Beauty

by Christina Chiu

  Ma’s mouth twitches. Oh, god. She does.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Give me back the Chanel.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Life’s not fair.” She leaves. No yelling. No crying. No throwing. It’s downright scary.

  From my room, I can hear her manicured nails clicking angrily against the computer keys. Then, the squeak of the attic ladder and Ma climbing to the top of it.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, going into the hall.

  She appears with a large red suitcase. “Take it.”

  “What for?”

  “Pack,” she tells me.

  “Where are we going?” A guy named Moongazer is having an open-house party tonight. His parents manage Reefer and The Happies; they’re away this weekend.

  Ma leaves without answering.

  “Ma,” I call.

  She returns to the attic for another suitcase, which she wheels to her room. The computer is on, and when I sit on the bed, it jostles awake to the United Airlines website. Hong Kong.

  Are you for real? I want to say.

  Ma opens one cabinet drawer after another, taking out a shirt here, a skirt there. Her garment bag contains three dresses, including a Givenchy. As angry as I am with her, I can’t help but watch her pack. She’s thoughtful and methodical. Reverent. From the way she handles her clothes, it seems they’re precious. She has a lot of couture, but Ma isn’t so much into labels as she’s into design and quality. Every ensemble is a balancing act, depending on what she wants people to notice. An elegant black dress won’t draw attention; the eye will automatically be drawn to the Chanel.

  Job complete, Ma lights up a fresh cigarette and steps back to assess the combinations she’s laid out, each with a matching purse. Once she’s satisfied, she packs. It’s a snug fit with all the clothes, handbags and toiletry bags, one specifically for makeup.

  Ma turns to me, her lips pinched tight. “You packed?”

  “I don’t want to go,” I complain, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’m not going.”

  “Oh, yeah?” She pushes past me, and in my room, kicks the suitcase on its side. She unzips it, then starts going through my dresser.

  “Stop,” I say.

  She throws the things she’s gathered into the suitcase and goes back for more.

  “Ma!” I yell, blocking her with my body. “Stop!”

  She freezes. “When Mommy say, ‘pack,’ you go to ‘pack.’ Ting da dong ma?” Understand?

  “Okay, all right? I got it.”

  “Good.” She storms off. I dump in shirts and skirts, a pair of blue jeans and a pair of white ones. I add underwear and bras. Shoes and sandals. It’s overstuffed. I can barely zip the thing.

  “Take it downstairs,” Ma says.

  I lug the suitcase to the car. Ma trails me so closely, the tips of her Pradas nip at my heels.

  I shove the suitcase into the back seat. Ma stuffs hers into the trunk. “Get in the car,” she says.

  “But—”

  “Now.” We get into the car. She chain-smokes and takes the Bronx River Parkway like it’s the Indie 500. She starts and stops. My head whips forward and back. The highway’s like a rattlesnake. Narrow and winding. Sometimes deadly.

  “Ma!” I brace a hand against the dashboard. “Stop it.”

  Ma stares at me so hard and long, I’m positive we’re going to swing into the next lane. Our car and the one next to ours sway closer, then drift apart. She wants to scare me.

  Heat rushes to my eyes. A part of me hopes we’ll crash; hopes we’ll die. I turn away so she can’t see me cry. The river opens into a pond-like area. There are both brown ducks and white ducks. One day, I’m going to come back and run them the fuck over. The brown ones because they stick around during winter. The white ones because they’re clipped, pathetic losers.

  Ma gets off the West Side Highway.

  “Why are we going to Georgie’s?” I ask, wondering if she’s going to make Georgie come, too.

  She flicks the butt out the window, then shuts it to keep the heat out. She exhales from the corner of her mouth. Smoke curls and rises.

  At Georgie’s building on 165th street, across from the Children’s Hospital, Ma double parks and flashes the emergency lights. “Out,” she says.

  “Here?” Usually she circles until we find parking.

  “Out!” She reaches across and shoves the passenger side door open. “Take the suitcase.”

  I climb out and drag the luggage from the backseat. Sweat beads across my face and body. Ma brings down the passenger side window.

  “Does Georgie know we’re coming?” I lean into the car, not expecting Georgie’s keys to be suddenly flying at my face. I block with a hand, and they clap against my palm, dropping to the pavement. Ca-chink! A sound that’s tinny and flat.

  Ma screeches away. The car turns the corner. Disappears.

  Bootman

  Black boots. There in the window. Could they really be lace? Wow. Floral and paisley-drops. Open-toed, trimmed with leather, knee high. They’d go perfect with my strapless. Sexy, yet delicate. A smidgen of the masculine. Dolce and Gabbana? No, judging from the pencil-thin heels, Jimmy Choo. Yes. No. Maybe.

  Heat rises off the pavement. The sidewalk rumbles, steam rising through the grill. Bodies rush up from the subway. I press against the glass as people brush past. Could they be Chloe? Hard to say. Everything’s in the details, and it’s already a little too dark to tell.

  Is Ma gone for good? I wonder. When I was little, we used to go to Chinatown to watch the Chinese double feature. It was always packed; hot, full of cigarette smoke, and with the cracking sound of people snacking on watermelon seeds. One time, Georgie and I got into a fight. Ma shushed us, then passed me over to Dad. His lap was soft and squishy. I leaned against him. It was hot, but in a good way. “Go to sleep,” Dad said, pressing my head to his chest.

  “But I’m not tired!”

  Dad tried to give me back to Ma. “Doesn’t she need a nap?”

  “You’re welcome to tell her that,” Ma said. “You take her.”

  “No, you take her.” Back and forth I went.

  Neither wanted me then, neither wants me now.

  Suddenly, I feel something. Someone’s watching. I look past the display. The sales guy. He comes toward me, his gaze like a magnet. His eyes are pale, pale blue, his hair dark, dark brown and spiked at the top. “Try them?” he mouths, and I get a rush like the boots are already mine.

  The store has the delicious smell of new leather and shoe polish. Also a spicy, sweet fragrance. The walls are the kind of lavender you want to wrap around you and sleep inside. At the register, a saleswoman rings up a customer with a shivering Chihuahua in her purse.

  “They’re either Jimmy Choos or Dolce,” I say, about the boots. “Or maybe Chloe.”

  “Impressive. You know your shoes,” my salesman chuckles. “But, you’re wrong.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Don’t take it to heart, beautiful.” He tells me it’s a new Italian designer. He eyeballs my gladiator sandals. “Six?” he asks.

  “Wow, you’re good.”

  “That, I am. And not just about shoes.” He points me to an oversized-squooshy sofa in the far corner of the store. I sink into the soft, velvety chair. It sighs under my weight. Feels like lying on a bed of clouds. He disappears to the back, and when the red velvet curtain pushes aside, I make out the floor-to-ceiling shelves stocked with Prada boot boxes. I picture myself in the middle of the room, surrounded by pretty shoes. Wisps of cool air sweep over my skin. Goose bumps.

  The woman with the Chihuahua leaves. Her salesperson withdraws a purse from a cabinet. She peeks behind the curtain and tells my guy she’s taking off. He mutters something I can’t hear, but she okays him and heads out the door. On the way o
ut, she draws the gate a third of the way down so people know the shop’s closed. The track light dims.

  My guy returns with an oversized silver box. He extends a hand and helps me out of the deep chair. He lifts the lid of the box, revealing tissue paper with my boots tucked like the perfect gift inside, then carefully removes the soft cardboard. I slip off my sandals and reach an arm into the smooth, almost silky bootleg. It gives me a dull heartache.

  Bootman kneels. Slips the boot on. Then he leans in. One hand cups my calf, clasping the upper sides of the boot together. The other hand zips. The lace mesh makes it feel snug and sturdy while the lining reminds me of a silk slip. I hand him the other boot and he sets me up. He smoothes his hands up and down the backs of the boots, then slides them to the bare insides of my knees. I rock onto the soles, the front of my skirt brushing the spikes of his gelled hair. He squeezes the sides of my foot and presses a thumb at my big toes. He moves so close I feel the warmth of his breath at my thighs. “What a good fit.”

  I check the mirror. “You think?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He pats my ass. “Now, walk for me.”

  I swish my way to the mirror, lean right, then left. The boots make me taller and thinner. They’re magic.

  “God, you really are beautiful,” he says, leaning his weight onto his heels. “You do know that don’t you?”

  Heat rushes to my cheeks. Beautiful. No one has ever called me that. People sometimes say “pretty” or “fashionable.” Sometimes, they even say I’m like Ma. “Na li, Na li,” Not at all, not at all, Ma always insists.

  “How much?” I ask.

  “Twelve fifty,” he says, “not including tax.”

  “Ugh.” I have a credit card for emergencies, but it’s capped at a thousand. I sink into the chair. Air squeaks from its seams. “Oh well.”

  “You mean to tell me you’re going to let these go?”

  “Guess so,” I shrug.

  “Oh, beautiful,” he says, running his hands up my legs and resting his palms over my knees. “Don’t pout. Please don’t pout.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “You’re killing me.” He glances at his watch. “I must be crazy, but…”

  “Yeah,” I yelp, hugging him so tightly he nearly falls on me.

  “Hold on, there. I can’t give it free. It’s still going to cost you.”

  “I know,” I say. “I know.”

  He hovers for a moment. His breath smells like Scope. “What’s your name?”

  “Georgie,” I lie.

  “Tell me, Georgie—” His hands slide upward, his thumbs nestling in the crook of my hips. “What’re you, fifteen?”

  “No, I’m, like, twenty?” Georgie’s age.

  “Twenty?”

  “Yeah, like, I’m a med student? Every day, it’s like, study, study. You know?”

  “You Asian girls sure do look young,” he laughs. He tucks the box lid under his arm. “This is torn. I’ll find another. Just give me a couple minutes.”

  I relax into the chair. The velvet fabric feels cool against my skin. As cars and trucks drive past in the street outside, shadows shift and change over the ceiling. Georgie will be off her shift at the hospital soon. With my suitcase in the middle of her apartment, she’s going to need an explanation I’m not sure how to give. Yeah, Ma dumped me here. Why? Well, uh, Dad sort of hooked up with a Chinese woman in Hong Kong, and now Ma’s on a plane—to what?—drag him back?

  He’s old. He deserves a few years of happiness.

  Maybe it’s my fault; maybe none of this would be happening if only I was smart like Georgie.

  The store suddenly seems too quiet.

  “Hello?” I call.

  I peek in the stockroom. What a shocker. It’s not much larger than mom’s walk-in closet. The floor’s cement mouse grey. Aside from the shelves in the line of sight behind the curtain, no other shelves exist. Just boxes stacked seven-feet high. In the middle of the ceiling, there’s a single bare bulb. Bootman’s hunched over on a step stool, elbows to knees. Next to him on the floor is a sneaker-sized box. In his hands, a half empty bottle of soda.

  “Oh, beautiful,” he says. He seems surprised to see me.

  “I’ve been, like, waiting?”

  “I’m sorry.” He scoots to the floor and indicates with a wave of the hand to take a seat. “I got caught up in my thoughts. That ever happen to you?”

  Why don’t you do us all a favor and release him?

  I nod. Feel myself start to cry.

  “My, my. What’s so dark and heavy inside this pretty little head of yours?” he asks, brushing the tears away with his thumbs. “Go ahead, you can tell me.”

  It’s like a hand squeezes my heart and a knot of pain jumps to the back of my throat. “Who are you?” I ask.

  “My name?” he asks. “Call me ‘in love’.”

  “No, really.”

  He gulps his soda as if it were beer, even swallows as if it burns going down. “Who do you think I am?”

  “You’re Bootman.”

  “I like that.” He hands me the box. “Here. Open it.”

  A matching bag. “For me?”

  “All for you, beautiful,” he says. “Now, I’m your everything man.”

  I start to sob. He kisses me. With his hand at the back of my neck, he holds me there. When I pull away, I see the bulge inside his pants. He unbuttons his shirt. He does it steadily, no rush. Gray hairs and a pot belly. He drapes his shirt over the floor and helps me onto it. He creeps up, kissing my shin, knee, thigh. He bunches my skirt to my hips. My fingernails dig into his shirt and the cement floor. I stare up at the bulb until my eyes hurt. When I shut my eyes, it’s like the sun in the sky, only no warmth. Cold moves up from the floor, but his tongue runs along the seam of my underwear, and my body flashes hot, making me shiver.

  “Yes, beautiful. Oh, yes.”

  I’m thinking it’s lucky I’m wearing my favorite bikini underwear when his tongue sneaks into my panties. He bunches my skirt up and tugs my panties off. I tense up, lift my head. There’s a clear line where skin has never seen day. A pale triangle of straggly black hair.

  “Relax,” he says. He tugs me forward, cups his hands beneath my ass. His tongue laps, first slowly, then almost greedily. It’s like I’m totally naked, even with most of my clothes on. He makes sounds like he’s eating, and he likes what he tastes. “You’re wet, oh, so wet.” That guy Moongazer pops into my head. “She’s hot,” he said, about his girlfriend, “but what a dead fish.”

  “Taste how good you are,” Bootman says, sticking a finger inside me, then bringing it to my lips.

  “No, th—”

  He pushes his fingers into my mouth. The taste is a little sour, which is surprising, but, definitely not like dead fish. I feel myself relax. He moves his tongue. It’s like waves from the ocean. There’s a warm, yummy itch. A tingling that expands, stretches to my fingers and toes. The more I feel, the more I want. In Sex Ed, we learned about the clitoris. But the teacher never mentioned the buzz; craving for more.

  He unzips his pants and his penis is as hard as a broom. There were penises in Your Body and You. None of the penises looked like this. The tip of Bootman’s penis is so brown, it’s almost purple. And it’s round, orb-like.

  Then it’s like a shovel digging inside me. The feeling is sharp and jagged like a sword up my spine. The waves disappear. “Ow—”

  He grabs my head with his hands and pulls me down, smothering my face in his chest. He bangs. The back of my head knocks the cement. My shoulders scrape. The lightbulb makes my eyes tear.

  Fang soong, don’t resist. I give in to the pain. Think about Ma. Put myself there with her on the plane. See her crying. Just crying.

  Bootman’s throat catches. He stiffens and gasps. He releases my hair, his weight pinning me to the floor. The agony in hi
s face gives way to an ecstatic smile.

  Then I’m sticky and wet.

  “Wow,” he says, pushing to his knees.

  Between my legs, there’s a raw burning sensation, but it doesn’t stop the hungry itch that’s still there. How can something suck so bad, yet leave you wanting more?

  “That was incredible,” he says, his eyes brimming with tears. “You’re incredible.”

  I try to cover myself. That’s when I see it. The splotch on his shirt. It’s the size of my palm. Dark, ruddy brown like day old blood. In European History, everyone laughed when the teacher said men welded locks onto their virgin brides. They wanted to be certain the women stayed “pure” while they were away at war; their hymens intact. We laughed even harder when the sex ed teacher told us women weren’t educated about menstruation. Some thought blood meant they were dying.

  But I’m informed, and I can say for a fact that it means exactly that: I’m dying. A part of me is lost forever. And while my virginity didn’t mean anything while I had it, now it means everything because it’s gone.

  He buries his face in the shirt and inhales the smell. “Come back some time, okay?”

  I want to grab it and run. But it’s too late. That spot. He’ll take me home, keep that part of me there forever, and wherever I go, another part will always be here on the cement floor with the light burning through my eyelids, horrified yet hungry for more.

  Shadow

  The mutt leaps up. Its nails catch on my skirt. I feel a warm spritz at my knee. Did she actually piddle on my Louboutins? They’re suede for God sake! I’ve just come from the dinner shift at the restaurant; all I’ve got is the moonlight behind me. It’s impossible to see.

  “Down, Shadow!” Rick snaps, with a slight southern drawl. He jerks her by the collar. Shadow’s a black lab mix from the ASPCA.

  “Yes, down,” I tell her. You fucking beast. I endured three months of pb&j to save up for these boots. You come at them again and I’ll roundhouse these heels right through your goddamn head.

  “She didn’t mean it.” Rick smiles apologetically, tugging her out of the doorway.