The Eighth Girl

by Maxine Mei-Fung Chung

  Out back, slate rattan chairs and industrial chrome heaters are parked central to an impressive makeshift bar, where Shaun is pouring drinks in a tight white shirt, sleeves turned at his elbow. I resist running over and kissing his mouth.

  Relax, Oneiroi says, you’ve got all night.

  Fairy lights are strewn through tree branches and it almost looks like the sky has fallen down, stars resting just within reach. Ahh, pretty, Dolly purrs, eyes ablaze. I’m reminded of Chicken Licken—the folk story my mother would read to me at night, a flashlight beneath the sheets, voices given to the whole gang of clucking animals who believed their world about to end. My favorites were always Goosey Loosey and Turkey Lurkey.

  “Hey!” Ella shouts, killing the memory.

  “Hey!” Two girls call back. I recognize them immediately as the two members from my imagined girl band, still tanned, jeans just as tight. They must be working for the night, I tell myself. I also note one of them has a significantly larger chest than when we last met. Where’d she get those? Oneiroi asks. Most likely Navid, Runner says with a snort.

  Wowser, Dolly says, eyes like plates, they’re massive!

  Shush now, Oneiroi interrupts, back inside, Dolly, time for bed.

  No! Dolly shouts. Stop bossing me around!

  Oneiroi strokes Dolly’s hand, coaxing her back inside the Nest.

  Come on, she says, I’ll read you a story, and tomorrow we’ll let you have all morning in the Body. Isn’t that right, Alexa?

  I look up. Sure, I agree; anything for a quiet life. This seems to help, Dolly heading back inside and climbing into the Nest with Oneiroi close behind.

  “You okay?” Ella asks.

  “Yeah, it’s a bit noisy,” I say, tapping the side of my head.

  “Have you taken your meds?”

  “Half,” I say. “They’re not a good idea if I’m drinking.”

  “Right. And stoned.”

  Our band members join us. A silver tray resting on each of their palms.

  “Hey, how’s it going?” the pretty one chimes. Then, not waiting for a reply, “Cocktail?”

  “Definitely,” Ella says, swiping two, handing me the largest.

  “You look great, by the way,” she says, rebalancing her tray, “love your hair.”

  “Thanks.” Ella shines, smoothing the bob’s sharp ends; its sleekness like drilled oil. “Paulo.”

  The girls share a look and suddenly I’m an interloper, an outsider, their world blackballing plain and flat-chested girls like me. I turn away—the runt—and stroke my well-behaved hair, assuming Paulo is a hairdresser they all visit. His blow-dry transforming the most ordinary of hair into heavenly manes.

  “Isn’t he the best? Shame he’s gay, right?” our large-bosomed band member says.

  “Yeah,” Ella agrees, not caught on to the fact I’m cut from this conversation, my own hair not touched or teased for at least six months.

  I stare down at my breasts, straightening my back, making them appear immediately less apologetic and dour. Runner digs me in the ribs, Stop sticking your tits out like some weirdo. You’ve got enough tissue down there for all of us!

  Ella and I make our way over to the bar, where another couple of girls wait with silver trays, less flesh on show and lower heels. One of them throws Shaun a flirtatious wink but upon seeing me turns to her friend, pretending to turn chatty. I try not to show my jealousy and self-doubt, though I can’t help but make a mental note to put her in my little book of girls not to trust.

  “Hey, baby,” Shaun says, kissing my mouth, “you look great. Drink?”

  “Make one of those delicious rose gin slings,” Ella jumps in, leaning across the bar and kissing Shaun’s cheek, “the ones we had at the club the other night.”

  He smiles. Empties a previous drink from his shaker.

  “I’ve missed you,” he says.

  I feel my breath halt, a horse in my chest. A flush rising in my cheeks.

  “I’ve missed you too,” I say, noticing Navid, Cassie, the redhead, and Sylvie on the other side of the decking.

  I lean in closer. “What are they doing here?”

  “Everyone’s invited.” He shrugs. “Open house.”

  He pours our drinks while Ella holds my gaze. Navid takes off his jacket, revealing an open fitted shirt, sleeves rolled. His body contending with Shaun’s.

  He places the dark linen jacket on the back of a rattan chair where he sits open-legged. Cassie joins him, followed by the Softee Sisters: their body-con dresses like poured mercury with an hourglass stretch. Navid fixes his gimlet eye on Ella and bids her come over.

  “Come on,” she says, tugging my cocktail-free hand, “just act sweet.”

  I look at Shaun, mouthing, See you later.

  But already his back is turned, his hand reaching for a tall bottle of liqueur.

  One of the Softee Sisters has been crying. A bloated red puff to her cheeks.

  “She okay?” Ella asks.

  Navid turns and the Softee Sister looks him straight in the eye, a post-cry shake to her barely covered chest. He tilts his head—waiting for what, I’m not quite sure—but when she looks down at the floor, I realize it’s a standoff, Navid claiming power by staring her down. The other sister also looks south, shuffles her heel for distraction. An act of solidarity, I guess.

  “Do you think it’s possible,” he says, turning to Ella, “that any girl could find a better—”

  “I didn’t say it was better,” the Softee Sister interrupts, a jar to her voice.

  Navid holds up his hand. “That any girl who wants to dance, feel pretty, protected, could find a better club to work than the Electra?”

  Ella looks to me. “I guess not,” she says.

  I note Sylvie dig the redhead’s side.

  “You see,” Navid says, “even our newest sister agrees. Right, Ella?”

  Ella makes a face. “I guess,” she says, turning to Navid. “Where—”

  Navid raises both hands this time.

  “Where and who are not important, Ella. What is important”—he turns again to face the now-crying Softee Sister—“is that you know I can set fire to your life any second.”

  Silence.

  Navid smiles, too wide and too quickly.

  “Got it?” he says tightly.

  The Softee Sister looks away.

  “GOT IT?” he shouts.

  Bullying piece of shit! Runner shouts in my head.

  “Yes,” the Softee Sister chimes.

  “Good. Right, I need a drink.”

  The Softee Sisters beckon our band members with their silver trays of chilled cocktails. Cassie handles one first. I note the berated sister is no longer wearing her delicate gold chain with its small key attached, and wonder if she’s now been ostracized from her Electra Girl privileges.

  “Join us,” Navid says, staring at Ella, patting the rattan seat between them. His eyes locking with hers like she can’t refuse. Like she’s already his. I catch Sylvie and the redhead exchanging a glance.

  I find myself on the dance floor. Three rose gin slings and several beers stirring in my head, the Body following instructions to move my hips and shake off anything to do with Navid. The fact that he can set fire to a girl’s life at any second. I stare over at the bar, alert to Shaun and the redhead sharing a joke. She places a hand on his chest, hot with intrigue. Sylvie, awkward, in her sparkly dress, notes their intimacy and shakes her head.

  One of the Softee Sisters joins me, dances close, her mood still set. The bloated puff of her cheeks visible but gladly fading.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  She nods, but I don’t believe her, sensing tears ready to break.

  “He’s such an asshole,” she spits, “humiliating me like that. In front of everyone.”

  A pause.

  “How long have you worked for him?” I ask.

  “Couple of years. But he likes Amy best.”

  “Amy?”

  “My sister.” She points.
“I’m Annabelle.”

  We smile.

  “How’s it going with Shaun?” Annabelle asks.

  “Good,” I say, “you know him?”

  “Sure, he’s been around since Navid opened the club.” She checks her purse and pops a pill. “I’d offer you one, but—”

  She doesn’t give a reason for her “but,” so I just say, “I’m fine,” making it easy for her.

  The pill seems to calm her. A tilt and sway of her head and shoulders now eases in her dancing. The way she slows marking a letting-go. We settle. Me allowing the alcohol and earlier spliff to guide my mood, feeling somewhat free. Adrift. The music fading in and out.

  Annabelle links her fingers with mine and I can sense her coming up. The rush of love causing her to lift our arms while her eyes roll. Her mouth wide and painted, with a touch of the lunatic. Two men sidle up beside us, moods aglow. The taller one releases his neck like he’s waking from a ten-year sleep, his eyes closed but clearly blissed.

  Annabelle pulls me in close. “Don’t tell anyone,” she whispers, giggling into her shoulder, “but I’m going to work at another club. In Soho. That’ll show him.”

  “But—”

  “He thinks he can control me like some limp-ass puppet. Amy knows, she told me not to do it. But I don’t give two fucks.” She sways. “Next thing he’ll have us turning tricks and porned out. You wait and see.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  She moves in closer.

  “He’s really nice, my new boss. Russian.” She catches herself, the trip loosening her tongue, and holds up her red manicured finger. “Bathroom,” she says, “back in a minute.”

  I keep swaying and look around. Over by the bar I see Sylvie watching me. She smiles, tugs down her tight shimmering dress, and comes toward me.

  “Hey,” she says. “I’m Sylvie.”

  “Hey.”

  She lets out a puff of air, shoulders turning down.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “Kinda. You?”

  “I didn’t enjoy watching that scene with Navid and the twins,” I say.

  “Me neither.”

  “Want a drink?”

  “No, I’m fine,” she answers, covering her glass with a palm.

  Awkward, we dance. Silent.

  “So I guess we’re the girls on the outside.” I smile, catching her eyes. “The ones looking in.”

  Sylvie pulls a face. “I guess,” she says, a slow shrug into herself.

  “Are you and Shaun dating?” she asks.

  I nod. “I’m his girlfriend.”

  More silence.

  Christ, talking to her is like pulling teeth, Runner huffs.

  “I like your dress,” I say.

  “Borrowed it,” she says, nodding back at the redhead. “Jane likes me to make an effort when we go out.”

  Jane? Plain Jane? The name jars, not quite computing in my already fried brain. The ordinariness of this sanguine creature’s birth name ill-fitting somehow, like a fat ballerina, or a harmless pimp.

  “How do you guys know each other?” I ask.

  “We go way back. Since school.”

  “Nice.”

  “I’m not a threat to her. Not like some of the girls at the Electra,” she says, eyes widening while scanning the room.

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t feel sorry for me. I like it that way,” she insists. “It’s the way it’s always been. At least there’s no pretense. We know our places.”

  “Sounds a little cold.”

  “Better that than having your heart broken. I’ve had too many friends pretend to be someone they’re not. And I care about her. I care that she doesn’t get hurt. Behind all that bravado is someone sweet and a bit naive. I don’t always trust she’ll make the right choices”—Sylvie looks me bang in the eye—“because not all girls stick together.”

  I clear my throat, the Flock’s hackles starting to rise.

  She’s got a point, Oneiroi calls from the Nest.

  Whatever, Runner spits.

  I remember the times at school after gym class, painfully alert to the girls’ half-naked nearness—their locker room banter, and how I’d longed to be part of their gang. I lacked trust and feared closeness, this causing me to scuttle off like a sap beetle, dull and infested with doubt. How I’d ached for a friend. Someone to hang out with, watch movies with, swap clothes and tell secrets with. A friend to engulf me with adolescent affection and fun. Back then I was blatant with need.

  One time, a girl whose name I don’t recall—possibly because she hurt me so much—became my friend for exactly three weeks. She was introduced by Mr. Stack as “the new girl” in class, and we were ordered to make her feel welcome, to show her around. I’d jumped at the chance. A possible friend, I thought. A new girl untainted by cruel rumors and classroom teasing. Someone who didn’t know of my awkward relating, my distrust, too much insecurity and doubt carried around inside me like a peptic ulcer. I showed New Girl where to find the tuck shop, the bike yard, and the sports lockers; advised her which teachers to watch out for, the boys to avoid, the best time to line up in the cafeteria for fresh custard. We walked home together, shared lunch, had even gone to the cinema one weekend to watch The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. And then she was gone. Poof. Just like that, with no word. Rumor had it her father returned and whisked New Girl and her mother back to where they’d come from. I tried to make her disappearance not matter in my mind. But my stomach, my imagined peptic ulcer, well, it felt something else.

  Sylvie squeezes my arm.

  “Anyway, good to meet you,” she says, noting Jane slowly sauntering toward us. “See you around.”

  I hope so, but who knows, I say to myself. A familiar disbelief felt in my gut knowing I struggle to make and keep friends, but my longing still alive all the same.

  What about Ella? Oneiroi says.

  Let’s wait and see, I reply. She and I want different things now.

  Hot from highs and dancing bodies, I turn to search for Ella, who has moved away from Navid, and then spot her talking to Amy. They laugh, embrace, seemingly at ease with mild rapport before Ella finally makes her way over to me on the dance floor.

  She pulls me toward her, smiles against my mouth, whispering, “Here, take this.”

  I look down at her hand.

  “It’s E,” she says. “Don’t worry, I’ve dropped one. It’s good. Old-school, but really good.”

  Pleasured stares, hot rhythmic bodies, and a view of Shaun alone persuade me it’s a good idea, so I pop the E on my tongue and swallow. A swell of excitement filling my entire body. I wait for the rush.

  Still no sign of Annabelle. I scan the room, assuming that I’m now on what she’s on. I feel a kind of urgency to share my up, as she did. All around me people are blissed out and loose.

  “Who gave it to you?” I ask.

  “Navid.” Ella smiles.

  Shaun starts to make his way to me through the crowd of raised arms and swaying asses. The smell of perfume and close bodies heightening my E’d love for everything and everyone. Nothing at all matters but this moment we’re in.

  I keep a cool but charged look on my face, not once letting Shaun’s gaze escape. I wait for the chemical high to surge through me, willing it to dispatch. The soar that will take hold and release me. Nothing cuts me loose like music, I think. The thrill of beats repeated. Silky vocals bringing me up.

  Up.

  Up.

  Up.

  Shaun takes my waist, Ella now behind him. It would be a cliché to mention a sandwich. Shaun turns and nods, I imagine not wanting Ella to feel left out, but then darts his eyes back to mine, moving his body closer. As he approaches I smell his aftershave, then lift my arms and loop them around his neck, hanging off him like pearls. The sense he can hold me, take the full swing of my body, such a thrill.

  Breathe.

  What a cinch it is to be me right now, dancing.

  Loved
up. Free.

  Up.

  Up.

  Up.

  Shaun’s bedroom is as you’d expect for a twenty-eight-year-old guy. Vinyl. Sound system. Marshall speakers. A collection of incense burners and healing stones that I don’t trust immediately but, knowing him as I do, accept is an attempt to touch the spiritual. Nudged up against the wall: a king-size bed with white cotton sheets, a faux leather headboard. At the end of his bed is a trunk, a folded blanket resting on top.

  All three of us enter, giddy, a freshly rolled spliff tucked behind Shaun’s ear. Grinning, we fall in. Shaun dives onto the bed, slides the joint from his ear, which unlike mine is capable of holding a fat smoke. He lights up, taking a rangy drag, and passes it around. After my third soak, I realize how wasted I am. Ella too. All three of us start to giggle. We know where this is heading.

  Relax, Oneiroi says suddenly, joining us.

  I feel Shaun’s hand on my thigh, then turn to see him stroke Ella’s—my desire to move toward her instinctive. My mouth searching to find her mouth. We eventually kiss. Our lips like the ebbing of petals, open and gentle. Awakening the taste of an earlier gin sling. Envy doesn’t exist, I soon recognize. Our sharing of Shaun seemingly the most natural thing in the world.

  Watching us, he rests his head. Runner climbs into the Nest. I’m done for the night, she says. I’ll see you tomorrow.

  Shaun gently tucks a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. I don’t care that he notices its freakishness, his fingertips eventually finding my neck. A pretty stroke.

  I pull my tank top over my head and unbutton Ella’s blouse, unlatching her bra with a steady snap. Both of us at once naked.

  I laugh then, I think out of shyness. Shaun slaps my ass, while Ella presses my palm against hers. My coyness fading like a distant song. At first his tongue is sensitive, traveling from my to Ella’s lips. But then it lowers, circles my nipples. A wincing bite. The nip suddenly gets him going so he lifts his T-shirt, unzips his fly.

  Slowly, I lower myself to Ella’s waxed mound.

  “Fuck me,” my Reason whispers, her eyes fixed and slow.