After Hope Dies

by Lilly Haraden

  One by one. Out they will come. Expensive trash. Any moment now, this bitch will have to cough all that blood out of her throat.

  And then, Mirror will have her fun…

  Hugo and the Mirror

  They were supposed to read Huck Finn last fortnight in time for a lesson on Monday. Janelle has a copy of the book where every instance of the word ‘nigger’ has been replaced with ‘brother’. To Kill a Mockingbird came next with a similar revision. After a long and protracted battle from the American public, it was decided that the word should never be used in literature ever again. About time, too. In one fell swoop, Eastern America was suddenly and irrevocably free of racism, and the young black child prostitute was spared from experiencing firsthand the evil of this world. Alas, not even the ghostly absence of the world’s (read: America’s) most controversial word could entice a young nigger girl to read the book. Maybe they should have adapted Huck Finn to modern Eastern America, where Huck escapes the factory assembly lines and his thirteen EUS dollar an hour pay rate and instead sets sail across Lake Erie on a ghetto hydro-cutter. Or was that Sawyer’s adventure? Anyway, brother Jim could drop a fat what it is or jokes about the pulsen front to make it bleed seamlessly into modern lexicon. That’ll get the kids to read. Still, her book remained unread.

  Janelle thumbs the copy and decides that she’d better make a start on it regardless; she can apologize to her teacher tomorrow and ask for some make-up time to hand in the assignment later. The story’s a bit of a slog, but Janelle only steps away from the river rides of old when she hears the sound of her mother returning home. That rattle and shake through the front door. Janelle flips the book closed and meets her mother in the kitchen. Corrina slumps a bag from her shoulders and rolls a neck that clicks with a day’s hard work.

  ‘Ooo, the Hyatt, I tell you. They work us hard. Lov-ley hotel, though. I shud take a picture of the lobby for you! Marble er’where. So, whaterwe eatin’?’ She rubs her hands together, noticing the bag of food on the table beside the cooker. Janelle stands in the doorframe, just smiling at her mother, watching her unpack the vegetables and fungus and pasta. Smiling. She is how she remembers.

  They cook a meal together. Standing on a little stool, Janelle cuts the vegetables and Corrina boils water. Fungus bubbles with a leftover tomato sauce from yesterday. A storm washes the kitchen away and Janelle breathes deep, tasting the promise of food on her tongue…She pops outside into the darkness of their backyard and finds the veg patch under the grizzle-gray light of night. Factories burn in the distance like thick black candles. How beautiful. Girl picks a few herbs and brings them inside, washes the factory soot away, places them into the myco mix.

  They eat a meal together, slurping happily.

  ‘What did you get up to today?’

  Janelle replies, ‘I went out and bought some nice things to wear – I’ll show you after dinner.’

  ‘Oh?’ Corrina chooses her words carefully between mouthfuls of cheap linguini. ‘What else you spendin’ your money on, then? Or am I not allowed to ask…’ She bridges her hands, rests her chin on the platform and chews. Well?

  Janelle swallows a chunk of bell pepper (‘capsicum’ for international readers) and responds – fact, ‘It’s entirely reasonable to ask, to make sure that I’m not wasting my money.’

  ‘I seen wha’ chu buy with your work money.’

  ‘Yes, I was short sighted in spending all my money on fake gold and bangles and a new Shandian that I didn’t need. My old phone worked perfectly fine…’ Never mind the fact that her new phone was lost and she fenced that old one. Shit. She should have picked up a fresh one today. Maybe before school tomorrow…

  Momma nods. ‘Now we’re talkin’ sense.’

  Janelle rolls a line of pasta onto her fork and murmurs, ‘You’re not going to ask why I’m talkin’ differently?’

  ‘I assumed you went and baut chourself a new voice.’

  ‘Yes. And my hair too. Extensions. Do you like them?’

  ‘You’re a pretty girl, but you always was. Now back to my original question – what else you buy today?’

  Hand on her heart. ‘Hand on my heart, I swear to you that I purchased dinner, clothes. And Plan B.’

  ‘Oh Lord.’ Corrina drops her fork and shakes that head from side to side, humming nastily like a wasp. Firefast: ‘When did the club stap payin’ for the drugs?’

  ‘Last week.’

  ‘I had enough. You gon’ stop working there.’

  Calm. ‘We can’t afford it. I bring in six thousand per fortnight – that’s enough to cover the power, the water and gas, the rent. With your work on top, we can eat. Without the money going to heroin – I know, you quit, three months clean – we are barely living.’

  Corrina folds her arms. ‘Oh, so Miss Responsible found her voice! I thought you was gon tell me ’bout how exhiiitin’ it is to work in the spotlights, and tryna convince me that all you do there is serve drinks and talk with the men cos they lonely and at least they treat you good.’

  ‘No, I’m under no illusions now. I’m a prostitute.’

  Corrina pauses, eyes popping into incredulity. ‘No twelve-year-old should work your job.’

  Janelle rests her fork on the table. ‘Mom, it’s different now since when you grew up. It’s a good job that pays well and keeps us out of the Shit Stacks. That’s why I do it. And…yes, I do like it. I like the work. I like dancing on the stage and talking with the men. And no, I will not stop.’

  Wait. You can’t go back to work, can you, Janelle? Not as long as the monster is there…

  Christ. What will she do?

  In a hurry, Janelle collects the plates, meeting her mother’s glare in something halfway between challenge and fear. Over at the sink, Janelle fiddles with the warm water tap to try and get a flow going but there’s no hot water in the house anymore, remember? Corrina starts to protest but a nasty rumble shakes the foundations. Boiler beast below awakens! The cold-mouth gas-fire Boiler. No more, it says! No more hot water for you surface-dwellers! Tap off then. Janelle turns. Argument won.

  Forcing her voice into soft places, Janelle murmurs to her mother, ‘Let me show you what I bought. Just after I finish cleaning up.’

  No more is said.

  There’s a mirror in the girl’s room that shows a pretty girl in white, with a lovely hat to cup new golden hair. When she turns, the mirror girl turns with her. Janelle frowns and the mirror girl smiles, showing pointy teeth. Only a few fillings, too. Cost an arm and a leg. Smile, but you can’t see them. Mirror frowns. Funny. And the girl wonders vaguely where she really is, that strange girl who is her and her entirely and her in no sense. Was she the mirrored part of last night, not a monster but some other creature wearing her face and her work shirt emblazoned with the epitaph: ‘Daddy’s little slut’? Where is she now? Whose feelings is she feeling?

  Janelle looks to the window, seeking stereotypical solace in the world outside and finding only the view of the immediate neighbor’s backyard. Oh, and of course, a view into the room of that strange manboy. Yes, she can see him now, haloed in the fine glow of computer light. That man always has his lights on. It’s about the only room she can think of out here that is lit at this hour, when electricity is most expensive just before after-hours power starts. She can see nothing but the man’s back – an interplay of dark and light.

  She owes that boy an apology too. But first, she must show Corrina how she looks.

  ‘My, my.’

  Her mother pauses the Chinese drama on their laptop, turns to inspect her daughter standing in the kitchen threshold. In the dark room, Janelle sees wild eyes in the glow of that screen – a quick appraisal. Dollar signs and credit checks. Never mind how much it cost, Momma. Janelle takes the hem of the dress and lifts it to thigh level, arcing the lip so it spills and the effect of the fabric can be seen.

  ‘Turn around.’

  Janelle spins slowly, three sixty, points to her hat, ‘Cute, isn’t it?’

&nb
sp; ‘You’re a heartbreaker.’

  ‘That’s a horrible thing to say! Heartmelter or heartstealer sounds better.’

  Corrina laughs and asks, ‘Off somewhere? You got that glint in your eye. Power Down in an hour, you know.’

  ‘I’m going to the neighbor’s. To apologize for something I did.’

  ‘Fine. Take your new voice with you. Might come in handy.’

  ‘It’s not going anywhere without me.’

  Janelle leaves her hat in the safety of her room and then steps out the back of the kitchen. No jacket. You know, it’s odd. With just her dress and tights on, the cold doesn’t bother her. Some hot, acid warmth runs under her skin, and Janelle feels it curl and twist in her heart before pushing out into her toes and back up again. New circulation. Warm circulation. Why is that? She crosses the backyard, parting the silence with her ginger barefootfall. A gap in the fence affords a neat little entry into the neighbor’s backyard. Janelle does the proper thing and cuts along the side of their little building where the trash cans sit (yuck) and approaches the front screen door. Knock knock! The wood behind parts a sliver.

  ‘Yeeeees?’

  A fairly old black lady peeps from the chain-crack, all white hair and brown eyes that say, ‘Where’s the rest of you, then.’ Janelle takes a step back and cups her hands together before her, says, ‘Ms. Weaving, I’m Janelle from next door. I was wondering if I could have a word with your son, Hugo.’

  ‘Whatever about?’

  ‘I did something bad to him and I want to apologize.’

  Mrs. Weaving seems impressed; she peeps up and down the street with her pepper eyes to make sure nobody is using this child as a robbery front. Satisfied, the woman unlocks the chain and parts the doors, ushers her inside quick before the shadows can march in.

  ‘That’s a very fine thing. Come, I’ll show you to his room.’

  It’s like an antique shop in here, all brown and black and white – a 1940s throwback, over ninety years ago. That smell of dust and unmoved furniture cuts the air as Janelle follows the old woman inside. They pass a room covered in the light of a television with a bald man sitting side-on all snuggled up and engrossed in the pixels. He matches the age of the woman. Mr. Weaving, then.

  ‘Just here. One moment, hun.’

  Mrs. Weaving taps the door thrice, sharp, loud, gives Janelle a look that says, ‘I’m not entirely sure if you’re prepared for this, but oh well.’ From inside the room, Janelle hears the deep voice of a man reply to someone, ‘Yeah, we’ll take a little break now…Hey, can you blame me, I’ve been playing for hours straight, man!...ok, ok, ok...’

  Then a little silence. The door opens.

  ‘Momma, why you interruptin’ me durin’ work?’

  And Janelle comes face to face with the enormity of Hugo. She’s never seen him close-up before. He fills out the entire door and must continue beyond. With Janelle at a loss for words, Mrs. Weaving starts, ‘Hugo, this girl here says she has something to say to you. I’ll leave you be.’

  Off she goes. Janelle resizes the man: he is double her, width and height and breadth. This creature is enormous! Not elephantine or fat or lardy but just immense. A presence. Shaved, bald, white eyes, some gamer T-shirt that makes no sense to her. And Jan feels a strange, misplaced feeling enter her heart. Fear. Why? Jan, you’re about to be alone with a man, and after...Jan shakes her head a little, throwing the thought out. He is not like that. Surely. Surely not. The man rolls his neck and crick cricks like Corrina after a day’s work; eyes tell her she is not welcome. Nevertheless, he waddles back and Janelle can finally see inside his room. Hugo plonks back down in his high-back chair before the computer and waves the girl in. Jan hesitates, heart souring. Would he…would he do something bad to her?

  An awful flash of pain comes racing through her heart, but the girl bites her lip. She came here to make things right between them. She wants to do this. She must be better than Mirror. No. She is better. In, girl. In.

  This place, right here, is a monument to another world. Janelle stands in the center and spies wall-to-wall posters of video games and anime. Look, there’s SAO, NGNL, GLTT, FLCL, AToT, Eva, BnP, Love: live, SG, C:G, Psycho Pass, Monogatari, Cowbow Bebop, Baccano, etcetera, and a sprawl of possibly-underage doe-eyed drawn girls in scanty clothing, scanty poses. Janelle gapes at the scene, marveling at the warm light from the globe above, the computer whirring away at the man’s desk just by his knees. All this expensive electricity! Look at all the pretty lights leaking out from that PC case!

  Hugo takes her attention. ‘Why you here?’ Said with no malice spared.

  That’s right. She is here on a mission. Janelle sits herself neatly down on the edge of his bed, making sure not to crush her dress or expose too much flesh. Hands on lap, locking eyes with the big man, and the dance begins:

  ‘Please forgive me for what I did to you the night before last. It was inappropriate of me to undress in front of my window, showing you my body like that and making circles around my nipples in an attempt to entice you. I also apologize for giving you the two finger salute after you refused my advances. I behaved inappropriately. If there is some way that I can make it up to you, please let me know.’

  Hugo crosses his tree-trunk arms and huffs in a wind-deep voice. ‘You were distracting me from work. Could see you in the corner of my cast. I had to stop streamin and get up from my computer to close the blinds. And this ain’t even the first time. What were you thinkin?’

  ‘I think I was trying to rile you up.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I wanted attention.’

  Hugh leans forward and explains with his arms, ‘I need my focus. If I don’t have my full attention here, with my head in the game, I don’t perform. I don’t perform, people don’t watch me, I don’t get paid. I hope you realize this now – don’t distract me again.’

  Janelle tilts her head to the side, ‘I don’t understand.’

  Hugo explains, dull, ‘I livecast my games over the net so people can watch me. Like thousands of other people do. Not that unusual.’

  Janelle nods slow, ‘Oh yeah. We do that at the club sometimes, but it takes a lot of money to set up the internet for that kind of video. What do you play?’

  ‘Osu.’

  ‘Osew?’

  Hugo leans back, groans, tosses up if it’s even worth the breath. How many times has he explained this to people without them getting it? Lots, Janelle reckons. So, not looking at Janelle but rather the ceiling, who doesn’t judge him, he murmurs, ‘It’s an anime-themed rhythm game you play with a mouse and keyboard. We play in clans against people all over the world. My clan is the best in East America. Would you believe that people pay just to watch us practice?’

  Janelle understands. ‘People pay me when I dance for them. I guess that’s no different.’

  ‘You a prostitute?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘How is that anythin’ like what I do? I don’t flaunt my body for cash.’

  Janelle smiles cheeky and says, ‘Just your fingers then.’ Hand up, fingers waving. Hugo has to smile a little but he cuts himself short and says, ‘Listen, I gotta get back to work. It’s Power Down in an hour and I need to get as many tips as I can before most of the Californians and NY kids log off. So in other words, its last drinks and the guys are feeling ‘handsy’ so you gotta get as many bills as possible, right?’

  ‘Mmm, not quite the same, is it. I’ll leave you be, then.’

  Janelle jumps from the bed and straightens out her dress. Hugo nods his appreciation and turns. But something on the man’s computer desk catches Janelle’s eye. Actually, it’s an array of somethings. Without invitation, she walks over beside Hugo. What’s here? They’re anime girls, figurines maybe the size of thumb to forefinger at stretchy span, each dressed up immaculately. Some in spacesuits and skin-tight future designs, others with flowy dresses and big eyes. One on the right stands out to Janelle and her heart lurches in a strange way. It is her. Sort of. A
little pale girl wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a beautiful white dress…with a doughnut in hand, ready to eat. How strange. It looks like a white version of her with golden eyes. Why would a grown man collect such things? Still, it probably ties in with the posters and that bookcase full of anime and that deck of WS playing cards and etc etc. Not that Janelle knows any of this. She is Alice and this is Wonderland.

  ‘That’s Shinobu. Fan sent her to me. All of these are sent from fans. Like her?’

  Janelle bends down and levels eye-to-eye with Shinobu the golden-eye vampire. She nods.

  ‘Take her if you like. Jus’ don’t come back.’

  Janelle levels out. ‘She belongs to you.’ The girl walks to the door and throws over her shoulder, ‘And I might want to come back some day.’

  She thanks Mr. and Mrs. Weaving for having her over, sees herself out, walks the brisk walk back to her house through the hole in the fence. Crunch crunch goes the grass in evening’s cool crackle and chill. All home now. Momma’s probably asleep – the work contract lasts for two weeks. Imagine that: two whole weeks’ worth of work! She’ll be sore by the end of it. Janelle rubs her feet against the mat before the kitchen door. School tomorrow and bedtime calls. Quietly through the house and into her dark little room with the precious mirror.