hand to place our order, apologize, and go outside to take the call.
Mom is predictably unhappy.
“Where are you?” she says before I can get a word in. “I’ve been calling and calling—”
“I was ordering food,” I lie. “I couldn’t pick up right away.”
“Get it to go and come home,” Mom says.
“Mom, I can’t just up and leave Nenive here.”
“Nenive can get her food to go wherever it is she goes.”
“Why are you being like this? We’re just eating, get over it.” I bite my lip.
“What did you just say to me?”
A charged silence slips between us again, but I can’t stand it anymore. I need her to understand.
“Can’t you let me have one friend?” I turn toward a column to hide my tear-streaked face from passersby.
“Oh, sweetie.” Mom sighs on the other end of the line. “I want you to have friends. But I’ve never even met this girl. You won’t bring her over, you can’t tell me anything about her. All I know is that she has no respect for your family time or plans that aren’t hers and that she keeps you out at all hours of the night doing who knows what. You don’t even know where she lives or what she’s doing here—you said it yourself.”
I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. Not around Fata, and not around Mom. I shouldn’t have admitted my ignorance to Mom when she prodded me for more information about Nenive the third or fourth time we hung out. I know it only made Mom dislike her more.
“I don’t want to fight again, but you can’t fault me for thinking she’s a loose cannon,” Mom continues. “I’m worried about you.”
She softens her tone. “We’ll get rendang at Lau Pa Sat bright and early tomorrow morning—we’ll spend the day together, you and me,” she promises. “We can go back to Bugis. I saw you eyeing those weird slashed leggings.”
I press the phone closer to my cheek as Mom’s laughter, strained and desperate, comes through the receiver, and I picture us enjoying a day together. I want her to reach through the phone and catch me.
My head aches from the ringing in my ears. It started up after the vision at the club’s entrance. Stress, most likely. I try to ignore it while I talk to Mom, but the itch irritating my palm is starting to spread as well. I know that if I just hold the sword pendant, the sound and the pain will go away.
I ball my hand into a fist and hold the phone tight, darting a look through the burger place’s window. Nenive watches me from a table, a spread of food in front of her. She drags a finger across her throat and mouths, Hang up.
“Give me thirty minutes,” I tell Mom. “I’ll be home in thirty minutes.”
* * *
—
Nenive and I eat our combo meals under the harsh fluorescent lights of the franchise. Her shoulders jig for joy. She’s finally done bad-mouthing Fata. Nearby, a woman cuts up fries for the toddler bouncing on her knee. When she pauses to glance our way, I imagine she sees students from abroad—one sad, one happy—retreating from the unknown, disgusted by it. I push my tray away.
Nenive stares at my food. “That’s all you’re eating?” she says through a mouthful.
“I’m not that hungry,” I say.
“You looked hungry enough to eat her bullshit when that girl asked you out.” Nenive can make anything sound conversational.
Looking down at the table, I mutter a quick “I should head home soon.”
“No way,” says Nenive. “It’s not even midnight. What are you, five?”
“I have to get up early to do a family thing.”
“We can come up with some excuse to get you out of it,” Nenive says. She smacks her palms on the table. “What we need is a drink. Let’s go back to Clarke Quay. I’ve got a few more—” She makes a tossing-back motion and pats the cheap souvenir purse slung over her shoulder.
“Nenive, I told my mom I’d be home by now.” I’m usually good at staying chipper around her. She goes cold the minute I show her anything less than joy. But I’m so tired.
“Well, then call your bitchy mum back and tell her I fell and hit my head tripping on the curb. Tell her you need to help me. She’ll believe it.”
“Please don’t say things like that.”
“Like what?”
“You know what.” I’m so afraid to disturb the delicate balance, but I can’t let this one go. “Don’t call her bitchy.”
“Bitchy mum, bitchy mum, bitchy, bitchy mum,” Nenive sings. “You’re such a baby. Now, are we going or what?”
In the cab, my phone won’t stop ringing. I hold it in my open hands, sinking deeper and deeper with each unanswered ring until Nenive grabs the phone and throws it out the car window.
I do nothing except gape at the cabdriver—who either didn’t see or is pretending not to have seen.
“Now you can stop freaking out about it,” Nenive says. “Don’t look at me like I threw your actual mum out the car, for fuck’s sake. It’s just a shitty phone.”
I grip the door handle and worry that I’ll allow myself to jump from the moving vehicle. I get this mad idea that I can still go back and get my phone. When the cab stops at a red light, my grip tightens on the door handle and my heart races, but I don’t move. I can’t get the image of Mom, calling and calling, out of my head.
Nenive dances barefoot on the curb while I pay the fare yet again. She never offers to pay. Her heels clack in the hand raised high above her head as she jigs like a broken puppet.
Clarke Quay is as loud and colorful as Mardi Gras. The bright purple, yellow, and green lights judder across my vision as I’m pulled along, running behind Nenive, wild and desperate. She finds the one dark corner along the quay and fishes more mini bottles of vodka from her souvenir purse. It seems unlikely that so many can fit in there, but who cares? We down them one after another; this time I don’t hesitate. I need to wash the ringing out of my ears. It’s strengthened into the alarm of a looping ringtone, shrill and deafening.
We’re dancing outside a big, touristy club. Nenive tries to get us in, and next thing I know we’re in a hot, close space, surrounded by fellow night owls drinking and dancing away the early-morning hours. Time skips over moments until I blink and dawn appears on the horizon. The sides of my toes sport tender blisters where they’ve rubbed against my sandals; the scrape on my big toe is grimy and mottled with dried blood. I’m sticky with old sweat and my mouth tastes awful.
The quay is quiet. Only the murmur of Singapore River lapping against the bumboats disturbs the peace. Dread rises with the sun.
“I’ve gotta go home,” I say. I sound terrible, raspy.
Nenive screws up her face. The way her skin sits on the flesh and bone is off somehow. “Home?”
“Yes, Nenive. Home.”
“You have no home here.” She says it so matter-of-factly I almost think I’m the one who’s confused. I’m five-cups-of-coffee jittery, and the pendant is so hot I imagine it burning a bra
nd into my skin.
“My mom is waiting,” I say. “I’m meeting her for breakfast.”
“No, you’re not.” Nenive shifts her mouth into what I think is supposed to be a smile. “You’re coming with me.”
I glare at her. “I don’t even know where you live, so.”
Nenive laughs at me and pulls my arm hard. “Come on.”
“Hey,” I shout, reeling out of her grip. “You almost made me fall off the ledge.” What the fuck. “Are you still drunk?”
She ignores my question and reaches for me again. I scramble to my feet, startled awake by a cold slap of fear.
This is what you want. I shake my head at Nenive.
She looks at me over her shoulder but doesn’t move to come after me. She says, “Don’t you want to see your father?”
“What?” I breathe and search my memories. I hadn’t told her about him. I’d never tell her about him. I see a ship sailing into the fog, but I banish the image when I remember Nenive’s eyes on me.
“You don’t know where he is,” I say. Nobody does. I focus on inhaling and exhaling. I’m afraid of what she’ll do if I pass out.
“If you don’t want to see him, fine,” says Nenive. Her lower lip falls away, a piece of flesh making like a pout, as she adds, “It’s for the best anyway, since he’s dead.”
My knees buckle, but I stop myself short of falling.
“Don’t say that. Don’t say that about him.” I struggle for air.
Nenive’s face twitches, searching for the right gesture. Her eyebrows crawl together. “I’m only joking, silly girl. You take everything so seriously. Come here.”
Her arms hinge open like a trap. I back away, watching her concern stagnate.
“Suit yourself,” she says, dropping them back to her sides. “All I ask is that you look at yourself. Come look into the water. You can stand all the way over there if you want.”
