I had found myself servile and cracked open, bent towards the will of someone who knew the ins and outs of crash diets, and which angles I appeared most photogenic from, or any and all sorts of counsel dispensed to me, as long as it was relayed with enough conviction. Clara possessed a certain charm that made me feel as though I was indebted to her. In our girlhood, she bore a dreadful cart of knowledge that I helped haul around for her like a cumbersome bag of dirt and bones. Every so often I'd catch some shade of wisdom in her eye as she spoke, and marvelled at it, as though it were a long-awaited archaeological discovery, a window into the ways and lives of the ancient people. By the tender age of fifteen, Clara retained an unerring sense for the degree of wispiness that her self-inflicted curtain fringe needed to be; the briskness of which the strands of her blonde hair should fall to accentuate her fathomless eyes; the correct means to contour, pluck, straighten, slim, curl, dye, and shape, as well as her own vibrant and esoteric theories on seduction. I often pictured her, soaked under the bluish light emitting from her MacBook screen, dutifully inheriting these spectacular notions from the noxious corners of online forums. Naturally, she was spellbound by the endless pages of links, blog posts, tutorials and hostile message threads masterfully curated by the teenage overlords of internet waifdom, who, in their caffeine-fuelled reverie, broadly seemed to have the deftness to juggle homework and trading concocted mythologies of femininity with one another; all in the wee hours preceding the commute to school. How I had wished to remain in close quarters with them.
"You know, you got really lucky with your hair," Clara said to me one summer afternoon.
It was the last time we were seeing each other before I parted for university, and she to South America. I had begrudgingly settled for a humble arts institution in the capital, and Clara was headed to Bahia, her first destination. We had been aimlessly traipsing around the town centre for three quarters of an hour, in search of some semblance of an activity or something to laugh at. Between us, we'd bought a pack of Fibre One chocolate brownies and two Starbucks drinks.
"Like, most Japanese girls sort of have that..." Clara’s hands scrambled in the air, trying to happen upon the end of her sentence.
"What?" I asked, into my iced latte, listening to its contents gurgle between my fingers.
"Coarse. Coarse hair. Jet black," she chortled, karate-chopping the air to punctuate her words before dropping onto a bench with a dead woman’s name on it. Instinctively, she retrieved her bedazzled phone from her back pocket and checked her reflection in the dark screen.
“Yeah,” I replied, twitchy. I’d regrettably worn a long-sleeve shirt, paired with my shortest pair of shorts, which hiked up unpleasantly to the top of my thighs as I joined her.
"I'd kill myself if I was born with black hair. What a nightmare to bleach."
And so, we sat, as Clara thumbed at her phone. I didn’t have any data left so I stared ahead like I’d seen old ladies do at the bus stop. In front of us, an expanse of local commerce stretched out in a neat square, with each dreary building an indistinguishable replica of its neighbour. I observed the sorry-looking shopfronts, shuttered lots, and the waitresses on their cigarette breaks, reclined against brick walls in resignation. Every minute dilated in the heat, as more shapeless figures and countenances, flittered in and out of the Sainsbury’s Local, or into the McDonald’s on the corner. One materialised into a real man, with a real face. A nice one at that. An excitable dachshund in a yellow coat made invisible circles around his feet. He broke my gaze with his own, before firing his attention towards Clara. Intently, the man watched Clara, not watching him. From this distance, he looked about thirty or something, and probably thought – or hoped – we were schoolgirls. I wanted to point him out to Clara, but she trumped the silence first.
“I think, maybe, I should pursue dance again.” There was an earnest tinge in her voice that I hadn’t heard in a while.
I suppressed a snicker, “I don’t know, Clara.”
“Why?” she blinked.
“I thought you said that’s what gave you onset bulimia.”
With that, I had procured another silence. The man with the dog disappeared. I licked at my cracked lips, and Clara let slip a delayed laugh.
“I’m going to miss you, Hana. Don’t think I won’t,” she gleamed, as she kicked at my shins.
I turned to her, examining her face properly for the first time that afternoon. I had seen its every configuration, every phase, and attempt at reinvention. Each time, she was arresting in some new, inscrutable way. But Clara was always familiar. For a moment, I couldn’t blame myself for repeatedly acquiescing.
“Will you come with me?” she adjusted her posture, as though she were troubleshooting. “I wanna do the thing. Old times’ sake.”
∗∗∗
The first time I was made privy to Clara’s ritual, both of us were in Year 10 and it was the penultimate day of the Easter break. I hadn’t left my house for a week, and Clara had just returned from holidaying in Turkey, with bronzed, freckled skin. We were in the little Superdrug, because Boots – according to her – was littered with plain-clothed Loss Prevention agents who were either antsy divorcees, or morbidly turned on by their fascistic job. Our small-town high streets were her treasure. Short-staffed, no security guards, and outdated sensor towers with expired checkups. We stood around for a sweet minute, contemplating the front display of sun cream and cosmetics bags as Clara made a hushed remark on the single dome camera to our left, as well as the two shop assistants, engaged in a gossipy tête-à-tête as they sped through the customers inattentively. Wary of my chronic cat on hot bricks look and general jitteriness, Clara instructed me to appear busy, and wait in the long queue until I saw her leave the store. I complied, amusing myself with the strategically positioned discount bins, filled with travel-size shampoos and charcoal face masks that just about entertained as you waited for the line to shrink. In intermittent spurts, I would hang back, letting people pass so as to steal a careful glimpse at Clara, who was off slinking her way around the tight, unkempt aisles. Her faux leather tote perched loosely upon her right shoulder, as she gathered in her hand two of the same gold-tubed mascaras. She thrust one in the air for a keen inspection, lips parted and eyes mirroring intrigue, whilst the other fell, swallowed by the dark gulf opening between her slender bag straps. Much like a bored child, she discarded the decoy and proceeded. I caught fleeting flashes of her crouching behind display counters or checking her phone with performative glances. At one point, I saw her with an assortment of miniature eyeshadow palettes, wedged under her bent arm as she toyed with neon tins of hairspray. Each product settled into her bag or edged into her pocket, as though they had always belonged to her.
The queue was becoming alarmingly shorter. The young mother I’d been stood behind was preparing to whirl away with her pram, subduing a pair of tiny fists that protruded from its baby blue prison. With Clara no longer visible, I remembered that I had a role to fulfil, and hastily picked up an orange box of ibuprofen once I neared the counter.
“Amina, I need to go on lunch first. You’ll forgive me, won’t you?” the older of the two shop assistants squeaked. She shuffled out behind the girl who beckoned me to Till 3, exiting with a patronising pat on her shoulder. One less pair of eyes, I thought. Assured, I placed the box down with a perfunctory Hi, and grabbed a packet of tissues from the till point to add.
Amina shot me an admirably rehearsed smile, “I’ll just need some ID for those.”
“Sorry?”
“The ibuprofen.”
“Oh. I don’t…” I faltered.
My face became flush with what could only be reddish contrition. The coins in my hand were becoming damp with my sweat, and I could have sworn it was releasing a horrid stench. What made matters worse was that I sorely needed to piss. What fools we were. They must have known the moment we stumbled in. Me, with my sunken posture and acne flareup, and Clara, adorably swaddled by an enormous COLORADO hoodie in the sweltering April heatwave. They were just waiting, vigilantly, for the opportune moment to strike.
The young woman’s face crumpled. She lowered her voice, “Period pain, right?”
My chest dropped in relief. I nodded, gleefully accepting my lifeline.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she groaned, sympathetically, “I’m not supposed to sell this to you if you’re under sixteen. But don’t be scared to ask your mum, I’m sure she’ll understand.”
I managed a quick thanks and an apology before I pivoted towards the exit. As I scurried out onto the street, momentarily dazzled by the sunlight, I chose not to think too hard about Amina’s kindness, or the scar on my left eye, thrumming. Instead, I scanned ahead for my friend, who stood by the charity shop across the road, blithely waving at me. I marched on toward her, propelled by a renewed sense of rage and worship.
∗∗∗
I had every reason to decline. I recognised it as Clara’s way of waging a needless war. An endeavour to fight against her own disquiets, and the vast gorge that was our shared ennui. It would all eventually lessen, if she just let it. In my head, I’d rehearsed my escape from her ensnarement, and had revised what I would say to her on a countless loop. Yet, moments later, I found myself within a fitting room, awash under the garish lights of our favourite clothing outlet, having yielded to her once more.
It was busy, with late-summer sale shoppers scuffling across the white vinyl floors. Scraping hangers and saccharine pop tunes sounded, as I hung up the big “2” marker that the lone employee at the entrance had given me for two items. I chose the far end cubicle, having impulsively concealed some sort of novelty point-and-shoot between an aviator jacket, and a charmless denim skirt. I was adjacent to Clara, who was already attending to her findings. Unlike her, I had no intention of stealing the jacket, nor the skirt. The film camera, on the other hand, was mildly appealing, and I imagined it would make for a good souvenir.
Tenderly, I kneaded at the protective seal around its box, how Clara had demonstrated, and thought about what she said to me on the bench. I thought about when she first invited me to her gated country house, and how I was terrified by her intensity and by its surrounding greenery, both of which seemed to have no limit. I thought about Iris, her spacey, copper-haired mother, who bought me a silver iPod Touch one year, which my father made me return with a bowed head. I thought about the winding, rural roads Iris had sped us down to take us to her favourite flower shows, and the kiss that Clara left on my cheek that last time. I thought about how half a dozen years of this friendship would be wrapped up in one quaint afternoon. She didn’t want to have dinner, or goodbye drinks, and I didn’t plan on ever speaking to her again.
The security wrap wouldn’t give, and I was realising how underprepared I was. For all of it. I braced my pocketknife to cut around the box when I felt a buzz from my phone.
U done?
It was her way of rushing me. On occasion, Clara would say she could feel the atmosphere shift. In carving a silent career out of petty theft, it came as no surprise that her senses were well-attuned, and it had often times saved me to follow suit. But I was defeated, already overcome by this unshakeable, reasonless desire. I wanted the camera. I really wanted it. I poised the blade again. At the train station, I wanted to take a photo of Clara. I wanted to take it to the lab, and watch her face emerge from the developer. A lasting relic. Anything. I doubled my pace, making unruly incisions, with the cardboard slowly succumbing in my hands. I could hear her fumbling around next door. My phone vibrated again. And again. She was calling me. She must be nervous about something. Suddenly, my grip slipped. The knife tore through the wire, gashing my other palm.
“Jesus. Fuck.”
I was bleeding. The black tag landed by my foot. I had a mere second to decide.
With a swift punt, I sent it careening beneath the partition into the neighbouring cubicle. Clara’s cubicle. In an instant, the alarm wailed, like a grief-stricken widow, unleashing a shrill assault into the air. Fraught, I wrestled the camera into my shoulder bag, tugging a sleeve over my cut hand. I slid out from behind the curtain, breath bated, and trailed behind a gaggle of teens exiting the fitting rooms. Their heads bobbed around rhythmically, probing for the source of the unrest. I copied. Lips parted and eyes mirroring intrigue. I looked over my shoulder, feigning bewilderment, as a throng of trepid sale assistants emerged with a grave-looking man wearing an earpiece. Every footstep behind me reverberated in tandem with my hammering chest. As I turned the final corner, I hoped, just a little, to hear her voice, calling my name.
Strangely, my mind was cast to the time when Iris had found me pitifully ensconced in her walk-in wardrobe. I was forcing down a violent sob as I fidgeted with her fur lined coats, elbows pressed into my ribs. Clara hadn’t bothered to come find me, or apologise, so Iris stumbled over, unclasping her sandals, one foot at a time. I remembered thinking how odd it was that she wore outdoor shoes indoors, especially with her taste for ivory carpeting. I remembered wondering how she looked so old and so young at the same time as she sighed and enveloped her arms around me. Slowly, Iris brushed loose strands of hair from my flushed face, her breath hitching a little as she discovered the graze on my left eye that her daughter had left.
“She’s a good girl, really,” Iris cooed, as she massaged the scar with her manicured fingers. “You’ll see. Just give her some time.”
I nestled into her, my eyelid throbbing. She smelled of citrus and patchouli, and for a minute, I forgot I had ever known Clara.